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.