How Jaime has managed to avoid succumbing to any sort of madness is a wonder to all. He has more than enough reason to, has been traumatized by enough to last him several lifetimes. The slaying of his king and the torment and ostracizing he had to endure as a boy of barely seventeen. Listening to Queen Rhaella scream as that same king raped her and his Kingsguard brothers held him back, reminding him that they were Kingsguard, not Queensguard and he was forbidden from coming to her aid. Lord Stark and his eldest son being tortured and burned alive for Aerys’s twisted amusement while he stood by like a good little obedient sentinel. The sight of the blade coming down on his wrist and seeing his hand detach from his body and the scream that ripped through his throat. Myrcella bleeding out in his arms. The Sept of Baelor smoldering with the telltale green smoke of wildfire as his twin sat smirking on a throne she had stepped over dead children to reach.

Who could blame him if he one day snapped? He was a rather lonely man, looked down upon and called derogatory names for his finest act who barely had anyone he could call friend back in the world/time he belonged to. A petty, jaded part of him almost wished that he would; they believe him mad, why not live up to those expectations?

He lifts his nose into the air prissily, deciding to cease commenting on twins and children and shift the conversion elsewhere as Daemon moves towards his dragon.

“What then, do you wish to know? If any of your brethren are still living? That winter is coming and the Night’s Watch warns of Others from beyond the Wall that will come for the living?”