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CHAPTER TWO. ━━━━━━━━━ Do not go gentle into that good night. Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
DYLAN THOMAS, IN COUNTRY SLEEP ━━━━━━━━━
THEY LET THE LIONS IN. Jaime Lannister can hear the screams echoing off the walls, can hear the sounds of swords and axes clashing against one another, of doors splintering and crashing open.
War has come to King's Landing at last.
His sword is out, gripped tightly in his right hand, firm and steady. The blood of Rossart, the king's pyromancer, has not yet dried, but rather drips along the blade leaving a trail of scarlet dots upon the stone floor. A line, between one dead man and a man about to die.
His hand flexes, gripping the sword so tightly he can feel his bones rubbing together.
Jaime advances quickly upon the king, and quick, quick, he slides his sword across Aerys Targaryen's throat, as easy as a knife through butter, and the king is dead—long live the king.
Burn them all!
For a moment, it seems as if he cannot breathe, air trapped in his throat until it becomes painful. Jaime's pulse throbs at his temple before he is gasping in huge shuddering gulps of air that burns his throat, head shaking from side-to-side as he tries to come to terms with his actions.
When the sword was rammed smoothly into the old man, blood spattered onto his hands and it's the blood of the fallen Targaryen dynasty.
He doesn't understand, at least not yet, why anyone could despise him for that.
Burn them all!
The great dragon skulls that adorn the stone walls seem to be watching, judging, passing their sentence on him.
Only death can pay for life, the saying goes. It echoes through his head as Jaime thinks of his broken vows. Aerys had to die so that Queen Rhaella and Viserys as well as Elia and her children can live. To him, those are the ones that count.
Some evils must be done.
Jaime stands silently. As he wipes the blood from his sword, multiple thoughts both swim and scream in his head. Then, the Lannister cub smiles, cut gold, and seats himself in the Iron Throne.
Burn them all!
Later, he will laugh at the irony of the moment, of the adrenaline rushing through his veins while innocence is lost in the very same walls he feels giddy with excitement. He did not save them, because he was too busy feeling like a king for a fleeting moment. Later, he will think of that and laugh and laugh and laugh, and his heart will pound against his chest and his eyes will gleam with something that aren't quite tears and the panic will swell and rise over and over again.
As the melted swords of Aegon's enemies cut into the flesh of his palms, drawing blood, Jaime remembers how it all began: the day Ser Arthur Dayne had knighted him. What would he think of this? He asks himself.
He'd always found Arthur enigmatic. Likable enough, but distant, serious and hard to read. It adds to the mystery of him, the feeling that he is a hero who isn't quite a man.
It is a lie, Jaime thinks spitefully. He keeps his thoughts to himself because if he shared them, everyone would know the truth: he doesn't know anything the rest of us don't.
Jaime remembers his knees and hands shaking as he knelt, he remembers how heavy Dawn felt while it touched his shoulders, he remembers swearing those oaths sincerely, thriving with happiness, and then when he raised, his title received, the Sword of the Morning was smiling a pleased, little grin at him, as if he thought that he could do great things.
Jaime had thought that he could do great things, too. His head had been filled with foolish dreams, dreams of being the same as the great Arthur Dayne. He knew nothing, then.
A boy had knelt. A knight had risen. He had been a young lion, then, not a kingslayer. But that had been long ago and that boy is dead now, too.
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THE MOUNTAIN OF A MAN breaks through Elia's door, and where are the guards, where is Ser Jaime, why is no one here?
She cannot allow herself to think about her children, her joy and her pride, because Elia cannot save them. Rhaenys is hidden underneath the bed, Aegon is in his cradle and Elia will fight, fight, fight for them to live but this shadow looming in the dorway is a monster masquerading as a man.
The worst, of course, had been when they understood that Lord Tywin had not come to help. In that moment, Elia had never felt so cold, Elia had never felt so alone, so very far away from Dorne and home—Doran, Oberyn and Mariah. She does not want to die just yet—not just yet, not before she's felt the Dornish sun on her skin, tasted the blood oranges, sat in the Water Gardens. Those are old pleasures, foolish in the face of her death, but Elia has always loved tales best when they finish where they began, like a circle.
Elia feels her stomach lurch, feels her throat beginning to constrict, but she lifts her chin, stands up brave and thinks, I am a Martell of Sunspear.
