"Burn them all!" The King screamed, and raged, pacing restlessly in the Throne Room. Behind him, the Iron Throne loomed as dark as an omen – it reminded Jaime of all the swords that had served to forge it, and all the blood that had soaked the ground when it was built.
"Burn. Them. ALL." The words almost made no sense as they were spoken. They sounded so distant, and so useless, no matter how much the Mad King screamed. A flash of gold, a blade swung in a precise movement, and Lord Rossart, the Hand of the King, was lying dead in the ground, his head rolling away from a lifeless body. His wildfire did not serve him well enough. The Mad King did not even notice, his screams filling the silence of the hall.
"Dead! I want them dead, all those traitors!" He went on, as if nothing had happened, his voice echoing in the halls of the Throne Room.
When Jaime walked towards the old man, it seemed as if he was not the one whose steps echoed in the room, but someone else. He could almost feel the empty eye sockets of the dragon skulls following every step he took, and a shiver ran through his spine at the thought. Not even dragons can protect him now. He went on walking, until he was face to face with the old man. He looked so frail with his silver blonde hair unwashed and a net of wrinkles on his face. His nails were long and dirty, his lips chapped as he pressed them in a hard line, an expression of pure disgust on his face. Once, this king had worn a crown with pride. Now, it looked as if that same crown was out of place on his brow.
"They must burn! All of -" The words turned into a gurgling soundas Jaime's sword slit the King's throat with a clean swing. The blood that rushed away from the old man's skin stained the gold of the knight's armour, but it did not matter. At least it is not the white of the Kingsguard. At least it was not his white cloak he had soiled.
The realm does not need a Mad King. Westeros has already bled enough. It is kindness… Aerys collapsed on the floor of the Throne Room, frail hands reaching up towards the wound, in a feeble attempt to stop the bleeding.
As he watched the old man die, Jaime did not feel the tiniest shred of guilt. Nothing had ever felt more right than seeing the life leave the King's body, the light fleeing from his deep lilac eyes. Not a long time ago, life had left eyes very similar to the ones that were staring at him now, in the waters of the Trident.
A King does not die like this. He dies fighting, a sword in his hand, not choking on his own blood. A King dies with the clangour of the battle in his ears, not in the silence of a dim-lit hall. A King dies the way Rhaegar Targaryen did.
"Protect my family, Ser Jaime." Prince Rhaegar had told him, high on his warhorse, towering over every other man in his black armour. Jaime remembered the way the breastplate was alive with the rubies that decorated the black metal, as the Prince went off to war. It was a glorious sight, and he could not help but envy his sworn brothers that would accompany the Prince to fight.
"A knight of the Kingsguard is sworn to protect the royal family, Your Grace." Rhaegar simply nodded, as solemn as his duty wanted him to be, yet his mouth gave a small twitch, as if something was displeasing him.
"You will be the only one to protect them. I shall wish to embrace my children and my lady wife, when I come back." Not his father, Jaime could not help but notice. He felt proud of the way the Prince was talking to him now, trusting a man of six and ten with the life of the Princess and the children. In that moment, he was no longer a boy, but a man, with a man's responsibility.
He did not ask Arthur Dayne. He did not ask Gerold Hightower. He did not ask Lewyn Martell. He asked me. He could not help but feeling a rush of pride, as the thought came to him. He thinks I am the best of them.
"We shall wait for your safe coming home." He concluded, and in that moment he was almost sure that he had seen Rhaegar's lips curling up in a smile. Jaime had returned it, vowing that he would not make the Prince regret trusting him.
Yet here he stood, in front of the dead body of his own King. What would they think, those knights he had admired so much, if they were to look at him now? Lewyn Martell died, fighting by Rhaegar's side, while the Sword of the Morning and the White Bull remained so far away. I am the only one now. They can't judge me. They don't understand.
I am the only one who can protect them. Rhaegar's last word echoed in his ears, and nothing could make the memory go away. He left the Mad King to die, the sword still red with the old man's blood as Jaime rushed out of the Throne Room. His footsteps echoed within the walls, the familiar metallic clangour of his armour accompanying him, and it felt as if his own sworn brothers were looking at him, along with the dragon skulls.
He passed the Godswood and the Tower of the Hand, running past the Sept and towards the armory. The serpentine steps uncoiled before him, but Jaime did not hesitate. When he reached Maegor's holdfast, he realized he had even less time than he thought. The portcullis was down, servants and guards alike fleeing in every direction, taking everything they could from the royal chambers. It was utter chaos. Everyone was screaming and running, seeking for some place to hide before the inevitable sack.
In the distance, the rhythmic sound of a battering ram hitting the city gates reminded him that there was no time. He began to fight his way through the crowd, shouting to let him pass. Most were too scared to listen to him, and another good part did not hear. Some of them simply did not care. It took him more than he had hoped to reach the portcullis, where the Goldcloaks were already fighting against the crowd that sought shelter behind the walls of Maegor's holdfast. The biggest part of the City Watch was either on the walls, prepared to defend the Red Keep, while another part had already deserted duty for the safety of some hiding place.
The guards at the portcullis did not object when he shouted to let him pass, saying the King wanted him to protect the Princess and the children. No wise man questioned the orders of the King… and they all thought he was still alive.
He reached the chambers of the Princess as fast as he could, running through the corridors and rushing up on the stairs. There was no one to stop him.
When he opened the door, Princess Elia's hand reached towards the table for the knife she had used for her meal, in a feeble attempt to defend herself and her children. Her small hand clutched at the hilt so hard that her knuckles went white, her fingers shaking for fear. The grip on the weapon went soft, however, when she recognized who he was.
"Se Jaime." Even now, her voice had a certain kindness, sweetness in the way she spoke although she was afraid. She leant with her back against the wardrobe she had moved from its location, taking a deep breath for the relief of the moment.
"I… tried to bar the door." She explained, as if she was apologizing for even thinking about it. "But it is too heavy." She added, her voice feeble as she spoke.
"We must go, Your Grace." In his crib, little Aegon cried softly, scared by the sounds that came from outside the walls. They felt nearer and nearer with every passing second. The Princess walked to the crib, turning her back to Jaime, and took the newborn in her arms to stop him from crying. The child calmed down, curled against his mother's chest.
"There is no time." He exhorted hastily, his voice sounding harsher than he had meant.
"How?" She asked, turning once more to face him, her voice threatening to break as she spoke. He could not blame her. They are here to kill her, and to hurt her children. Of course she is afraid.
"Trust me." There was a moment of hesitation, in which the Princess clutched the baby more tightly against her chest. For a moment, Jaime thought that she would not trust him, but she simply nodded, the determination coming back on her features. This woman will not surrender without fighting. She wrapped the baby in his blanket, sliding the knife in her belt to gather courage and looked up at him. I am her last hope.
"But Rhaenys…" She began, stopping in her track as they left the room. "We can't leave her!"
"I know." They walked on the stairs to reach the upper floor together, Elia holding Aegon in her arms and Jaime with his sword still in hand. Heavy footsteps followed them as they climbed up to Rhaegar's chambers.