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GOT Chapter 60: A Blade’s Width from Death
🕑 Added 2025-08-07 22:47:46 +0000 UTCThe wind still howled through the ruined, crumbling tower chamber.
But for the Kingslayer—kneeling on one knee—cold sweat had already soaked his back the moment he dared let himself relax even slightly.
Because just now, he had come within a hair’s breadth of dying beneath the sword of Kal Stone.
And that had been despite all his caution.
Thinking back on it, Jaime Lannister couldn’t bear to imagine what might have happened had he underestimated the bastard before him even slightly.
Perhaps that blade he called “Pale Justice” would’ve pierced up through his chin… and burst out the back of his skull.
That chill of having narrowly escaped death made Jaime’s muscles tremble uncontrollably as he knelt there.
A shuddering that came not from the winter wind, but from surviving a brush with death—like a bucket of icy water dumped over his head.
Kal, standing nearby, watched as the Kingslayer dodged his attack with a foxlike desperation. Yet unlike a moment ago—when they clashed—he didn’t press the advantage.
He sheathed his sword and remained where he was, making no move to pursue Jaime Lannister, almost as if waiting for him to catch his breath.
That didn’t mean Kal let his mouth rest, however.
Looking at the disheveled, dust-covered Kingslayer, Kal offered a faint, mocking remark: “What a pity. Just a bit more and my blade would’ve tasted the blood of a third Kingsguard.”
But faced with Kal’s taunt, Jaime found his throat dry.
As a seasoned warrior, he understood all too well just how terrifying this bastard was from that brief exchange alone.
His speed was dizzying to the eye. His strength—immovably heavy.
And even that might’ve been bearable.
What truly unsettled Jaime was Kal’s seemingly perfected battlefield instinct.
In that split second they had crossed blades, Kal had instantly seen through his intent—and responded with the best possible counter.
Jaime had only managed to thrust his sword once, and after that, he had been forced entirely on the defensive—rolling on the ground just to keep the shadow of death off his back.
Even that one thrust had only landed because he’d taken the initiative.
And that meant—had his reactions been even a fraction slower—he would’ve died here, in some ridiculous yet abrupt and unceremonious way.
Having once trained under Arthur Dayne, the “Sword of the Morning,” Jaime now grasped all too clearly just how monstrous Kal truly was.
Realizing the sheer strength of Kal, and how delusional his earlier thoughts had been, the Kingslayer fell silent.
He glanced toward the corner of the room, where Cersei stood frozen, wide-eyed, clearly just as unable to accept what she had just witnessed.
Then he turned his head back, raising his gaze with a weight that was difficult to put into words, and looked up at Kal.
“Ser Kal Stone… may I ask if there’s still any path left toward reconciliation between us?”
Faced with a mountain he could never hope to climb, Jaime made his choice—one that sounded almost like a bitter joke.
As he spoke, a faint and unnatural flush crept across his face.
But it wasn’t from pain or any physical discomfort—just shame. Pure shame.
As a proud warrior, he had never feared death. He had long accepted the possibility of dying on the battlefield.
But in this moment—behind him stood the woman he loved. He had to ensure Cersei lived.
And if that meant dying in her place—so be it.
So, having fully grasped the situation before him, he made his decision once again.
To beg.
With every shred of pride and dignity he had left.
Yet when he heard Jaime’s unexpected plea, Kal’s expression betrayed a flicker of disappointment.
“I thought you’d say something a bit more constructive…” Kal said as he looked down at the Kingslayer, shaking his head slightly.
“Or maybe lift your chin and face death with that same pride Tyrion always mentioned when he spoke of his brother—the man who never lost at anything.”
As someone who had crossed into this world—someone who had read the "script"—Kal’s opinion of Jaime Lannister was complicated.
He knew everything about him: what he’d done, how he ended up here, and why.
In fact, there might not be anyone else in this world who understood him as well as Kal did.
And yet, this very man had spent his whole life trapped in something called “love”—bashing his head bloody against its walls.
He wasn’t blind to it. He knew.
And still—he embraced it.
Faced with Kal’s mockery, Jaime lowered his head… but more than that, he was searching—desperate—for a chance.
So he held firm to the decision he had made—to cast aside the last of his dignity as a knight.
“I only want to know… is there any way we can reach an outcome that both of us can accept?”
“Even if it means I die—I’ll accept it.”
And as Jaime’s words echoed in the room, Cersei—trembling, terrified, and stunned—finally began to realize something as well.
Her eyes were filled with venom and madness, yet without the slightest hesitation, she picked up where the Kingslayer left off—offering a price for a chance at survival, directed at the bastard she had always looked down on, the man she had long wished dead.
“Kal Stone—so long as you're willing to let us go, and bury everything that happened here today deep within your heart, we’ll give you whatever you want!”
“Just say the word, and House Lannister can offer you everything you desire!”
“Gold! Land! Glory!”
“Even… even me!”
And yet, even as she begged, the queen still carried herself as if she stood above it all. She and Jaime may have been defeated, but none of that changed the fact that she was still a Lannister.
A proud Lannister.
And she truly believed she had the means to make good on such promises.
But Kal didn’t even spare her a glance.
His gaze remained fixed on the proud knight kneeling before him, head bowed.
Then, slowly and resolutely, he shook his head.
“No—House Lannister has nothing I want, Your Grace.”
“But you haven’t even said what it is you want—how can you be so sure—” Cersei snapped, panicked by his refusal.
Jaime also looked up at Karl.
But under both their stares, Kal simply shook his head again—firm, unwavering.
This time, however, he turned his eyes toward the so-called most beautiful woman in the Seven Kingdoms—Queen Cersei Lannister, wife of King Robert.
And then, Karl smiled.
A faint smile.
But his deep blue eyes had grown cold and unreadable.
“What if what I want… is the Iron Throne? To become the king of Westeros?”
His voice was distant, almost dreamlike.
“Could the queen truly give me that?” Kal asked.
“A Lannister who’s schemed for centuries—yet still cowers, too afraid to reach for the prize she fought for?”
The smile on Kal’s lips now held a biting mockery—icy and cruel.
And with those words—dripping with unrestrained ambition—both Lannister twins stared at him, stunned into silence.
Outside, it seemed the North was about to snow again.
The wind beyond the broken window was razor-sharp and bitterly cold.
Cersei and Jaime both felt a strange chill crawl over them.
Like a cold, venomous serpent slithering across their skin…
Coiling around their necks…
Brushing up against their ears…
And softly flicking out its tongue—
Hiss… hiss…
"You—what kind of joke is this?!"
As soon as Kal finished speaking, Jaime hadn't even had time to think of a response—
Cersei froze for only a moment upon hearing Kal's words, but then, as if someone had touched her reverse scale, she immediately rose to her feet in fury, ready to lash out.
"This—impossible! You—"
But fortunately, she was still aware of the situation she was in and didn’t let those foul, unspeakable words burst out.
Yet aside from vulgarities, she couldn’t find any proper words to counter him. For a moment, all she could do was stand there, trembling with frustration, pointing at Kal as if that alone could refute his outrageous claim.
But this time, before Cersei could think of what to say, Kal, watching her so visibly panicked—as if her own interests had been violated—only smiled more mockingly.
So Kal didn’t bother beating around the bush.
"Joffrey Baratheon. Tommen Baratheon. Myrcella Baratheon."
"Your Grace, are you trying to say that I—a bastard—am not worthy?"
The moment Kal uttered the names of her children, both Jaime and Cersei’s faces changed.
"Wait—you—you—"
Gone was Cersei’s earlier bluster; not a trace of it remained on her face now.
But Kal seized the moment again, blunt and direct: "Yes. I know."
"And I think I’m not the only one who does—not even just the king."
As he spoke those words, each like a dagger to the heart, Kal stepped closer, watching intently—almost with enjoyment—as the pair reacted, their greatest secret laid bare, horror and dread etched into their expressions.
Seeing how certain Kal looked, a growing unease began to creep into the hearts of the Lannister siblings.
"Never assume everyone else is a fool, Your Grace—and you too, Kingslayer."
"There are more eyes in the court than either of you can possibly imagine."
Kal’s voice, as if it came from the heavens above, continued his calm yet merciless narrative.
"And Jon Arryn's death—isn't without your involvement either."
"Though the two of you didn’t kill him."
At those words, the smile finally faded from Kal’s face, replaced by something darker.
Like the sky above Winterfell—clouds gathering, heavy with foreboding.
