Gulp, gulp, Jaime picked up the wine flask and took a large swig.
He carelessly wiped his mouth, his gaze fixed on the south, filled with determination.
Jaime could not bear to be separated from Cersei; no one would ever separate them again!
Perhaps Stannis had done a great favor by spreading their "story" everywhere, so now there was nothing to hide!
For centuries, whether monks, nobles, or common folk, everyone had turned a blind eye to the Targaryen, so why couldn't the Lannister?
The wine greatly amplified Jaime's emotions; he wished he could fly to the Red Keep immediately and from then on… he and she would share a bed every night.
"Hey, brother, your eyes look just like an old patron at a brothel." Tyrion's voice approached from afar.
Ser Jaime turned his head to see his good brother limping towards him.
Once Tyrion got closer, he looked at his somewhat disheveled older brother and said with a grin, "I was wrong, you actually look more like a… beauty who just got a gold dragon."
Ser Jaime squinted at Tyrion, then tossed him an empty wine cup: "I just had a rather unpleasant dream."
Catching the cup, Tyrion glanced at the two empty wine flasks lying at Jaime's feet.
Splash, splash, Jaime poured him some wine, and Tyrion asked with a smile, "What did you dream about?"
Silently filling the cup, Jaime put the wine flask down before replying, "I dreamt of a few dead men; they wanted to judge my sins."
Tyrion's eyes shifted slightly, pressing, "The Mad King who liked to play with fire?"
Ser Jaime looked up at the starry sky for a moment, then shook his head and said, "His guards, and his son."
Tyrion chuckled, "That must have been quite lively."
As Jaime fell silent, Tyrion glanced around and spotted a silver-gleaming wine cup on the ground nearby. He walked over, picked it up, shook it first, then wiped off the dirt with his sleeve.
Splash, splash, Tyrion poured wine into the "new" cup, then handed it to Jaime.
Tyrion grinned, "Jaime, I actually quite like your nickname, Kingslayer… it sounds much more impressive than Little Devil."
Ser Jaime took the cup and took a large gulp, then frowned, why did it taste like dirt… Being quite drunk, he didn't think much of it and took another sip.
Jaime's voice sounded mocking: "Kingslayer…"
Tyrion sat down next to Jaime, taking a blissful sip of wine, and said, "My dear brother, are you also pleased with this title?"
Seeing Jaime remain silent, Tyrion dropped his teasing expression, paused, and said, "Jaime, are you regretting it? I don't think there's any need to."
He sighed softly: "I used Wildfire when I was fighting Stannis; I know its horror. At that time, the Mad King wanted to bathe hundreds of thousands of King's Landing residents in Wildfire, and you had no choice but to make a rational decision."
He shrugged: "Yet the world only speaks of your broken oath, as if by prior agreement, never mentioning your salvation, which must indeed pain you. But…"
He reached out and patted his brother's arm, grinning: "I believe truly good people will be grateful for your sacrifice and contribution to this kingdom, and I am one of them."
After exchanging glances with his brother, Ser Jaime's gaze shifted to the distance, and he said, "Tyrion, I'm not that great…"
He murmured, "Broken oath… sacrifice… salvation… regret…"
Draining the rest of the wine in his cup, Jaime paused, then suddenly said, "Tyrion, I am regretting. The one who makes me regret… is not Aerys, but Robert."
He seemed to be recalling: "Robert told me at the feast after his coronation… 'I hear they call you Kingslayer; don't make a habit of it!' Then, everyone around him laughed heartily."
A mocking curve appeared on his lips: "I wondered then, why did no one stand up… and call Robert an oathbreaker? He betrayed the Targaryen, he divided the kingdom, he started a war, and yet people only dumped all the shit on my head."
He clenched his hand into a fist: "Everything Robert did was for his own pride, for a pretty face and a whore!"
"Because he seized that iron chair," Tyrion said, pouring wine into Jaime's cup.
Jaime remembered the scene of Eddard Stark in the Throne Room that year, silent, with only a pair of grey eyes speaking: cold, full of condemnation and judgment.
Bringing shame to the white cloak… that day he wore golden armor…
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