Jaime froze. The mention of Aerys Targaryen pierced through the thick, drunken fog of lust and the intoxicating aftertaste of her essence like a shard of black ice.
"No..." Jaime groaned, turning his head slightly away, trying to shut out the memory of burning flesh. "Cersei, please... don't ask that... don't make me... just let me taste you again. Let me drink..."
"Ah, ah," Cersei chided softly, catching his chin with her wet fingers and forcing his slick face forward again. She shifted her hips, bringing her glistening core just a hair's breadth from his cheek, letting the intoxicating heat of her body wash over his face.
"I am asking you nicely, Jaime. I want to share your burdens. I want to know what it is. Tell me, and I will lower myself upon your tongue. I will let you drink your fill of my nectar. I will stroke you until you shatter. Everything you have been begging for... just for a few words."
Another musky drop fell, landing directly on the corner of his mouth. Jaime whimpered, instinctively turning his head to lap it up, completely enslaved by his own biology, the heavenly taste lingering on his palate, and his toxic devotion to her.
"He... he was mad," Jaime stammered, his mind finally tearing itself apart. The oath he swore to himself, the pride that made him accept the name 'Kingslayer' in silence, was being violently, beautifully dismantled by the woman he loved. "He wanted to burn the city..."
"I know he was mad, darling," Cersei purred, brushing her soft inner thigh against his jaw, keeping him utterly captivated. "But why the pyromancers, Jaime? What did Rossart do that day? Why did you hunt them down like dogs in the streets?"
"The caches," Jaime choked out, his chest heaving as the dam finally began to break. The memory of the throne room, the smell of roasted flesh, the mad cackling of the king merged with the suffocating sexual tension of the room. He was trapped between two hells. "The caches, Cersei."
"What caches, my sweet boy?" she prompted, her voice dripping with sweet, feigned innocence. She lowered herself a fraction more, her slick, hot core grazing the very tip of his nose, sending a violent, agonizing shockwave of pleasure straight to his groin. "What are they? Why did he have them?"
Jaime broke completely.
"The wildfire!" Jaime screamed, the secret tearing itself from his throat like a physical entity. He was sobbing now, a pathetic mixture of profound trauma, extreme intoxication, and agonizing sexual denial.
Cersei paused, her golden brows furrowing slightly in feigned, innocent curiosity, though she kept her hips torturously close to his face. "Wildfire?" she murmured, her tone gentle but probing. "What is this wildfire, my sweet? Is it just a normal flame?"
"No... no!" Jaime choked out, thrashing his head against the wood. "It is the Alchemists' curse! The Substance. When it comes into contact with fire—even a spark—an explosion happens. A blast of unnatural green fire that consumes everything in the area. Stone, steel, flesh... water cannot put it out. It burns until there is absolutely nothing left!"
Cersei's breath caught. A sudden, dark thrill raced down her spine, chilling and euphoric all at once. "An explosion," she whispered, her voice laced with intense, sudden fascination. She lowered herself a fraction, her slick heat grazing his nose as a reward. "Oh, Jaime... where was it placed? How much of this 'wildfire' is there?"
"Everywhere!" Jaime wept, throwing his head back against the chair, his eyes squeezed shut as the nightmare flooded his consciousness. "He placed them everywhere! Under the Great Sept of Baelor! Under the Street of Flour! Under the Dragonpit! He had thousands of jars of the substance hidden beneath the entire fucking city!"
Cersei's breath caught in her throat again. She stopped moving entirely. The sheer, apocalyptic magnitude of the secret slammed into her mind, momentarily overriding her seductive game.
Wildfire. Thousands of jars. Beneath the Great Sept.
"He gave the order," Jaime wept, his voice cracking with the weight of the years. "When Tywin breached the gates, Aerys told Rossart to ignite the caches. 'Let him be king over charred bones and cooked meat,' he said. He wanted to burn half a million people, Cersei. Men, women, children... all of them in green fire. I... I had to stop it. I killed Rossart in the halls. I drove my sword through his back. And then I went to the throne room and I slit the King's throat to stop the order."
Jaime sagged against the silken ropes, completely defeated, his soul laid bare and bleeding on the cold stone floor of the bedchamber.
"I hunted down Garigus and Belis in the days that followed," Jaime whispered, his voice hollow and broken, tears streaming down his face. "I killed them all. Every last man who knew the plot. So no one could ever light the spark. So the city would live. But the jars... they are still down there. Sleeping in the dark."
The silence in the room was absolute, save for the crackle of the hearth and Jaime's ragged, hitching sobs.
Cersei slowly pulled herself up, standing over the broken, weeping Kingslayer.
She looked down at the man who had traded his honor, his reputation, and his very soul to save a city that despised him. A normal woman might have felt overwhelming pity. A normal sister might have felt a profound, heart-wrenching love for the tragic hero bound to the chair.
But Cersei Lannister felt nothing but the euphoric, intoxicating rush of absolute, god-like power.
Her father had been right. Her brother had unknowingly handed her the keys to the apocalypse. If she ever needed to eradicate her enemies, if the Faith, the Starks, or the lords of Westeros ever truly threatened her divine son, she didn't need an army. She didn't need dragons. She just needed a single spark in the dark.
A slow, terrifying smile spread across Cersei's face, reaching her brilliant emerald eyes.
She looked down at Jaime. He was looking up at her with red, tear-streaked eyes, panting heavily, waiting for the reward she had promised. He had given her his soul; now he desperately needed her to mend his broken mind.
Cersei knelt before him once more. The cruel vivisectionist vanished, replaced once again by the loving, devoted sister. She reached out, her hands impossibly gentle, and finally, mercifully, closed her fingers around his aching, desperate flesh.
"You did beautifully, my golden lion," Cersei whispered affectionately, leaning in to capture his lips in a deep, bruising, soaked kiss. She finally began the rhythmic, rapid strokes that would end his torment, feeling him buck and shudder beneath her hands. "You are a hero. And your secret... is entirely safe with me."