The Kingsroad, North of King's Landing
The morning mist clung to the kingsroad like a guilty secret, and Jaime Lannister found himself thinking that was rather appropriate, all things considered. His small party of refugees—*refugees, there's a word I never thought I'd apply to myself*—trailed behind him with all the dignity of survivors from a particularly spectacular shipwreck.
Princess Elia rode beside him on a bay mare, somehow managing to look regal despite three days of hard travel, baby Aegon secured against her chest in a silk sling that had probably cost more than most smallfolk saw in a year. Her dark hair caught the morning light like spun gold-touched obsidian, and even travel-worn and fearful, she carried herself with that effortless grace that had once made her the most sought-after maiden in Westeros. Jaime found himself wondering how she managed to maintain such poise while fleeing for her life.
"You know," he said conversationally, adjusting his grip on the reins, "when I swore my vows to protect the royal family, I'm fairly certain the oath didn't include 'while running away from your own father's assassins.' There should really be a clause about that. Something like 'Terms and conditions apply, void where prohibited, especially when your lord father decides regicide is insufficient and moves on to infanticide.'"
Princess Rhaenys, perched in front of him on his destrier with the casual confidence of someone who'd never met a horse she couldn't charm, turned those unsettling violet eyes on him—eyes that seemed to hold far too much wisdom for someone who should still be playing with dolls. "Most oaths don't account for the unexpected, Ser Jaime," she said with that precise diction that made her sound like a miniature maester. "That's what makes them interesting. The real measure of a promise is what you do when keeping it becomes difficult."
"Interesting," Jaime repeated dryly, his green eyes dancing with sardonic amusement. "Yes, that's exactly the word I'd use. Not 'terrifying' or 'potentially fatal' or 'likely to result in my head decorating a spike.' No, 'interesting' covers it perfectly. You have such a gift for understatement, princess. Have you considered a career in diplomacy?"
"I'm three years old, Ser Jaime," Rhaenys pointed out with that devastating logic children wielded like a sword.
"Ah, but you're a very mature three," Jaime replied with a grin that transformed his whole face, the expression that had charmed half the ladies at court and earned him just as many enemies among their husbands. "I've met grown lords with half your sense and twice your tendency toward poor decisions. Present company possibly included."
Elia's lips curved in what might have been a smile, though worry still shadowed her dark eyes like storm clouds over Dorne. "She has a point, Ser Jaime. The most important promises are the ones we keep when no one is watching—or when everyone is watching and judging us for it. When the cost becomes everything we thought we wanted."
"How wonderfully philosophical," Jaime muttered, though his tone held genuine warmth rather than mockery. "I'll be sure to remember that when we're all hanging from gibbets. 'At least we were philosophically consistent,' I'll say as the crows pick at our—"
The sound of approaching hoofbeats cut through his sardonic observations like a blade through silk. Many hoofbeats, moving with the disciplined thunder that spoke of trained cavalry rather than merchants or pilgrims. The sound every fugitive learns to fear.
"Bugger," Jaime said with considerable feeling, his hand instinctively moving toward his sword hilt.
"Language, Ser Jaime," Rhaenys said primly, though her small hands had tightened on his forearm and those violet eyes were already scanning the mist-shrouded road with that uncanny awareness that continued to unnerve him.
"My apologies, princess," Jaime replied, not sounding particularly sorry. "Let me rephrase in more courtly terms: we appear to be thoroughly and comprehensively... inconvenienced. By what I suspect are heavily armed individuals with strong opinions about Targaryens and regicides. How's that for diplomatic language?"
"Better," she conceded, "though I think 'bugger' was more honest."
"Rhaenys," Elia murmured, but there was a hint of amusement in her chiding.
"Well, she's not wrong," Jaime said. "I've always preferred honesty to courtesy. Gets you in trouble faster, but at least everyone knows where they stand."
The riders emerged from the mist like figures from legend—or nightmare, depending on one's perspective and recent life choices. Northern banners snapped in the morning breeze: the grey direwolf of House Stark, stern and noble; the flayed man of House Bolton that made Jaime's skin crawl just looking at it; the giant's chains of House Umber; and half a dozen others he recognized from Robert's rebellion.
"Northmen," Elia observed quietly, her voice carrying that particular note of controlled fear that came from recognizing potentially lethal danger. Baby Aegon stirred against her chest, making small sleepy sounds that seemed almost obscene in their innocence.
"Robert's staunchest allies," Jaime confirmed, studying the approaching column with the eye of a man who'd spent years evaluating threats. "This should be... educational. In the sense that we're about to receive a very thorough lesson in Northern concepts of justice."
"Educational how?" Rhaenys asked with the kind of curiosity that suggested she wasn't particularly concerned about their impending encounter with armed enemies—a attitude that probably should have worried him more than it did.
"Oh, in the sense that we're about to learn what happens when oath-breaking Kingslayers and fugitive Targaryens meet men who fought to put Robert on the throne," Jaime replied with that dark humor that had seen him through countless battles and political disasters. "Should be quite illuminating, really. Assuming we survive long enough to appreciate the educational value. I've heard Northmen have very direct approaches to teaching moral lessons."
At the head of the approaching column rode Eddard Stark himself, and Jaime had to admit the man looked every inch the legendary lord: long face weathered by Northern winters, grey eyes that seemed to weigh a man's soul and find it wanting, brown hair touched with early silver despite his youth. Everything about him spoke of inflexible honor and duty—exactly the sort of man who'd have strong opinions about kingslaying.
Beside Stark rode the Greatjon Umber—a mountain of a man who made even Gregor Clegane look modest, with wild dark hair, a beard that could nest ravens, and hands that looked capable of crushing stone. His booming laugh could be heard even from this distance, rolling across the countryside like friendly thunder.
And there, on Stark's other side, rode Roose Bolton, whose pale eyes and soft voice had earned him a reputation for creative cruelty that rivaled Tywin's own. Where the Greatjon was fire and noise, Bolton was ice and whispers—the kind of man who smiled while he flayed you.
"The new powers of the North," Jaime murmured, his tactical mind automatically cataloging threats and possibilities. "Come to claim their victory and settle accounts with the old regime. How absolutely delightful. I wonder if they'll have the courtesy to hear our explanations before they start the executions."
"Ser Jaime," Elia said quietly, her knuckles white where she gripped her reins, "what do we tell them? How do we explain... all of this?"
"The truth," Rhaenys said before Jaime could answer, her young voice carrying absolute certainty that made adults want to either weep or laugh. "They won't hurt us if we tell them the truth."
Jaime glanced down at her with raised eyebrows, genuinely curious about this child's reasoning. "That's remarkably optimistic of you, princess. What makes you so certain? Because I have to tell you, in my experience, the truth often gets people hurt faster than lies do. At least good lies are polite."
"They have kind eyes," she said simply, as if this explained everything.
Jaime studied the approaching Northmen with their battle-scarred faces, grim expressions, and hands never far from their weapons. Eddard Stark looked like a man who'd never told a joke in his life, the Greatjon appeared capable of crushing a man's head like a grape, and Roose Bolton's pale stare could freeze blood in veins.
"Kind eyes," Jaime repeated slowly. "Right. Well, I suppose if we're comparing them to Amory Lorch and the Mountain, they're practically saints. But princess, I have to ask—have you actually looked at Lord Bolton? Because I'm fairly certain his eyes are the exact opposite of kind. I think 'calculating' would be more accurate. Possibly 'predatory.'"
"He has sad eyes," Rhaenys corrected with that matter-of-fact tone children used when explaining obvious things to dim adults. "There's a difference. Sad eyes can still be kind."
*Seven hells,* Jaime thought, *this child sees everything. That's either going to save us all or get us killed faster.*
The Northern column drew to a halt within speaking distance, horses snorting and pawing at the muddy ground. Lord Stark raised his hand in the universal gesture of parley, his grey eyes sweeping over their small group with the methodical thoroughness of a man accustomed to command and suspicious of everything he encountered.
"Ser Jaime Lannister," Ned said, his Northern accent making every word sound vaguely ominous, like a funeral bell tolling in the distance. "This is... unexpected. Last I heard, you were still in King's Landing, presumably guarding what remained of the royal family."
"Lord Stark," Jaime replied with his most winning smile—the one that usually worked on ladies at court and occasionally on creditors, though he suspected it would have limited effect on grim Northern lords. "How lovely to see you again. Congratulations on the victory, by the way. Very thoroughly done. I do hope you're enjoying the weather up here. Bit misty, don't you think? Very atmospheric. Quite sets the mood for dramatic roadside encounters."
Ned's expression didn't change, though Jaime caught the faintest hint of what might have been amusement in those grey eyes. "Circumstances required a hasty departure, I take it?"
"You could say that," Jaime agreed cheerfully, settling deeper into his saddle with the ease of a man determined to brazen his way through an impossible situation. "Though 'hasty departure' makes it sound so much more dignified than 'fleeing in the middle of the night to avoid being murdered by my own father's sellswords.' Which, now that I think about it, probably wasn't the impression I wanted to give. Damn. I really am terrible at this whole 'diplomatic conversation' thing, aren't I? My sister always said I should think before speaking. Clearly, I never mastered that particular skill."
The Greatjon let out a bark of laughter that sounded like a happy bear, his massive frame shaking with genuine amusement. "Ha! At least you're honest about it, lad! Most southern knights would be spinning tales about 'urgent missions' and 'strategic relocations' and other flowery nonsense. Refreshing to meet someone who just admits when they've stepped in horseshit!"
"Well, I've never been accused of excessive tact," Jaime replied, warming to the big man's directness. "My father always said it was my greatest weakness. My sister called it my most endearing flaw. Or possibly my most flawed endearment. I was never quite sure which she meant, and frankly, I was afraid to ask for clarification."
"Smart man," the Greatjon rumbled approvingly. "Never ask women to explain what they mean. That way lies madness."
"Jon," Lord Stark said mildly, though his stern expression had softened fractionally. His attention shifted to Princess Elia and her children, and something indefinable changed in his face—the hardness giving way to something gentler, more human. "Princess Elia. Your Grace."
He paused, and when he continued, his voice carried genuine sorrow. "I... I am deeply sorry for your loss. Prince Rhaegar was a good man, whatever else might be said of his choices. He didn't deserve to die on the Trident, and you didn't deserve to lose him."
Elia inclined her head with that natural grace that made every gesture seem choreographed by masters, though tears gathered in her dark eyes. "You are kind to say so, Lord Stark. Though I suspect kindness toward Targaryens may not be... fashionable... in these times. We are rather comprehensively out of favor, I believe."
"Honor doesn't follow fashion, Your Grace," Ned replied firmly, his Northern bluntness cutting through courtly pretense like a sword through silk. "And it would be no honor to speak ill of the dead, especially in front of his children. Your husband fought bravely and died well. That deserves respect, regardless of politics."
"See?" Rhaenys said quietly to Jaime, her violet eyes bright with vindication. "Kind eyes. I told you so."
"I'm beginning to think you might be right, princess," Jaime murmured back, studying Stark's weathered face with new appreciation. "Though let's see how kind they remain once they learn about the regicide. That tends to sour people's moods rather dramatically."
Roose Bolton, who had been studying them with the intensity of a hawk watching mice, finally spoke in that soft, dangerous voice that somehow managed to be more threatening than shouting. Each word was precisely enunciated, carefully chosen, sharp as a flaying knife. "Might I ask what brings the Princess of Dorne and her children to the kingsroad in such... unusual circumstances? And in the company of a Lannister knight who should, by all rights, be in King's Landing protecting his king?"
*Straight to the point,* Jaime thought. *No dancing around the issue with this one. Just the blade sliding between the ribs, quick and clean.*
"That," Jaime said with a theatrical sigh that would have done credit to a mummer, "is rather a long story. And not a particularly cheerful one, I'm afraid. Definitely not suitable for children's bedtime tales. Are you quite sure you want to hear it? Because once I start explaining, there's really no going back to pleasant morning small talk about the weather and whose army is bigger."
"We have time," Ned said dryly, settling back in his saddle with the patience of a man accustomed to long explanations and complicated truths.
"Right then," Jaime said, his voice losing all traces of humor as he prepared to lay out the ugliest truths imaginable. "Well, it all started when my dear father—you remember Lord Tywin, don't you? Charming fellow, known for his subtle approach to problem-solving and his deep love of children—decided that the new king's reign needed to begin without... complications."
He paused, letting that sink in, watching the Northern lords' faces carefully.
"Loose ends, you might say. Inconvenient witnesses. Potential future problems that might grow up and remember their father's crown. Babies who might someday ask uncomfortable questions about their inheritance."
The temperature seemed to drop ten degrees. Several Northern lords reached for their weapons, their faces darkening with understanding and disgust.
"You mean murder," Bolton said softly, his pale eyes fixed on Jaime like a snake watching a mouse.
"I mean exactly that," Jaime confirmed, his green eyes hard as winter ice. "Though my father, being a man of refined sensibilities and expensive education, preferred more elegant terms. 'Securing the realm,' he called it. 'Preventing future rebellions.' So much more palatable than 'murdering children in their beds while they sleep.' Sounds almost reasonable when you phrase it properly, doesn't it?"
The Greatjon's face had gone red as a sunset, his massive hands clenching into fists that could probably crush a man's skull like an egg. "By the Old Gods and the New," he growled, his voice promising considerable violence, "are you telling us that your father ordered the murder of babes? These babes?" He gestured toward Rhaenys and baby Aegon with hands that shook with rage.
"Among others, yes," Jaime replied calmly. "Thorough man, my father. Never leaves a job half-finished."
"And you helped them, did you?" the Greatjon demanded, his voice rising like a storm wind. "Helped murder innocents? Stood by and watched while they killed children?"
"Now that," Jaime said, his voice suddenly sharp as a blade, steel ringing beneath the conversational tone, "is where this story gets interesting. Because no, Lord Umber, I did not help them. I stopped them. Eight of my father's best sellswords are currently decorating various corridors of the Red Keep, and I do mean decorating. It was quite artistic, really. Very abstract. Lots of red. Reminded me of some of those Myrish paintings my sister is so fond of."
The statement hit the Northern lords like a physical blow. Weapons that had been half-drawn slid back into sheaths as confusion replaced outrage.
"You... what?" Ned said, his carefully maintained composure cracking like ice in spring.
"I killed them," Jaime repeated cheerfully, as if discussing the weather or the quality of the ale. "All eight of them. Professional killers, every one, men who'd murdered women and children before and would again. One was particularly surprised, I must say. Right up until I opened his throat from ear to ear. Amazing how quickly someone's worldview can change when faced with three feet of forged steel and a man who's had quite enough of following orders that make him sick to his stomach."
"By the Old Gods and the New," the Greatjon breathed, his anger transforming into something like wonderment. "You turned on your own father's men? Your own blood's orders?"
"'Turned on' suggests I was ever truly with them to begin with," Jaime replied with a bitter laugh. "Which, to be honest, is giving me far too much credit for forward planning and moral consistency. No, this was more of a spontaneous moral revelation. Very dramatic, actually, like something from a song. There I was, watching them prepare to murder sleeping children, and suddenly I thought, 'You know what, Jaime? You may be a lot of things—arrogant, vain, not nearly as clever as you think you are—but apparently you draw the line somewhere. And that line is well before baby-killing.'"
Rhaenys twisted in the saddle to look up at him with those remarkable violet eyes that seemed to see straight through to his soul. "You saved us," she said simply, with the devastating honesty that only children possessed.
"Yes, well," Jaime said, suddenly uncomfortable with the weight of her gratitude and the admiration he saw in those ancient eyes, "seemed like the thing to do at the time. Couldn't very well let them hurt you, could I? What would people say? 'There goes Ser Jaime, the man who stood by and watched children die because it was convenient.' Terrible for the reputation. I have few enough redeeming qualities as it is."
"I think," Elia said softly, her musical voice carrying across the misty morning air, "that there are few men in all of Westeros who would have made the choice you made, Ser Jaime. Fewer still who would have made it at such cost to themselves, knowing what it would mean for their future."
"Yes, well," Jaime replied with uncomfortable humor, fidgeting with his reins, "I've never been accused of being overly intelligent. My sister always said I led with my heart rather than my head. Usually she meant it as criticism, though occasionally it sounded almost fond. Hard to tell with Cersei sometimes."
"In this case," Ned said quietly, his grey eyes studying Jaime with what might have been the beginning of respect, "it may have been the wisest thing you've ever done."
"Oh, I doubt that very much," Jaime said with a bitter laugh that held no humor at all. "Because I haven't told you the best part yet. The part where I committed the gravest crime a knight can commit, broke the most sacred oath possible, and saved half a million lives in the process. The part where I became the man every honorable knight despises above all others."
The silence that followed was profound and heavy, broken only by the sound of horses breathing and leather creaking.
"King Aerys is dead," Jaime continued with deceptive casualness, as if mentioning that it might rain later. "I killed him. Sword through the back, very personal, quite final. His last words were 'Burn them all,' which I thought was rather poetic, all things considered. Fitting last words for a madman."
The reaction was immediate and explosive. Half the Northern lords drew steel, their faces dark with fury and accusation, the ring of metal on metal sharp in the morning air.
"Kingslayer!"
"Oath-breaker!"
"He murdered his king!"
"Kinslaying bastard!"
"Now, now," Jaime said, raising his hands in mock surrender, his voice carrying that sardonic amusement that had infuriated kings and queens for years, "let's not get ahead of ourselves. Yes, I killed him. Guilty as charged, no point denying it. But before you all start sharpening your axes for my execution—and I do appreciate the enthusiasm, very flattering really—you might want to hear why I did it. The circumstances, as lawyers like to say, matter rather a great deal."
"There's no justification for kingslaying!" Lord Cerwyn shouted, his sword half-drawn. "No excuse for breaking sacred oaths!"
"Isn't there?" Jaime asked mildly. "How interesting. I'll have to remember that the next time someone asks me to choose between honoring an oath and watching half a million people burn to death in the most agonizing way imaginable. I'm sure the corpses will find my moral consistency quite comforting."
"Enough!" Ned's voice cracked like a whip, cutting through the anger and confusion with the authority of absolute command. The shouting died immediately, every eye turning to the Lord of Winterfell. "Let him speak. Then we'll decide what justice requires."
"Justice," Jaime mused, his green eyes distant as he considered the concept. "There's a word that's always puzzled me, Lord Stark. What exactly constitutes justice when the choice is between honoring an oath sworn to a madman and watching innocent people die for his spite? I'm genuinely curious about your thoughts on the matter."
"What do you mean?" Ned demanded, though Jaime noticed that his face had gone pale, as if he suspected what was coming.
"Wildfire," Jaime said simply, and watched the color drain from every Northern face. "Thousands of jars of it, hidden throughout King's Landing like a child's game of hunt-the-treasure, except the treasure was death. Under the Great Sept of Baelor, beneath the Red Keep, in the cellars of every major building, every gathering place where people might go for safety. Enough alchemist's fire to turn the entire city into a funeral pyre that would burn for days and be seen from Dragonstone to Harrenhal."
The Greatjon's face had gone grey as old stone, his massive frame suddenly still as death. "Sweet Mother's mercy," he whispered, his booming voice reduced to a horrified breath. "The Mad King was going to..."
"Burn them all," Jaime confirmed with grim satisfaction. "Every man, woman, and child in the city. Rather than see his capital fall to Robert's armies, rather than admit defeat like a man, he was going to take everyone else with him. A final act of spite from a madman who couldn't bear to lose gracefully. Children, mothers, grandfathers, babes at the breast, shopkeepers, whores, septa, knights—all of them turned to ash because Aerys Targaryen preferred a kingdom of corpses to no kingdom at all."
"Gods preserve us," Lord Cerwyn breathed, his anger forgotten in the face of such horror. "All those innocents..."
"Quite a lot of them, yes," Jaime agreed with dark humor. "I did some rough calculations afterward, during the long nights when sleep wouldn't come—call it half a million people, give or take a few thousand depending on whether you count the suburbs. The largest mass murder in the history of Westeros, planned by a king who'd sworn to protect his people."
"And you stopped him," Ned said, and there was something like wonder in his voice, the tone of a man confronting a truth that rewrote everything he thought he knew.
"I put my sword through his back and watched him die," Jaime replied matter-of-factly, his green eyes hard as emeralds. "I watched the light fade from his eyes while he tried to speak the words that would have killed them all. And I'd do it again without hesitation, oaths be damned to the seven hells. Some things are more important than vows, Lord Stark. Like making sure children get to see tomorrow. Like ensuring that madmen don't get to decide who lives and dies based on their wounded pride."
The silence stretched on, heavy with moral complexity and the weight of revelations that changed everything. These were honorable men, Jaime realized—men who understood duty and oaths and the terrible prices they sometimes demanded. They hated what he'd done, but they couldn't argue with why he'd done it.
"By all the gods," Ned said finally, his voice hollow with shock and something that might have been understanding. "Half a million people..."
"At minimum," Jaime confirmed grimly. "Though I suppose we'll never know the exact count, will we? Being as how they're all still alive to complain about taxes and bad weather and the price of bread. Still breathing, still worrying about their children's futures, still falling in love and having their hearts broken. All because someone chose to break an oath rather than let a madman have his final revenge."
Princess Elia had been listening with growing horror, her face pale as winter snow, her arms tightening protectively around baby Aegon until the child made a small sound of protest. "He was truly going to..." she began, then stopped, unable to finish the thought, unable to voice such monstrosity.
"Mad to the very end, Your Grace," Jaime said gently, his voice softening as he addressed her. "I'm sorry you had to learn of it this way, sorry you have to carry this knowledge now. But yes—your good-father would rather have burned every soul in King's Landing than see them live under Robert's rule. He preferred the throne room of the dead to a living kingdom ruled by another."
Rhaenys had been unusually quiet during this exchange, but now she spoke up in that clear, precise voice that always seemed too mature for her years. "You did the right thing, Ser Jaime. Saving innocent lives is always the right thing, even when it costs you everything else. Even when the whole world hates you for it."
"Even when it makes you an oath-breaker and a Kingslayer?" Jaime asked, genuinely curious about her perspective, about how this remarkable child processed such complex moral questions. "Even when it means you can never go home again?"
"Especially then," she replied with absolute certainty, her violet eyes blazing with conviction. "Sometimes doing the right thing means breaking the wrong promises. Sometimes being a good person means everyone thinks you're a monster."
*Seven hells,* Jaime thought, studying this extraordinary child, *she's going to be terrifying when she grows up. That kind of moral clarity could topple kingdoms or save them. Maybe both.*
Bolton, who had been silent throughout this exchange, leaned forward in his saddle with predatory grace. "And what of Lord Tywin's other orders? What other 'loose ends' is he planning to address in this new reign?"
Jaime's expression hardened like steel in a forge. "Knowing my father? Anyone and everyone who might complicate Robert's rule or question his legitimacy. Targaryen loyalists, potential claimants, inconvenient witnesses, anyone whose continued existence might cause political problems down the road..." He glanced meaningfully at Elia and her children. "Anyone whose bloodline might someday pose a threat to Baratheon rule."
"Including his own son, apparently," Ned observed with grim understanding.
"Oh, especially his own son," Jaime replied with bitter humor, though pain flickered in his green eyes. "I've committed the one sin he can never forgive—I chose honor over family loyalty. From his perspective, I'm no longer a Lannister at all. Just another problem to be solved, another loose thread to be cut away. He's probably already composing the letter explaining how I died tragically while defending the royal family. Very heroic, very final."
"And yet you chose to save them anyway," the Greatjon rumbled, his massive frame shaking with emotion as he studied Rhaenys and baby Aegon. "Look at them, lads. Just little ones, no more dangerous than my own grandchildren. What kind of monster orders the death of babes? What kind of man looks at sleeping children and sees enemies?"
"The same kind that would burn drown the Reynes of Castamere in their own castle out of spite," Jaime replied. "Though I suppose that's rather stating the obvious at this point. My family has never been known for its restraint or its mercy."
Elia had been watching this exchange with growing understanding, her dark eyes moving from face to face as she read the shifting moods of these Northern lords. Now she spoke with that musical voice that had once enchanted half the court, though it trembled slightly with emotion.
"Lord Stark," she said formally, straightening in her saddle with royal dignity, "might I beg a boon of you? Not as a princess making demands, but as a mother who fears for her children's lives and has nowhere else to turn."
Ned studied her for a long moment, his grey eyes taking in her grace, her courage, the way she held herself despite everything she'd endured. "What would you ask of me, Your Grace?"
"Protection," she said simply, the word carrying the weight of desperation carefully controlled. "Safe passage to somewhere my children might grow up without fear of assassination, without constantly looking over their shoulders. They are innocent of their father's crimes, guilty of nothing save being born at the wrong time to the wrong name. They didn't choose this war, this crown, this blood that marks them for death."
The effect on the Northern lords was immediate and visible. These were men who treasured children above all else, who understood that protecting the innocent was the most sacred duty of all, more important than politics or revenge.
"Your Grace," Ned said formally, his voice carrying the weight of oath and sacred promise, "you and your children are under the protection of the North. By my honor and the honor of my house, any man who would harm them will answer to House Stark and all our bannermen. This I swear by the Old Gods and the New."
The Greatjon's massive fist crashed down on his saddle horn with enthusiasm that made his destrier dance sideways. "Aye! Let any man try to hurt these little ones—they'll learn what happens when you threaten children under Northern protection! We'll show them what a real giant looks like when he's properly angry!"
"Most educational, I'm sure," Jaime murmured with genuine appreciation. "And probably quite messy. I do admire the Northern approach to conflict resolution. Very direct, very final."
"Ser Jaime," Ned continued, his tone becoming more formal as he addressed the more complicated problem, "your situation is... complex. You've broken your vows as a member of the Kingsguard, killed your king, defied your father's direct orders. By law, by tradition, by every rule that governs knighthood, you should face trial for these crimes."
"I had wondered when we'd get to that part," Jaime said with resignation, though his voice held no fear. "And here I was beginning to think you'd forgotten all about the regicide and oath-breaking. Terribly remiss of you, really. I was starting to feel neglected."
"However," Ned continued, and Jaime felt a faint stirring of hope, "you've also prevented the greatest massacre in the history of Westeros and saved innocent children at enormous personal cost. You chose the lives of the innocent over your own honor, your family, your future. That... complicates things considerably."
"'Complicated,'" Jaime repeated thoughtfully. "I do seem to have a talent for complicating things, don't I? My father always said it was my greatest gift. Right after my talent for disappointing him and my remarkable ability to make poor decisions at crucial moments."
"What would you have us do with you, Ser Jaime?" Ned asked, his grey eyes studying the golden-haired knight with something that might have been the beginning of respect. "You can't return to King's Landing, can't resume your position, can't go back to your family or your old life. What future do you want?"
Jaime considered this for a moment, his green eyes moving to Elia and her children, to Rhaenys with her too-wise violet gaze and baby Aegon sleeping peacefully against his mother's chest.
"You know," he said slowly, as if the thought was forming as he spoke, "I've spent my entire life following other people's orders. My king's orders, my father's orders, my sister's orders, the Lord Commander's orders. Perhaps it's time I chose my own purpose, my own path. Perhaps it's time I decided what kind of man I want to be rather than what kind of man others expect me to be."
"And what would that be?" Roose Bolton asked with mild curiosity, his pale eyes watchful.
"Protecting them," Jaime said simply, nodding toward Rhaenys and baby Aegon. "I've already saved their lives once. Seems a shame to stop there. Besides, I seem to be unexpectedly good at it. Who knew I had it in me?"
"You would dedicate your life to protecting Targaryen children?" Ned asked, and there was something like respect in his voice, recognition of a purpose that transcended politics and old grudges.
"I would dedicate my life to protecting children," Jaime corrected. "The name doesn't matter. The innocence does."
Rhaenys looked up at him with those remarkable violet eyes. "You would do that for us? Even though it means giving up everything you've ever known?"
"Princess," Jaime said gently, "what I've ever known includes watching kings go mad and fathers order the murder of children. I think I'm quite ready to try something different."
"Then it's settled," Ned declared. "Ser Jaime, you'll serve as protector and guardian to Princess Elia and her children. Consider it a form of honorable exile—you can't return to your old life, but you can build a new one worth living."
"Honorable exile," Jaime mused. "I rather like the sound of that. Has a certain romantic quality, don't you think? Like something from a song."
"Most songs end badly," Bolton observed with his characteristic dry humor.
"Yes, well," Jaime replied with a grin, "I was never much good at following traditional narratives anyway."
The Greatjon clapped his hands together with enthusiasm that made his horse dance sideways. "Well spoken! And you'll have the full support of House Umber in this task. Any man who'd harm these children will have to go through me first!"
"And me," added Lord Cerwyn. "The North protects those who cannot protect themselves."
"Even Targaryen children?" Elia asked quietly.
"Especially Targaryen children," Ned replied firmly. "They've suffered enough for their name."
"Thank you," Elia said, and there were tears in her dark eyes. "All of you. I... we had nowhere else to turn."
"You have somewhere now," the Greatjon rumbled kindly. "The North has many hiding places for those who need them, and many good people who know how to keep secrets."
"Speaking of which," Ned said, his strategic mind clearly working, "we'll need to make arrangements. Ser Gareth, take half the men and continue to King's Landing. Secure the city, maintain order, protect the smallfolk. The rest of us will establish camp here while we plan our next moves."
"And what of us?" Rhaenys asked with that disconcerting directness.
"You'll remain under our protection until we can find somewhere safe and permanent," Ned assured her. "Somewhere you can grow up in peace."
"With lots of books?" she asked hopefully. "And maybe a few cats?"
The Greatjon's booming laugh echoed across the countryside. "Books and cats! Now there's a lass with her priorities straight! We'll find you all the books and cats you could want, little princess."
"I like him," Rhaenys announced to Jaime. "He has a kind laugh."
"Yes," Jaime agreed, studying the giant lord with new appreciation, "I'm beginning to think you're an excellent judge of character, princess."
"Most children are," Elia said softly. "They see things more clearly than adults sometimes."
"In that case," Jaime said, settling back in his saddle as the Northern lords began organizing their new arrangements, "I suspect we're in very good hands indeed."
And for the first time in longer than he could remember, Jaime Lannister found himself actually believing that might be true.
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