Kingslayer.
Jaime Lannister, her dear Joanna's firstborn son, was a Kingslayer. Oathbreaker. A traitor to the realm and to his vows.
And he was a hero.
Rhaella struggled with these thoughts and more as she clung to the young knight's arm, each step sending fire shooting up her legs. She leaned on him for strength, and he held her up with one arm, his other hand guiding young Viserys beside him. He had offered to carry her, but for as much as she trusted him, she could not trust anyone but herself to hold Daenerys.
Trust. She wondered when she had begun to trust Jaime. Was it when he killed his king to save her daughter? Was it earlier, when he stood silent vigil outside her door, after Aerys had his savage way with her? He had heard her weeping; she knew he must have. Seen the scars on her back and front, the bruises about her neck and chest and thighs. And never once had he judged. There had never been hate in his gaze, or judgement. Only shame.
She had watched dear Joanna's son hide inside himself, green eyes dimming as he sought refuge somewhere else. Memories, perhaps, of his mother and sibling at Casterly Rock. Or of his heroic questing alongside Barristan Selmy and Arthur Dayne perhaps, battling the Brotherhood and saving the princess. Anywhere, she imagined, but the Red Palace. There was too much here for him to endure. He was Tywin's son, and Tywin could be a brutal man, but he was also Joanna's son, and she knew Joanna to be a kind woman.
Daenerys gurgled softly in her arms. Jaime looked, head snapping down, eyes wide, but Rhaella's tiny, beloved baby girl just shifted a little in her swaddling clothes, lips parted and eyes closed. Still, she had not opened them, not after all this time, all these terrors… Rhaella wished she too had not seen them. Aerys holding their daughter above the fire, the contempt and hate and madness in his eye…
And Jaime had saved her. He had saved the whole city, if his murmurings of wildfire and pyromancer plots were to be believed. Rhaella believed. She had to. It made too much sense for Aerys and his maddened visions of demons and stags and wolves in every shadow. Fire and blood were all he wanted, green fire and burnt, blackened blood. But no longer. He was gone now, and he would remain gone.
At Jaime's other side Viserys stumbled, and her white knight caught him with a hand gently gripping his shoulder, carefully guiding him back to his feet. Yes, hers, Jaime was her knight, he had killed for her and saved her daughter. Her lion clad all in white. Viserys thanked Jaime. Such a polite boy, sweet and kind. Not like his father, so much better than Aerys. She thought that as though it were an accomplishment.
Jaime led them, onward and forward, towards the stairs the Spider had told them of. There they could descend, down and down, meet the princess and her children, little Rhaenys and tiny baby Aegon, and escape. Out of the Red Keep, to Dragonstone, where they might find safety from the war until a winner was decided. Surely, she hoped, it could not be long.
"My Queen," Jaime said suddenly, having brought them all to a halt.
Rhaella looked up and saw men by the stairs. Three of them, with gold cloaks and dark smiles, drawing nearer with weapons drawn. Two carried swords, the third a battle axe held in two hands. It looked far too ornate for a common watchman, she thought, with its shining brass filligree and stained haft; he must have stolen it from the castle.
"Look here boys…" one of the goldcloaks chuckled, brandishing his blade with a smirk. "Some lost royals."
"Stand aside." Jaime ordered, pushing Viserys behind himself and drawing his own sword. "This is your queen you speak to."
Rhaella watched as her lion advanced, his golden sword glinting in the torchlight. The man with the axe hesitated, but the two with blades continued their approach. There was barely ten feet between them and Jaime now. Jaime stalked, gait slow and stance low, his sword in front of him. Its point was unwavering. The approaching men walked with a smug confidence; Jaime was at least a decade their younger, and neither seemed at all concerned by his reputation.
"Queens don't mean much when lions are at the gates, boy." the same watchman spat, licking dry, cracked lips. "And a white cloak doesn't make you shi-"
Jaime lunged, moving like a line of white lightning through the space between his sword and the man's neck. That golden blade flicked out in a single blurred motion, and the man staggered backwards as a red mouth opened in his neck and began discharging blood in a hot wet spray of sticky scarlet. The other man froze at the sight, and Jaime flicked his halfhearted gaurd aside before stabbing him in the throat, letting the man choke on gilded steel before wrenching it free.
Two goldcloaks down, the third with the axe snarled and advanced. The axe spun over his head, but Jaime nimbly hopped back, and the axe's vicious head slammed into the stone floor rather than his skull. Then he stepped forward, closer to the man then he should have been, grasped the man by the shoulder and forced his sword through ring mail and leather and into the man's heart. There was a moment of quiet, the axe falling from limp fingers, before Jaime pushed the watchman away with his shoulder and wrenched his sword free in another crimson spray.
Rhaella watched as Jaime stared at three dead men, before grabbing a fistful of golden cloak and wiping his sword clean, sheathing it again before turning back to his charges.
"This way, my Queen, my prince," he beckoned them forward, and Viserys practically ran to his side and grabbed his hand.
"Were they traitors?" Rhaella heard her son ask softly, and Jaime nodded.
"They are dead, your grace." he replied. "They shan't harm any of you."
"Good." Viserys murmured, before tugging on Jaime's arm, violet eyes glinting as he peered up at the Kingsguard. "But traitors should be killed with fire, not sword."
Rhaella shuddered. They were not her son's words. Those were her brother's, spoken through the mouth of her beloved son. She stared at him for a moment, before Jaime shook his head.
"Forgive me your grace, but I am not so sure." Jaime said. "I am no dragon. I am a lion, and we kill with claws and teeth."
"But… you stabbed him." Viserys protested, pointing at the dead watchman with the axe before him.
"Mine is a claw of steel, your grace, long and gilded." Jaime explained, tapping the pommel of his sword. "I would kill with it in your grace's name, if you would permit."
But he did not look at Viserys as he spoke, oh no. He turned and faced Rhaella, head bowed. And when he peered up at her, she saw seed of hope in his emerald eyes for the first time since those first days in the keep after Harrenhal, when his cloak was fresh and brilliant, his dreams not yet haunted by visions of a mad dragon on a throne of twisted iron.
And Rhaella nodded.
"We would be honoured, Ser Jaime," she said, and she saw that hope blossom before her eyes.
And then Jaime took Viserys' hand, and took her arm, and led them down the flight of spiral stairs. The walk was pain, but for Daenerys and Viserys and with the help of her lion she went down and down and did not fall. And at the bottom, when they could smell sea air and see the light of evening reflected on the sea, she let herself breathe easy for the first time in years.
"Gramama!" a child's voice cried, as a tiny missile of brown hair and tan skin hurtled across the narrow stone path.
For a moment, Rhaella felt Jaime tense, a hand twitching on her waist as he instinctively began to take a fighting stance. But the identity of their unknown assailant was obvious, as Rhaenys dove into her grandmother's legs and hugged them tight. Rhaella bit back a gasp of pain, before Jaime gently sent Viserys to go to his sister-in-law, who stood at the shore-end of a wooden dock.
"Rhaenys…" Rhaella said, reaching down and gently pushing the girl off of her legs, aided a moment later by Jaime scooping her off the ground entirely.
"Hello, little princess," he said, voice low. "You've found us."
"Mama says we're goin' away," Rhaenys declared, squirming in Jaime's grip as he carried her at his hip with one hand and helped Rhaella walk with the other. "Where we goin', Gramama?"
"To Dragonstone, dear," Rhaella managed to say, keeping her voice steady in spite of the pain from her legs and belly. "It will be quiet there, and safe, and in time your father will join us."
"Papa'll be there too?" Rhaenys exclaimed, eyes going wide, before she patted Jaime's leg. "Ser Jamesy is gonna take us to papa?"
"I am, your highness," said Jaime, placing the princess down by her mother.
Beside her stood a man with blunt features and dark eyes, his hand on the hilt of the sword at his hip. The coat of arms on his tabard was familiar to Rhaella; a brown plowman on a field of white, the sigil of House Darry. The man was too young to be Ser Darry himself; one of his men then, who inclined his head respectfully when the Queen met his eye. Behind him stood another man in the same regalia, with a halberd on his shoulder.
"Your grace," the first man said, voice quiet. "Ser Willem sends us with his compliments. The Goldcloaks are running wild in the streets, and Lannister banners are approaching from the west."
"Is Lord Tywin at their head?" Rhaella asked, noting the way Jaime's head jolted slightly at mention of the name.
"So the Spider says your grace." the man confirmed. "The gates are sealed, but the city's gone mad with rioters and traitors alike. Ser Willem bids us take you to Dragonstone."
"Why would my… why should Lord Lannister come here?" Jaime wondered aloud. "The traitors are still at the Trident."
"I could not rightly say, Ser." The man-at-arms beckoned then toward the small ship docked at the mouth of this hidden cove, his head sinking in a low bow. "Please, your grace, this way. The crew are good men; they shall take you to safety at Dragonstone."
There was a loud crashing then, a door banging against the wall from somewhere else. Voices, loud and harsh, shouting about secret passages and hidden caverns. Rhaella heard Jaime move, but in the scant time it took her to glance to where he stood, he was already moving, his hand at his sword, Prince Viserys gently pushed toward her legs.
"Go." he bid them, voice terse, and Rhaella nodded before gently leading Viserys down the narrow wooden walkway toward the ramp where they could board their vessel of escape.
When she reached the foot of the ramp, she let Elia and Rhaenys board first, her daughter in law holding her baby boy tight to her chest. Rhaella took that moment to look back at Jaime.
The young Lannister stood alone, the man-at-arms following them. His sword was in his hand, a long and straight claw of steel gilded at its centre where the groove lay, its honed edge glinting in the low light of the cove. His helm and shield were elsewhere in the castle, yet he stood unafraid as no less than six men, a few still wearing their golden cloaks, came as a stampede down the stone steps from the same entrance they had used. They were a ragged bunch, carrying swords and spears and iron cudgels, rough and angry men intoxicated by the chaos and chance for loot.
They saw Jaime and a few of them paused a moment, wisdom winning out over wild instinct. These men did know Jaime personally, Aerys had seen that few did. But the white cloak was a powerful symbol, and the sight of it seemed to affect even these vagabonds. As Rhaella climbed up the ramp, leaning heavily on the man-at-arm's shoulder with fire clawing at her thighs, she saw Jaime take a single step toward the seven.
"Stand down," he said, voice a whip crack in the quiet of the cove. "Have you no shame? No sense of honour? You are men of the city watch, men of oaths! Each of you is sworn to defend this city, this palace and your monarch!"
"Quiet, boy!" shouted one, a gaunt man with dark eyes and a spear in his hands. "You've not the right to judge us! You'd run from the lions same as us!"
"I would bear my Queen to safety." Jaime retorted. "You would chase her through the castle like pillagers and rapers, for what?"
"Queen ain't a Queen if she's got no king," said another man, a balding thug with huge arms and a dark leering smile. "Now she's just another whore."
Though she was a hundred paces or more away, Rhaella could hear the creak of Jaime's gauntlets as his fists clenched. Then, he let out a single laugh, short and sharp. The men seemed taken aback by that, glancing at each other.
"I try to talk to you, as if you'll listen to reason." Jaime said then, as his left leg dipped back and his right arm came up, sword pointed at the six would-be assailants. "But there's only one language you speak now."
He twirled his blade in his hand and waited. Rhaella dreaded; six men against one, even one so quick and able as Joanna's brave boy... Jaime did not wait long. It was barely a moment later one man charged forward, followed quickly by two more. The first had a spear, driving it forward to skewer the young knight, but Jaime was quicker than even Rhaella had expected. His body seemed to sway just a few inches to the side, and the spear passed harmlessly by him. He took a step forward and cut with his sword, laying open the back of the man's hand. The spear dropped, and the reverse stroke tore open the man's neck, just below the chin.
The two behind him were taken aback at the sudden violence, one being hit on the side by his dead companion's cadaver and knocking it aside with an angry huff. The second eagerly lunged forward, his cudgel coming down in a savage blow aimed at Jaime's head. He hadn't the room, nor the footing, to step back, so he once again moved to the side, and there was a crash of metal on metal as the cudgel struck his left pauldron, denting the steel.
After that, the battle seemed to pass in a flash. Jaime stabbed the man with the cudgel a moment later. The man who had staggered had his own sluggish blade knocked aside with an almost dismissive flash of gold before his heart was cleanly pierced by Jaime's sword. The rest came as a pack, and Jaime was forced to duck and weave and block blow after blow. At one point one of the spearmen scored a blow on him, driving his spearhead through Jaime's pauldron and into his left shoulder. Rhaella held back a gasp at the sight, and one of the men-at-arms in Darry colours headed back for the ramp with halberd in hands, perhaps inspired by Jaime's bravery.
But eventually missteps were taken, and one by one his attackers died. A short thrust to the throat here, a quick cut to the thigh there, and soon enough the fifth man died when Jaime brought his sword down with both hands, driving it into his collar and down further, cutting the man's torso deep. Joanna's son let out a snarling roar as he ripped his gilded blade free in a spray of arterial crimson, turning burning emerald eyes upon the final foe. Beside Rhaella, watching over the ship's rail, Viserys cheered. The last man watched Jaime cut through his fellows like so many training dummies, heard the rage in that hateful roar and, with a swiftness natural to a terrified man, threw down his spear, turning and running as quick as his legs could carry him.
Jaime stood still a moment, shoulders heaving, blade dripping with gore. Then he seemed to rally with a deep breath and turned from the dying man, flicking away much of the blood covering his sword's glistening flat. He came at a run, as the crew of the ship finished pulling up the anchor and began untying the mooring ropes. He leapt aboard and a man pulled the ramp onto the ship, before the deck shuddered beneath them as three men pushed off from the dock with their long staves and all at once they were off toward the Blackwater Bay. Jaime stood there a moment, sword in hand still stained red, panting from the exertion of his fight and run. He had been struck a few times, none of the blows in any way lethal; a spear had torn his cloak and scratched his breastplate, a sword had scored his left vambrace. It was his shoulder whcih concerned her most; the pauldron there was dented deeply, no doubt digging into the flesh beneath.
"Your Grace," said Jaime, as he wiped his sword clean on his cloak. "You are pale."
She felt it. She stumbled a little, as the excitement of the day caught up to her. Her arms felt like lead and her legs like burning logs, but before she could fall or drop Daenerys Jaime was there, catching her, holding her to his chest as his sword clattered to the deck. He smelled of sweat and blood and other unpleasant things, yet his arms were strong, and she let herself lean into him.
"Your Grace, I beg you let me hold the princess for a while," he said, voice gentle. "You need to rest."
"She'll be hungry soon," said Rhaella, her protest feeble. "I shall have to feed her."
"She is quiet now," said Jaime. "Please, your Grace. I… I cannot bear to see you weak."
Weak. She felt weak. She felt as though she could die. Not as Aerys had, screaming and burning. But she feared if she closed her eyes and let blackness take her, she might never wake again. She felt a gentle hand touch her back, smaller than Jaime's, and softer.
"Your Grace," said Elia, sweet Elia, whose voice was as careful as it was kind. "I believe the good knight speaks the truth. I could hold the baby for a while, if you would prefer."
Rhaella felt guilty for how her arms tightened around Daenerys at those words, holding the babe against her breast like she might be torn away again. Jaime, Ser Lannister, the knight who killed her husband and saved her daughter, gently led her toward the captain's quarters at the rear of the ship. Doubtless they had been set aside for her use. Inside he sat her on a bed, and when she pulled away from him, she saw Viserys standing near the door, Jaime's sword in his arms. Her son was so pale, so frightened. He watched her wide eyes, fearing for her, for himself.
"My Queen, please…" Jaime said, his voice softer now, more afraid. "You must rest. It has been a hard day."
"Harder for you," she replied. "Eight men… slain by your hand, Ser. You… you are every bit the warrior they said you are."
"Nine, my Queen," he said then, and the guilt in his voice made Rhaella want to weep for Joanna's poor, beautiful boy. "I have…"
He paused then, looking at her with green eyes full of unshed tears. He sucked in a long, bracing breath, nearly choking on it. Then another. Then a third. She had seen him do this before, though quieter, after Aerys ordered a man burned or a woman beaten. But this time his eyes did not grow distant, his hands did not go still at his sides. He watched her a moment longer, then fell to one knee, head bowed. His sword hand lifted briefly as if to brace the blade against the decking, before he perhaps realized it was empty and instead braced his forearm atop his knee.
"I am a Kingsguard who has killed his king," he said, his voice low and fraught with grief, guilt and all other things that made a ruin of men's words. "I-I… I beg your forgiveness, my Queen… or your judgement. I submit to any punishment you see fit."
So young. This was Joanna's boy, she reminded herself, a knight at fifteen, a Kingslayer at seventeen. She felt half a monster herself staring down at this boy her brother had tried to break, this warrior he had used as little more than hostage in a fine white cloak. Daenerys stirred gently in her arms, and she pressed her lips to her darling daughter's silver hair for a long moment and wondered at the cruelty of the world.
"I will not judge you." she said, and her voice was stronger than it had been all day. "I cannot. You have saved me. Saved my daughter. Your Queen and your Princess thank you, Ser Jaime."
He looked up at her, mouth agape, tears streaming down his face. With care she reached forward and brushed the back of a finger under his eye, wiping away the tears.
"In time, my son will judge you," she said. "Or perhaps the realm. Like as not, it will be both. But know, Jaime Lannister, that you shall ever have your Queen's forgiveness."
He breathed then, finally, a long and sucking gasp for air. His eyes closed, and he bowed his head low.
"I am an oathbreaker," he said, but the words were not so much sorrowful as they were confused, a tangle of grief and hope. "I… my brothers and my King will judge me in time. Until that time should come, I beg you let me be your knight. My sword…"
He reached for his belt and paused. In the doorway, Viserys jolted, rushing forward, and from behind him he tugged the long golden blade. He offered Jaime the sword, and the young knight gave the boy a smile as he took the weapon, offering it up to Rhaella in his hands. Gently she took it in one hand, holding Daenerys with the other. She was not strong enough to hold it aloft, so she let the tip rest against the floor.
"Would you take me, your Grace?" he asked, and Rhaella nodded.
"Rise, Ser Jaime Lannister, knight of the realm," she said. "I accept your service."
Jaime took his sword back, and he leaned on it as he rose to his feet. Then he sheathed it again, gilt-edged steel ringing on leather. Once again, he bowed. Elia entered the room shortly after, holding baby Aegon and leading Rhaenys by the hand. The little girl was staring up at Jaime once again.
"Ser Jaime, might I beg you watch these two while the Queen and I rest?" Elia asked, demure and withdrawn as ever. Jaime bowed his head, before Viserys one hand and Rhaenys his other.
"Come please, your Highnesses," he said to them. "We should thank the captain for his service."
The two followed the knight obediently, something Rhaella was silently grateful for. She lay back in the bed, holding Daenerys against her breast. Her eyes fluttered, but then Elia settled into a chair beside her and she turned her head to see her daughter-in-law smiling at her.
"You are free," she said. "My Queen… it's over."
"My son has won." Rhaella agreed. "Rhaegar will be king now. I…"
King Rhaegar. Her boy sitting the Iron Throne in place of his father, ruling the realm. A broken realm, perhaps; this Rebellion had been costly, nearly ruinous. A full half of the kingdoms had risen against them, thanks to her brother's madness. Now her son had to somehow reestablish a secure hold on his realm and unify the Seven Kingdoms in the wake of that insanity. She did not envy him his position, but Rhaegar was a strong young man. He could manage it, if only he could put aside his dour predictions and darker obsessions.
If Rhaegar were king now, she could finally rest. With Aerys dead, there would be no more rapings, no more foolhardy attempts for children she could not give. Little Daenerys would be the last of her children. The babe breathed, slow and steady, but she had not stirred nor screamed, instead weakly gripping her mother's sleeve with tiny pink fingers. Elia had Aegon sat in her lap, the chubby little prince of less than a year's age, with a mess of silver hair atop his head and curious little violet eyes. He peered at Rhaella and her daughter, murmuring nonsense before looking back up at his mother.
"Will you let me take her?" Elia asked, gently, and Rhaella could only shake her head. "I see. At least lay her at your side and try to rest, then. I'll watch over you."
Rhaella had run out of arguments by then; gently she laid little Daenerys down beside her on her back, before laying on her side. Her stomach turned and her legs ached, but still she closed her eyes a single time, and like that she sank into the welcome comfort of sleep.
By the time she woke, it was much later; Elia had dozed off, and little Daenerys was softly burbling. She did not scream; she had not since Aerys had tried to do his terrible deed. Rhaella lifted the girl to her breast and fed her, whispering songs in Old Valyrian for her daughter as she had for Rhaegar and Viserys. Outside the room she could hear sailors calling to one another, sails crackling and wood creaking.
The door opened quietly, a voice hushing another, before Viserys slipped inside, followed shortly by Rhaenys and, after another moment, Jaime. He saw her on the bed, nipple in Daenerys' suckling mouth, and flushed a hot red before quickly turning his head.
"Your Grace," he greeted her, a note of awkward apology in his voice. "The children have been eager to see you, but we were uncertain if you'd awoken."
"How long have I been asleep?" Rhaella asked, and Jaime bowed his head.
"It has been a night and most of the morning, your Grace," he told her. "The children slept in quarters I arranged with the crew. Prince Viserys has been learning knots from a Velaryon man for most of the morning. Princess Rhaenys has... has been asking me about birds."
"We are well away from King's Landing, then?" Rhaella dared not hope, and yet Jaime nodded his head.
"The crew says with good winds to our backs we should reach Dragonstone in just a few days," he said. "The crew are in good spirits and seem to be loyal to Prince Rhaegar above any other. I think we'll be safe for the time being."
Elia began to stir in her chair, and Jaime bowed deeply to Rhaella before turning and marching to take up guard by the door, as Viserys and Rhaenys quietly chattered in the corner. Or rather Viserys chattered, while Rhaenys stumbled over what words she knew to keep up. Rhaella watched the children fiddle with a short length of rope, Viserys showing his niece what he'd learned from the unnamed sailor. Daenerys drank hungrily, and when she was done, she let out a soft warbling sound.
Rhaella breathed a sigh of relief. She was safe now, she told herself. The monster was gone. Aerys couldn't hurt her anymore. Jaime had seen to it with his claw of steel. Joanna's son had saved her. Her lion, clad all in white.