When Jaime Lannister emerged from the bridal chamber, awash in red and wedding cheer, he felt like a drowning man.
He took several gasping breaths before he finally struggled to the surface and greedily drew his first steady breath.
Father?
The moment Myrcella herself had spoken that word, it had turned like a key, unlocking the shackles that had lain buried deep within his soul for years.
Now, he was no longer Cersei's secret lover, no longer Robert's Kingsguard, no longer the Kingslayer reviled by the world.
He was Jaime Lannister.
Just a father.
He walked down the seemingly endless corridor of the Red Keep.
The carpet beneath his feet was a glaring red, like a ceaseless river of blood.
He had spent half his life floundering in that river.
For a hollow oath, for a forbidden love, he had cast both his honor and his soul into it with his own hands.
And what had he gained?
The humiliating handprint on Cersei's face, the innocence that had faded from Myrcella's eyes.
And far away in Winterfell, the child he had pushed from a tower with his own hands, leaving his body shattered.
Bran Stark.
Suddenly, he wanted very much to see that child.
Not to seek forgiveness.
He knew his sins were unforgivable.
He simply wanted to look.
To see what tragedy he had wrought with his own hands all those years ago to protect that filthy secret.
Jaime stopped.
Rather than return to his room, he turned and headed in another direction.
The White Sword Tower.
The sacred home of the Kingsguard.
The tower was empty, with only cold stone walls and white shields hanging upon them.
Jaime walked to the center of the hall, where a weirwood table stood with a heavy book lying open upon it.