Starfall, 283 AC - One Year Later
The raven arrived at dawn, its black wings cutting through the morning mist like a harbinger of doom. Ashara watched from the nursery window as it spiraled down to the rookery, her one-year-old son balanced on her hip with the easy confidence of a mother who'd learned to do everything one-handed.
Cregan had grown into a remarkably alert child, with thick dark curls that caught the light and those unsettling violet eyes that seemed to catalog everything around him with unnatural intensity. He rarely cried, spoke his first words months early, and had an uncanny ability to understand conversations that should have been far beyond his comprehension.
*This child sees too much,* Ashara often thought, though she could never quite articulate what she meant by that.
"Mama," Cregan said now, pointing toward the rookery with one chubby finger. "Bird."
"Yes, sweet one, a raven," Ashara murmured, her voice carrying that distinctive mix of warmth and steel that made men reconsider their life choices. Though something cold had settled in her stomach. Ravens at dawn rarely brought good news, and these days, no news was preferable to the alternative.
*Please don't let it be about Uncle Ned,* she prayed silently. *My family has been through enough without...*
Her thoughts were interrupted by the sound of rapid footsteps in the corridor outside—the particular rhythm of someone trying to appear calm while actually being completely frantic. Aurelius burst through the nursery door without ceremony, his usually pristine appearance disheveled and his violet eyes wild with an emotion she couldn't quite identify.
"Sister," he said, his voice rough with barely contained panic. "We need to talk. Now."
Ashara raised one perfectly sculpted eyebrow in that way that had once made Prince Rhaegar forget his own name. "By all means, brother dear. Do come charging into the nursery like a bull at market. I'm sure Cregan finds it educational."
*Oh, brilliant,* thought baby Cregan with infinite sass. *Because nothing says 'everything is fine' like uncle dearest looking like he's seen a ghost. Or possibly several ghosts. Having a rather heated discussion about property values.*
Instead of rising to her bait as he usually would, Aurelius closed the door firmly behind him and activated the privacy wards with a gesture that made the air shimmer briefly around them. It was an old Dayne family skill, passed down through generations—useful for keeping certain conversations from reaching the wrong ears.
"The war is over," he said without preamble, his voice carrying the kind of weight that suggested everything was about to change. "Robert Baratheon has won. Rhaegar Targaryen is dead, killed at the Trident."
Ashara sank into the nearby chair, her usual grace deserting her as she clutched Cregan closer. For a moment, the mask slipped, and all the vulnerability she usually kept hidden flickered across her face like candlelight. "Dead? Rhaegar is... but he was the finest knight in the realm. How could—"
"Robert's war hammer," Aurelius said grimly, running a hand through his hair in a gesture that made him look remarkably like their father. "They say it caved in his chest armor like parchment. The rubies from his breastplate scattered into the river like drops of blood."
"Poor Elia," Ashara said with a sharp pang of sympathy. "And those poor children. What will become of them now?"
*Probably nothing good,* mused baby Cregan darkly. *Robert Baratheon isn't exactly known for his restraint when it comes to Targaryens. This is about to get spectacularly messy.*
"There's more," Aurelius continued, and his expression grew even more troubled—the look of a man who'd just realized he was standing in quicksand. "A raven came this morning. From Arthur."
Ashara blinked in confusion, her sharp mind immediately catching the inconsistency. "Arthur? But... why wasn't he with Rhaegar? The Kingsguard are supposed to protect—"
"That's exactly what I thought," Aurelius interrupted, beginning to pace like a caged wolf. "Arthur should have been at the Trident, fighting and dying beside his prince like some bloody tragic ballad. Instead, he's... elsewhere. And he's asking for help."
He handed her the small scroll, the parchment bearing their brother's familiar seal. Ashara read it quickly, her confusion deepening with every line, her expression shifting from bewilderment to concern to something that might have been dawning horror.
*"Aurelius and Ashara - By the time you receive this, you will have heard of Prince Rhaegar's death at the Trident. I cannot explain in writing why I was not there to die beside him, but I pray you will understand when we meet again. I am at the Tower of Joy with urgent business that cannot wait. I have great need of a skilled maester and a reliable midwife. Send them immediately, along with whatever supplies they might require for a difficult birthing. Time is of the essence. Your brother, Arthur Dayne, Sword of the Morning."*
"A midwife?" Ashara said aloud, staring at the letter as if it might spontaneously explain itself. "Arthur needs a midwife? What in seven hells—"
"I've been trying to puzzle it out all morning," Aurelius admitted, throwing himself into a chair with the dramatic flair that ran in their bloodline. "Why is Arthur at the Tower of Joy instead of dying gloriously in battle? Why does he need a midwife? And most importantly, why all the bloody secrecy?"
*Because someone is giving birth, you beautiful idiots,* thought baby Cregan with the patience of someone who'd spent too many years dealing with well-meaning but oblivious adults. *Someone important enough to keep the Sword of the Morning away from his prince's final battle. Someone whose child might be significant enough to— Oh. OH. Lyanna bloody Stark.*
His infant thoughts stopped abruptly as pieces clicked into place with horrifying precision. The Tower of Joy. A secret birthing. Arthur Dayne's mysterious absence from the Trident. The timing of Rhaegar's death.
*Well, shit. This is either about to become the most important birth in Westerosi history, or the most spectacular cover-up. Possibly both.*
"I'm going," Ashara said suddenly, rising from her chair with that decisive grace that had once made hardened knights step aside without thinking.
"Ashara, no." Aurelius leaped to his feet, hands raised in what he probably thought was a placating gesture but actually looked more like he was trying to calm a particularly dangerous wildcat. "It's too dangerous. The realm is in chaos, there are soldiers and sellswords everywhere looking for easy targets, and we don't even know what we'd be walking into—"
"Arthur is our brother," Ashara said firmly, her voice carrying that particular tone that meant the discussion was over whether he realized it or not. "He wouldn't ask for help unless he desperately needed it. And more than that, he specifically asked for a midwife. Someone is giving birth, Aurelius, and they're in trouble."
She bounced Cregan gently, her mind already racing ahead to logistics with the ruthless efficiency that had once made her the most sought-after lady-in-waiting at court. "Maester Harwyn can handle the medical side, but I've assisted in more difficult births than anyone else in Dorne. If someone needs help bringing a child safely into this world, then by the Seven, that's exactly what I'm going to do."
*That's my mother,* thought baby Cregan with fierce pride. *Brilliant, brave, and absolutely terrifying when she's made up her mind about something. Rather like a very pretty hurricane with excellent taste in jewelry.*
"Then I'm coming with you," Aurelius said immediately, his jaw set in that stubborn line that had gotten him into trouble since childhood.
"No." Ashara's voice carried that steel-over-silk quality that had once made princes reconsider their strategies. "Starfall needs its lord, especially now. If Robert's rebels are sweeping through the realm like locusts, our people need someone here to protect them."
"I won't let you ride into the middle of bloody nowhere with just a grumpy maester for protection," Aurelius protested, his accent growing thicker with emotion as it always did when he was genuinely worried.
"You won't be *letting* me do anything," Ashara replied with the kind of cool precision that could cut glass. "I'll be *choosing* to do it. There's a difference. A rather important one, actually."
*Oooh, she's using the voice,* observed baby Cregan with professional interest. *Uncle's about to fold like a house of cards in a windstorm.*
"Besides," Ashara continued, adjusting her hair with the kind of casual gesture that somehow made it look even more perfectly arranged, "I won't be defenseless. Dawn may belong to Arthur, but I wasn't exactly helpless with a blade before I became a mother. And Harwyn knows enough about poisons to drop a destrier. We'll manage."
Aurelius looked like he wanted to argue further, but one glance at his sister's expression—that particular combination of determination and barely contained exasperation that meant she was about two seconds away from doing something dramatically final—told him it would be pointless. When Ashara Dayne set her mind to something, arguing with her was about as effective as trying to hold back the tide with a dinner fork.
"At least take a proper escort," he said finally, his voice carrying the defeated tone of a man who'd just realized he was fighting a losing battle. "A dozen good men, armed and armored and ugly enough to scare off bandits."
"Six," Ashara countered smoothly. "Enough to handle opportunistic thieves, not so many as to look like an invasion force. If this situation is as delicate as Arthur's letter suggests, showing up with a small army might make things considerably worse."
"Fine. Six men, but I choose them personally. And they're all going to be absolute bastards who'd cut their own mothers' throats if you asked them nicely."
"Agreed. Though perhaps phrase it more diplomatically when you brief them."
*This is either incredibly brave or incredibly stupid,* mused baby Cregan. *Possibly both. Though given that I'm apparently about to meet my aunt Lyanna and my newborn cousin, I suppose I should be grateful for the chance to expand the family circle. Assuming we all survive the experience.*
---
An hour later, the courtyard of Starfall was bustling with controlled chaos as preparations for departure got underway. Maester Harwyn stumped about muttering under his breath about "fool errands" and "bloody dramatic knights," while simultaneously packing enough medical supplies to stock a small hospital.
"Mark my words," he grumbled to anyone within earshot, his voice carrying that particular brand of pessimistic authority that came from forty years of dealing with noble idiots and their spectacular ideas, "this is going to end badly. Mysterious summons to remote towers never end well in the stories. Usually there's cursed princesses or imprisoned wizards involved. Sometimes both, if you're particularly unlucky."
"Harwyn," Ashara called from across the courtyard, where she was checking the straps on Cregan's travel basket with the methodical precision of someone who'd learned that small details could mean the difference between life and death. "Are you quite finished with your predictions of doom?"
"Not even close, my lady," Harwyn replied with the cheerful nihilism of a man who'd seen enough noble adventures to know how they usually ended. "I've got at least another hour's worth of pessimistic observations. Would you like to hear my thoughts on the likelihood of encountering bandits, harsh weather, mysterious locked doors, or possibly all three at once in some sort of catastrophic convergence of inconvenience?"
"Perhaps save them for the journey," Ashara suggested dryly, her lips quirking in what might have been a smile. "We'll need something to discuss during the long ride."
*I like him even more now,* thought baby Cregan as Harwyn continued his litany of complaints while efficiently organizing medical supplies. *He's like a medieval version of a pessimistic comedy writer—practical, sarcastic, and absolutely unshakeable in a crisis. The kind of person who'd complain about the weather while calmly setting broken bones.*
The escort Aurelius had chosen consisted of six of Starfall's most experienced men-at-arms, led by Ser Davron Allyrion, a grizzled veteran who'd served House Dayne for over twenty years and looked like he'd been carved from old leather and bad temper. They were armed with sword and spear, armored in mail and leather, and looked exactly like the kind of men you'd want at your back when riding into uncertain circumstances—or the kind you'd cross the street to avoid if you met them in a dark alley.
"My lady," Ser Davron said, approaching Ashara with the measured stride of a man accustomed to command and thoroughly unimpressed by noble dramatics. "The men are ready. We can make good time if we push hard, but it'll be a rough journey with the babe."
"Cregan travels well," Ashara assured him, her voice carrying that particular confidence that made people believe her even when she was making things up. "And he's tougher than he looks."
*I'd better be,* thought the child in question. *This doesn't sound like the sort of trip that comes with luxury accommodations and regular meal stops. More like the kind that ends with everyone involved in a very dramatic sword fight.*
As they prepared to mount up, Aurelius pulled his sister aside for a private word. His expression was troubled, and he kept glancing toward the eastern horizon as if he could see all the way to their destination through sheer force of will.
"Ashara," he said quietly, his voice carrying that particular note of unease that meant he was genuinely worried rather than just being dramatic for effect. "I have a bad feeling about this. Not just the usual worry about dangerous travel—something deeper. Something that feels like... like standing at the edge of a cliff in a storm, waiting for the lightning to strike."
"I know," Ashara replied, surprising him with her honesty. "I feel it too. Like we're about to step into a story that's already been written, and we don't know whether we're the heroes or the cautionary tale."
*Definitely the cautionary tale,* thought baby Cregan with grim certainty. *Though possibly the kind where everyone learns something valuable about themselves right before everything goes completely to hell.*
"What if it's a trap?" Aurelius pressed, his hands clenching and unclenching at his sides. "What if someone is using Arthur to lure us away from Starfall? What if this is all some elaborate scheme to—"
"Then we'll deal with that too," Ashara interrupted, her smile fierce and beautiful and absolutely terrifying. "We're Daynes, brother. We've been dealing with impossible situations since before the Conquest. This is just another challenge."
*Famous last words,* thought baby Cregan. *Though I have to admire the confidence. Very much in the family tradition of facing certain doom with perfect hair and excellent posture.*
They rode out as the sun reached its zenith, a small column of riders heading east toward the Torrentine and whatever mysteries awaited them at the Tower of Joy. Behind them, Starfall's pale towers caught the light like captured stars, while ahead lay only questions and the promise of answers that might change everything.
Ashara rode with Cregan secured in a specially designed basket that allowed her to keep him close while maintaining control of her mount. The baby seemed remarkably content with the arrangement, his violet eyes taking in the passing landscape with that unnatural intensity that always made her slightly uneasy.
*He understands far more than any child his age should,* she thought, not for the first time. *Sometimes I catch him looking at me like he's trying to solve a puzzle. Like he knows something I don't. What thoughts go through that little head of his?*
If she could have heard those thoughts, she might have been more than slightly uneasy.
*Hold on, Aunt Lyanna,* baby Cregan was thinking as the landscape rolled past. *Help is coming. And maybe, just maybe, we can prevent this from ending in complete tragedy. Though knowing my luck, I'm probably riding toward another spectacular disaster involving people I care about making heroically stupid decisions.*
The irony wasn't lost on him that he was heading toward a meeting with his aunt Lyanna and his newborn cousin—assuming, of course, that everyone managed to survive the experience.
---
King's Landing, 283 AC - The Red Keep
The Iron Throne was remarkably uncomfortable.
Jaime Lannister sat slumped on the twisted metal monstrosity, his golden hair dark with sweat and his usually pristine white cloak stained with blood that wasn't entirely his own. The blade that had killed King Aerys lay across his knees—still warm from the Mad King's final, burning breath.
The throne room was eerily quiet now, the silence broken only by the distant sounds of the city burning outside and the occasional drip of blood from various wounds onto the stone floor. Robert's rebels had breached the gates hours ago, and King's Landing was being systematically sacked by soldiers drunk on victory and the promise of plunder.
*"Burn them all,"* Jaime muttered, repeating Aerys's final command with bitter accuracy. *"Burn them all." Even at the end, even with defeat staring him in the face like an unwelcome dinner guest, all he could think about was taking everyone else down with him. Mad to the very last.*
The wildfire caches hidden throughout the city would have turned King's Landing into a funeral pyre for half a million souls. Men, women, children—all of them reduced to ash and bone because a madman couldn't bear the thought of losing his throne to a man with a bigger hammer.
*Well, he's lost it anyway,* Jaime thought with the kind of bitter humor that came from having the worst day of one's life. *Just without taking the entire city with him. I suppose that counts as a victory of sorts. Small victories, but I'll take what I can get.*
The great doors of the throne room were still barred from the inside, but he could hear voices approaching—Robert's men, most likely, come to claim their prize and find themselves a new king to serve. Soon they'd break down the doors, find him sitting here with a dead king at his feet, and the real questions would begin.
*Why did you kill him? Why betray your vows? Why murder the man you swore to protect?*
And what could he possibly say that they'd understand? That he'd saved their lives? That he'd prevented a massacre that would have made the Sack of King's Landing look like a minor disagreement? That sometimes keeping one vow meant breaking another, and choosing which oath to honor was what separated knights from butchers?
*They'll call me Kingslayer,* he realized with weary resignation. *For the rest of my life, no matter what else I do, no matter how many people I save or how many noble deeds I perform, I'll be the knight who broke his oath and murdered his king. They'll never understand that it was the right thing to do.*
A sudden thought cut through his brooding like a sword through silk—sharp, urgent, and absolutely terrifying.
*The Maidenvault.*
Princess Elia and her children were still locked in their converted prison, unprotected and vulnerable as newborn lambs in a den of wolves. Ser Lewyn Martell had been sent to the Trident with Rhaegar, leaving them with no Kingsguard protection. And with the city being sacked by Robert's forces...
*Sweet Seven,* Jaime thought, surging to his feet with sudden panic that cut through his exhaustion like a blade. *They'll be slaughtered like lambs. Father's already given the orders, hasn't he? Clean up all the loose ends, eliminate all the witnesses, make sure Robert's new reign starts with a clean slate.*
Robert Baratheon had sworn a thousand times over the past year that he'd see every Targaryen dead, their line ended forever. Drunk on victory and grief for his beloved Lyanna, he wouldn't hesitate to order the deaths of Rhaegar's wife and children. And his soldiers, wild with bloodlust and wine, might not even wait for orders.
Jaime was moving before the thought had fully formed, his exhaustion forgotten in the face of this new urgency. He shoved through the throne room's great doors, ignoring the startled shouts of the Lannister guards who'd been waiting outside.
"Ser Jaime!" one of them called, his voice carrying that particular note of confusion that came from seeing their golden lord acting like a man possessed. "Where are you—"
"The Maidenvault," Jaime snapped without slowing, his voice carrying all the authority of his name and position. "Follow me. Now."
He ran through the Red Keep's corridors like a man possessed, his white cloak streaming behind him like a banner of surrender—or possibly redemption. Servants and courtiers pressed themselves against the walls as he passed, their faces pale with terror and confusion.
*Please let me be in time,* he prayed desperately to whatever gods might be listening to kinslayers and oath-breakers. *Please don't let Robert's bloodlust extend to murdering children in their beds. Please let there be something left of honor in this bloody mess.*
The Maidenvault was in the older section of the Red Keep, accessible through a series of narrow corridors that had been designed more for security than convenience. As Jaime rounded the final corner, breathing hard and with his heart hammering against his ribs, he could hear voices ahead—rough, unfamiliar voices that made his blood run cold.
"—orders were clear as crystal," a voice was saying with the casual brutality of a man discussing the weather. "No Targaryen lives. Not a one."
"What about the Dornish woman?" another voice asked, sounding almost bored. "She's not dragon-blooded."
"Doesn't matter a whit," the first voice replied with a dismissive laugh. "She's the dragon prince's whore, bore his spawn. Kill her too. Tie up all the loose ends nice and neat."
Jaime drew his sword as he ran, the blade singing as it cleared the scabbard with the kind of sound that meant business was about to be conducted. He rounded the corner to find eight men in the colors of House Lannister standing outside the Maidenvault's heavy doors. They wore his father's crimson and gold, but their faces were unfamiliar—sellswords and mercenaries, most likely, bought and paid for by Tywin Lannister's gold and utterly without conscience.
*Father's cleanup crew,* Jaime realized with disgust that tasted like bile. *Come to tie up loose ends and eliminate witnesses. How very efficient of him.*
"Stop!" he shouted, his voice carrying all the authority of his name and position, echoing off the stone walls like a crack of thunder. "By order of Ser Jaime Lannister, stand down immediately!"
The men turned as one, and Jaime saw murder in their eyes—professional killers who'd been given a job and meant to finish it, regardless of who tried to stop them. They had the look of men who'd done this sort of work before, who knew exactly how much blood was worth and how little a life could cost.
"Ser Jaime," one of them said with mock courtesy, his voice carrying just enough respect to avoid outright insubordination while making it clear he had no intention of obeying. "Lord Tywin's orders were very specific. All Targaryens are to die. This doesn't concern the Kingsguard."
"It concerns me when you're about to murder children," Jaime snarled, his voice dropping to that particular tone that had once made hardened criminals reconsider their life choices. "Stand aside."
"Can't do that, ser," the man replied with what might have been genuine regret if you ignored the way his hand was already moving toward his sword. "Orders are orders. Nothing personal."
*Of course they are,* Jaime thought grimly, settling into a fighting stance that had been drilled into him since childhood. *When has anything ever been simple in this family?*
"You know," Jaime said conversationally, his sword point weaving lazy patterns in the air, "I've had rather a long day. Killed a king, saved a city, sat on an extremely uncomfortable throne for several hours. I'm tired, I'm irritable, and I'm rapidly losing what little patience I had left."
The lead sellsword grinned, showing teeth that had seen better decades. "Eight against one, pretty boy. Even a Lannister knight ain't that good."
"You'd be surprised," Jaime replied with that particular smile that had once made tournament crowds swoon and enemies reconsider their strategies. "Though I suppose you're about to find out."
The fight was brief, brutal, and utterly one-sided. Eight against one should have been impossible odds, but these were hired killers, not knights. They fought dirty but without skill, relying on numbers and brutality rather than training and technique.
Jaime cut through them like a scythe through wheat, his sword work a deadly dance of precision and fury that would have been beautiful if it hadn't been so thoroughly lethal. Years of training in the castle yards, months of real combat experience, and the desperate need to protect innocent lives combined to make him utterly unstoppable.
The first man died with Jaime's blade through his throat before he'd fully drawn his sword. The second managed to get his weapon clear of its sheath before losing his head in a spray of crimson that painted the corridor walls. The third and fourth came at him together and died together, their blood mixing on the stone floor like some grotesque artistic statement.
"Bloody hell," one of the survivors gasped, staring at his dead companions with the expression of a man who'd just realized he'd made a serious error in judgment. "He's faster than—"
He never finished the sentence. Jaime's blade took him in the chest, punching through mail and leather and bone with contemptuous ease.
The last three tried to flee, which was probably the smartest thing they'd done all day. Unfortunately for them, Jaime was in no mood to let anyone escape who might report back to his father about what had transpired here.
When it was over, eight men lay dead in the corridor, their blood pooling on the stone floor like spilled wine. Jaime stood among them, breathing hard, his white cloak now thoroughly stained with crimson that would never wash out.
*So much for keeping my vows clean,* he thought with bitter humor. *Though I suppose protecting the innocent is supposed to be part of the job description. Somewhere. Probably written in very small print.*
He pounded on the Maidenvault's door with the pommel of his sword, the sound echoing through the corridor like thunder. "Princess Elia! It's Ser Jaime Lannister. Open the door—we need to leave. Now."
There was a long moment of silence, then the sound of bars being lifted and locks turning with the careful precision of someone who wasn't entirely sure whether salvation or death was knocking at their door. The door opened to reveal Princess Elia Martell, pale but composed, with three-year-old Princess Rhaenys clinging to her skirts and baby Prince Aegon cradled in her arms.
*She's terrified,* Jaime realized, seeing the tremor in her hands despite her brave facade. *But still thinking clearly. Good. We're going to need that.*
Princess Elia was a woman of remarkable beauty and grace, with the kind of dignity that shone through even in the worst circumstances. Her dark hair was perfectly arranged despite hours of confinement, her silk gown still elegant despite the situation, and her dark eyes held a intelligence that missed nothing.
"Ser Jaime," she said quietly, her voice carrying that particular musical quality that had once made half the court fall in love with her. "I heard fighting. Are we... are we safe?"
"For now," he replied honestly, because lying to her would have been both pointless and insulting to her intelligence. "But we need to leave immediately. The city has fallen to Robert's forces, and..." He gestured toward the bodies in the corridor. "Not everyone is interested in taking prisoners."
Princess Rhaenys looked up at him with those unsettling violet eyes that seemed far too knowing for a child her age—the kind of gaze that suggested she understood exactly how much danger they were all in. She was a beautiful child, with her mother's features and her father's distinctive Targaryen eyes.
"Are you here to help us?" she asked, her voice carrying an odd formality that made her sound like a miniature adult. "Or are you here to hurt us like the others wanted to?"
*Bright child,* Jaime thought with genuine admiration. *Too bright for her own good, probably. She knows exactly what those men were planning.*
"I'm here to help, princess," he said gently, crouching down to meet her eyes. "But we need to move quickly and quietly. Can you do that for me?"
Rhaenys nodded solemnly, her expression serious beyond her years. "I can be very quiet when I need to be. I've had lots of practice."
*I'll bet you have,* Jaime mused sadly. *Living in this place, with these people, you'd have to learn how to be invisible just to survive.*
They made their way through the Red Keep's corridors like ghosts, avoiding the main thoroughfares where Robert's soldiers were celebrating their victory with wine and song and the occasional bout of recreational violence. Jaime knew every secret passage and hidden stair in the castle, knowledge that now proved invaluable as they worked their way toward the stables.
*If we can reach the horses,* he thought, *we can be out of the city before anyone realizes they're gone. From there...*
From there, he had no idea. Where could they go? Dorne was the obvious choice, but that would mean traveling through war-torn territory with a woman and two small children. The Free Cities might be safer, but that meant crossing the Narrow Sea, which brought its own risks and complications.
*One problem at a time,* he decided. *First, get them out of King's Landing alive. Everything else can wait until we're not in immediate danger of being murdered in our beds.*
They were almost to the stables when their luck ran out. As they rounded a corner near the castle's outer walls, moving as quietly as shadows, they found their path blocked by two figures that made Jaime's blood turn to ice.
Ser Amory Lorch stood with his arms crossed, his scarred face twisted in a cruel smile that suggested he was enjoying himself immensely. He was a compact, vicious man with the kind of casual cruelty that made him useful for certain types of work—the kind that decent people didn't talk about in polite company.
Beside him loomed Ser Gregor Clegane, the Mountain That Rides, his massive frame encased in blackened steel that made him look like something that had crawled out of the deepest pits of hell. His expression was utterly emotionless, which somehow made him more terrifying than if he'd been snarling and frothing at the mouth.
*Father's hounds,* Jaime realized with sinking dread. *The cleanup crew's cleanup crew. The specialists you call when you need something done quickly, quietly, and without any inconvenient witnesses left behind.*
"Ser Jaime," Amory said with false pleasantry, his voice carrying that particular tone that made everything sound vaguely threatening. "Going somewhere with our prizes?"
"These people are under my protection," Jaime replied, moving to place himself between the two killers and Princess Elia, his sword already half-drawn. "Stand aside."
"I'm afraid that's not possible," Amory continued with the kind of smile that made small children have nightmares. "Lord Tywin was very specific about his requirements. No loose ends, no surviving Targaryens, no complications for the new king. You understand."
Gregor said nothing, but his massive sword was already in his hand, the blade dark with what looked suspiciously like fresh blood. The man was enormous even by the standards of professional killers, with the kind of strength that could crush a man's skull like an egg.
*They've already killed someone,* Jaime realized with growing horror. *Probably anyone else they could find with Targaryen connections. Servants, guards, anyone who might have seen too much or known too little.*
Behind him, he could feel Princess Elia's terror, though she was doing her best to hide it from her children. Her breathing had quickened, and he could smell the faint scent of fear-sweat beneath her perfume. Princess Rhaenys had gone very still, her small hand clutching her mother's skirt with white-knuckled intensity.
"You're talking about murdering children," Jaime said, his voice deadly quiet with the kind of controlled fury that had once made tournament opponents forfeit rather than face him. "Babies. Does my father's gold mean so much to you that you'd slaughter innocents?"
"Gold is gold," Amory replied with a shrug that suggested he'd had this conversation before. "And orders are orders. Nothing personal, Ser Jaime, but this is bigger than your conscience. The realm needs stability, and stability requires... certain sacrifices."
"No," Jaime said, raising his sword with the kind of fluid grace that marked him as one of the finest swordsmen alive. "It really isn't."
*Two against one,* he thought grimly, his mind already calculating angles and possibilities. *And these aren't sellswords—they're knights, trained killers with years of experience and absolutely no moral qualms. This is going to hurt. Probably a lot.*
But as he prepared to make what might be his final stand, a small voice spoke up from behind him with the kind of calm authority that seemed utterly out of place coming from a three-year-old.
"Ser Jaime," Princess Rhaenys said, her child's voice carrying an odd note of command that made the hair on the back of his neck stand up. "May I suggest you close your eyes?"
*What?* Jaime thought, confused by the seemingly random request. *Close my eyes? In the middle of a—*
But something in the child's tone, some instinctive recognition of power that had nothing to do with swords or steel, made him obey without thinking. His eyes slammed shut just as a brilliant flash of light erupted behind him, illumination so intense it seemed to burn through his closed eyelids—like staring directly into the sun at noon.
Amory and Gregor screamed, clapping their hands to their eyes as they stumbled backward, temporarily blinded by whatever the princess had just done.
*How in seven hells did a three-year-old—*
"Now would be good," Rhaenys said calmly, as if she hadn't just performed what appeared to be magic. "They won't be blind for long."
Jaime didn't waste time with questions. He grabbed Princess Elia's arm and guided her around the stumbling, cursing knights, making for the stable entrance while their enemies were still incapacitated.
*Magic,* he thought as they ran. *An actual sorceress. A three-year-old sorceress. Why not? This day couldn't get any stranger if it tried.*
They reached the stables just as shouts erupted behind them—Amory and Gregor recovering their sight and raising the alarm. But it was too late; Jaime had already selected the fastest horses and was helping Princess Elia mount with baby Aegon secured against her chest.
"Can you ride?" he asked quickly.
"Well enough," she replied, though her hands shook as she gathered the reins.
"Good. Stay close, don't look back, and whatever happens, keep riding until we're clear of the city."
He lifted Princess Rhaenys up in front of him on his own mount, the child settling into the saddle with surprising composure for someone who'd just performed impossible magic.
"That was well done, princess," he murmured as they spurred their horses toward the stable doors. "Though I'd very much like to know how you managed it."
"Later," she replied, her voice carrying that same odd authority. "When we're safe."
*If we ever are,* Jaime thought as they burst out of the stables and into the chaos of the burning city. *If such a thing as 'safe' even exists anymore.*
Behind them, the Red Keep burned against the dawn sky, while ahead lay only uncertainty and the hope that sometimes, just sometimes, doing the right thing was enough to change everything.
But as they rode through the smoking streets of King's Landing, with Princess Elia and her children safe in his protection, Jaime Lannister felt something he hadn't experienced in years: pride in his own actions, regardless of what others might think of them.
*Let them call me Kingslayer,* he thought fiercely. *At least I'll know I saved the lives that mattered most.*
The city gates loomed ahead, and beyond them, the promise of escape. But the game was far from over, and the stakes had never been higher.
---
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