Chapter Text
There’s no true understanding as to how he wakes up.
Jaime remembers the fear, then pain, then darkness. He’d expected that to be it, over and done with. Cersei had always said they’d leave the world the same way they came into it, and he’d ensured that truly happened after all.
Instead, he wakes with a headache, staring at the wall, feeling aches in strange places—but he was just crushed beneath the Red Keep—and trying to work out what is so familiar about that wall.
“Best get a move on, little lion,” a thump comes from the door, and Jaime groans as the sound reverberates in his skull, “You know the rule about missing breaking your fast.” There’s a noise of someone leaving outside, and Jaime frowns at the words. The rule?
You miss breaking fast with us, you clear up after us.
It echoes in his head, a long old memory from his first weeks with the Kingsguard, as Lord Commander Hightower went over the rules and expectations. Every morning, the Kingsguard not on duty would break their fast together, joke and share stories, before all going their way to begin their duties. It was one way to try and keep them bonded, throughout all the turmoil in the Keep.
But that is years past, decades past, long since over and gone, so—
A more studious look around the room he’s in brings more familiarity; the chest he’d left Casterly Rock with, the desk with various attempts to write a scroll to Tyrion, even knowing he’d never be able to send it, then his eyes fall to the uniform in the corner, his white Kingsguard uniform and cloak. Pushing himself to sit, another realisation follows.
He has both his hands.
Sitting on the edge of the bed, Jaime frowns as he flexes his right-hand open and closed, further noticing how unmarred his skin is. His wrists are thinner, there are fewer scars on his hand and—
Scrambling from the bed, Jaime reaches for the hand glass, peering at his reflection before backing away to stand in the middle of the room. He’s in his old room in White Sword Tower, the one between Ser Arthur and Ser Oswell, he has both his hands, and he’s most likely six-and-ten again.
“What, by the Gods,” There’s no explanation for this. There’s no reason that he should be there now, after all he’s seen, all he’s done. And now…
There’s a piece of dark wood on the desk, dark like the iron timber in the North, before they’d had to chop down as much of the forest as possible for arrow shafts and fire wood as they prepared for the Long Night. On the slither of wood, in unfamiliar scrawl, is an old Northern phrase, one that Bran Stark had taught him as he’d spoke of things to come, of things past, how the tangled roots of the Weirwood trees linked into the essence of the world.
Jaime’s never believed in magic, until the dragons flew, and dead men rose, until a tiny slip of a girl plunged a Targaryen relic into the heart of an Ice King and saved the realm. Then magic became a little more believable.
Hvis du ikke lykkes med det første, prøv igjen.
It still seems impossible, as Jaime runs his fingers over the letters. He never learned the Old Tongue, it died out with the First Men, only those in the distant North still spoke it, and even then, only the old families still held fast to that. Jon Snow spoke it, he’d learned in youth and took more from his time with the Free Folk, the Giants spoke it almost exclusively, although Jaime only briefly interacted with them. But somehow, here in this place, he understands it fully.
If at first you do not succeed, try again.
He has a chance to fix things, he’s to try again.
Although the logic of sending him back to before the fall of the Targaryen’s leads him to believe he’s meant to thwart the rebellion, he’s unclear on how that’s even possible to do.
“Ser Jaime!” Another knock hits his door, and Jaime quickly dresses and gets himself down the winding stairs to join the others for their meal, ignoring the smirks from Ser Oswell and Ser Arthur.
He feels largely adrift as he sits, surrounded by the knights he so admired, but who are all so very dead. Ser Jonothor and Ser Lewyn are missing, likely having been on the night shift and thus will return when they are relieved from duty. It leaves Jaime toying with his food instead of truly eating it, the anvil in his gut weighing heavy and hard.
“What’s gotten you all morose this morning?” Ser Oswell nudges at Jaime’s elbow, almost enough to have him wearing his oats and honey, all because Jaime had automatically begun using his left hand.
“Nothing,” he mutters it mostly to himself, pondering how to explain anything that might alter the events to come. No one would listen to him at the best of times, throwing him back into his six-and-ten body, putting him among the most revered knights of the realm, they’ll listen to him even less. Unless…
Little Aegon has only just been born, that Ser Oswell and Ser Arthur are back in the Keep means that Princess Elia has already been summoned back to King’s Landing to present her babe. That means they know a third babe will likely kill her, and Prince Rhaegar has already begun his descent into obsession with prophecy. Which means—
“I had a strange dream. It’s merely left me discomforted.” Ser Barristan and Ser Gerold will dismiss his musings, they never truly looked at him as anything other than the hostage he was. Ser Arthur, and presumably Ser Oswell, are far more aware of Rhaegar’s prophetic obsessing.
“What kind of dream?” Ser Arthur asks from opposite him, his gaze with open curiosity and a mild hint of wariness.
“I—I don’t know it was—” He needs to make this vague enough to not be obvious, but still obvious enough to be a warning. “There was a gathering of fish in a river, and some wolves came to the bank, it looked like some kind of ritual, but then a bird flew overhead, and the wolves scattered.” That could at least be in relation to the supposed marriage of House Tully and House Stark. “Then the wolves died; one burned, and one was strangled, and the third one died birthing a dragon, surrounded by blue flowers and sand.” There’s disbelief on Ser Gerold’s face, as if he’s simply indulging the others to let Jaime talk. But Ser Arthur has something akin to worry on his face. “There was a battle, and a stag gored a black dragon, before the whole world was consumed in green fire, and the sun went out and all the dragons were gone. The stag wore a crown, with a falcon on its antlers, but then I woke up as a lion bit into the stags neck and killed it.”
There’s silence for a moment, as Jaime continues stirring his oats, wondering if they’ll all just think him mad. It wouldn’t be far off the truth.
“That’s quite a dream, Ser Jaime.” Ser Barristan offers, diplomatic as always.
“Yes, it’s rather strange. I’ve probably been too fanciful in telling Princess Rhaenys stories, my mind seems intent to keep making them up.” It’s thankfully left at that, while they are given their duty assignments for the day, and Jaime quickly gets himself ready to spend the day chasing an energetic two-name-day-old around the Maidenvault.
The moment he sees Princess Rhaenys, that anvil in his gut gets heavier, the age-old image of her broken little body dying behind his eyes as her bright grin lights up her face, and she dances away from her Septa. “Ser Jaime, Ser Jaime,” she’s always been so full of life, and seeing that again only makes the resolve in his chest harden. “Balerion has escaped!” He can’t help but chuckle softly.
“Oh no, Princess. We must depart on a most serious quest to save the people from the feared dragon,” she hides a laugh in her hands, “Do you have treats to lure him out?” With a shake of her head, Rhaenys darts over to the table, to collect the little chunks of seared meat the cooks provide for her to feed her mischievous kitten, before she also grabs some of her ribbons. “I shall have her back for her luncheon with her mother, septa Amarys.” The young septa gives him a nod before Jaime escorts the Princess from her room, skipping along the halls as she retells how Balerion managed to escape her rooms that morning.
“Shall we try the gardens then? Maybe he’s out chasing the butterflies?” More likely, Balerion is dealing with any rats around the Keep, but he can at least get Rhaenys outside for some air. The King very rarely leaves the Keep, so they’ll be out of the way and the Princess will get to burn off some energy.
It quickly turns into another quest, this time to find flowers for her mother, then some for her grandmother, and before Jaime truly knows it, he’s making flower crowns with the princess for the Queen and Princess Elia. He’s sitting against a stone bench, weaving lavender into a crown, Rhaenys perched on his thigh with a handful of snapdragons she’s trying to braid like he’s showing her. It’s surprising that he still remembers how to do this; he learned with Rhaenys the first time, and during a brief period in the Red Keep he made crowns with Myrcella, but after Myrcella got a little older it was decided by Cersei that he couldn’t be so familiar with her.
By the time he returns to the Keep with her, they’ve found Balerion—who has his own little crown of hastily made peonies and is clutched in Rhaenys’ arms—and he’s holding two crowns for Princess Elia and Queen Rhaella.
“Little sun,” Princess Elia is already in the room, with a table set up for their luncheon. Even having just delivered a babe, having suffered through a difficult delivery so recently, Princess Elia looks utterly radiant. She’s clearly tired, but she’s so pleased to see Rhaenys, and her eyes soften seeing the crown of colourful jasmines on her head. “My, my, look at you,” crouching down, Elia takes her daughter into a hug, “that’s such a pretty crown.”
“Mama, we made you one too.” Rhaenys dances back to Jaime, letting him hold the two crowns out for her to choose the one for her mother, “What one?” She clearly can’t pick.
“Maybe this? To match your mama’s dress?” The snapdragons are shades of orange, red and yellow, “And the purple one for the Lady Queen, to match her eyes?” He can see the way Elia looks up at him, fondness on her face, and Jaime feels that harrowing guilt slam into him.
Whatever happens, whatever he can do, he’s not going to leave her to the Mountain; if he has to abandon the Keep entirely, if he has to commit treason a week earlier, whatever he has to do, he’ll do it for her and these children. As she takes the crown from Rhaenys to fix atop her head, Princess Elia gives Jaime a short nod. “My thanks, Ser Jaime.” He returns the small smile, offering Princess Rhaenys a bow before taking his leave, as Ser Barristan remains with Princess Elia.
He has plenty of time to go to the yards, curious about what his skill level is like at this point. It takes a while to get back into the motions of using his right hand, his automatic response to compensate with his left, but within a half-hour, he’s moving with fluidity and his previous skill. An hour sparring with a few of the gold cloaks reassures him that he’s not terribly rusty with his right hand, and that a few more days training will ensure he’s more than capable of handling himself.
“Hard at work, little lion?” Ser Arthur smirks at him, as Jaime wipes the sweat from his brow. Jaime feels the almost familiar flood of nostalgia again, the years that have passed for him removing some of the hero worship he’d always gazed at Ser Arthur with; at five-and-ten, Ser Arthur was the Warrior reborn to Jaime, he could do absolutely nothing that Jaime wouldn’t be awed by, and Jaime hung on his every word. After the rebellion, it was a lot like the veil was lifted, finding out he’d been guarding Lyanna Stark in Dorne, dealing with the animosity in the aftermath, the bitterness that burrowed into his being, it shattered the illusion about any of the former Kingsguard. Some of that healed, learning the truth of Jon Snow, learning that they were guarding the future of House Targaryen, but the bitterness that they deserted Elia to her fate, with no one but him, who they all viewed as little more than a child, well, that lingers still.
“Every day.” Jaime replies, remembering the constant tease he’d get for spending as long as he could in the yards, the older knights amused at his eagerness.
It’s difficult not to still respect Ser Arthur, the swell of admiration that lingers even still. He’d always bloomed under Ser Arthur’s attention—most of the time, Prince Lewyn, Ser Oswell and Ser Arthur were the only ones to really give Jaime serious attention, the other three would spar with him occasionally, but as Jaime advanced, Ser Jonothor grew annoyed dealing with him, while Ser Barristan and Ser Gerold were rarely off-duty the same time as him.
“Well, let’s get you cleaned up, then I’m stealing you for a while.” There’s little room to argue, as Ser Arthur directs him back to the Keep, almost throws him into the baths and leaves him to wash up and ready himself. It’s peculiar to have his younger body; fewer scars, less defined muscles, his shoulders haven’t fully broadened to their full width, his face isn’t as angled as it was. Although his eyes are certainly brighter, his face less lined, far fewer aches and pains in all his limbs. Having all of his limbs again feels like a novelty.
He’s also warm. Not only because they are in the South, and it’s the end of a mild winter, but his bones aren’t frozen through. The ride North had chilled him, the deeper towards Winterfell he’d gotten, the more the cold settled in his being. After the Long Night, Jaime hadn’t felt warm again, not even as dragon fire rained down on King’s Landing. Now he’s warm, with both his hands, none of his scars and a future laid out filled with strife and torment unless he can somehow change something.
Why he’s been tasked with this, he’s not certain, he surely is not the best option. And yet, he might be the only option.
“Where are we going?” Once he’s cleaned, in fresh clothes and once more trailing Ser Arthur, Jaime’s curiosity builds. It’s not entirely unheard of for Ser Oswell or Ser Arthur to steal him away from the Keep, they’ve taken him to taverns, into the city to the markets, Ser Oswell tried to take him to a brothel once, but he’d resolutely slipped away and back to the Keep on his own that time and pleaded with Ser Oswell not to try again.
Remembering his devotion to Cersei leaves a lump in his chest, one filled with shame and regret. He needs to do better this time, to recognise the cruelty inside her before he ruins himself for her quest for power, before he’s left with nothing but pieces of himself shattered and ruined.
“Don’t think I’m mocking you, alright? But I want you to tell Prince Rhaegar about your dream.” It is as Jaime suspects, that Ser Arthur has listened enough to Prince Rhaegar about prophecy and dragon dreams and whatever else, and that’s promising. But Jaime has to play his six-and-ten self, which includes rarely having been in Prince Rhaegar’s company, so he halts in the hallway and makes the conscious effort to not look pleased.
“But it’s not—” In any other situation, it would be improper to waste the time of the Crown Prince with silly dreams, but dealing with Bran Stark for long enough at least allowed Jaime some semblance of understanding to add some gravitas to things with annoying vague double meanings and some open to interpretation events. It had been mildly infuriating, having to sit and decipher a conversation to work out what the boy had been saying, only to figure out that there were more riddles than answers to it all.
“I promise, you won’t be dismissed out of hand.” So Jaime goes with Ser Arthur, hoping enough of the dream he’s thought up can hit the points to halt Rhaegar’s wild attempt to steal away with Lady Lyanna.
Not that he knows what difference it will make.
Without Rhaegar and Lyanna, there is no Jon Snow, although Jon Snow did not end the Long Night, that fell to the violently impressive Arya Stark. But then, if Brandon Stark isn’t murdered in the throne room for demanding Rhaegar return Lyanna, then he’ll marry Catelyn Tully and there will be no Arya Stark either. Which leads to the fact that if he stops the rebellion, if he somehow manages to keep the Targaryen’s from falling, what happens to the rest of the realm? Cersei will never marry Baratheon if he’s betrothed to Lyanna, Ned Stark will likely be wed to some other lady when his older brother takes his Tully bride. It will mean no grasping, clawing, weasel Littlefinger pitting Stark’s against Lannister’s, thank all the Gods, but that still leaves so much open to a great many changes.
His only assumption for why he’s been sent to now, sent to this time, given these memories and made to try it all again, is that the rebellion has to be avoided. Otherwise, they could’ve given him a restart afterwards.
He’s still weirdly nervous as he sits in Prince Rhaegar’s solar, more of a small work space with several texts laid out and maps and scrolls lying all over the desk. It’s disarray, something that makes an itch at the back of Jaime’s head flare up—his father had always scolded them for messy spaces, Tyrion rebelled until the end, always keeping disorganised chaos around him, but Jaime relented early in youth, assisted by the fact that he kept so little by the way of property. A sword and armour was all Jaime needed ultimately.
There are sheets of parchment with scribbles, messy writing and some diagrams, other better laid out scrolls with lines and lines of smooth, careful text. Several very old-looking parchments have what look to be astrological diagrams that Jaime can’t even begin to understand. Truthfully, simply catching sight of some text is making his eyes hurt from trying to figure out the words.
Still, his eyes are drawn to one particular sentence among so many others; Kivio Dārilaros kessa maghagon se ñāqes. The number of times he’d heard that in the North, the damn red Priestess adamant on the eve of battle, and even then, she’d changed her tune by the time the battle was underway.
Gods, all this prophecy was stupid.
None of them knew, not for sure, not even Bran Stark or the Three-Eyed-Crow or whatever that whole greenseer thing was. Even as he has to play a mummer long enough to get Rhaegar to not shame his damn wife more than he has, Jaime finds the obsession entirely ridiculous.
“Do you know what it says?” Rhaegar breaks Jaime out of his thoughts with the question, Jaime realising that he’s running his fingers over the words laid out in the scroll, like they mean anything.
“The princess that was promised will bring the dawn.” He takes a gamble on using the feminine for it, given that he doesn’t believe Jon Snow truly is what will be needed, not if he’s to keep Rhaegar from Lyanna. That leads to Rhaegar listening to the retelling of the dream, Ser Arthur staying quiet all throughout but nodding encouragingly.
“When I woke up, I tasted blood in my mouth, but I must’ve just bitten myself.” Prince Rhaegar abruptly stands to pour himself a drink, draining the goblet before pouring another and then pacing the room. It reminds Jaime a little of Queen Daenerys, those few meetings that Sansa Stark had managed to wrangle him into for their war council against the dead. How she’d pace and think, while her advisors just watched her tangle herself in knots rather than convince her to talk her thoughts aloud so that they could unweave the spiral she locked herself in.
Maybe, if Daenerys had better trained military commanders, she’d have better planned her assault on King’s Landing. Perhaps then she wouldn’t have lost that final connection to her humanity and sunk into her father’s legacy. If Jaime can ensure that Daenerys is raised with a family who love her, and people who can guide her properly, perhaps then there’s a chance she’ll prove herself better than those before her, maybe then she won’t lose it all and let the thirst for fire and blood consume her.
“And you think that—” Rhaegar’s turned towards Ser Arthur, who nods his head. “Brandon Stark weds Catelyn Tully in a week.” So the Northerners have likely started to ride for Riverrun, which means Rhaegar was likely already planning on leaving King’s Landing soon.
“I think this calls for perhaps rethinking some plans?” That launches Prince Rhaegar and Ser Arthur into a hushed but tense discussion, and Jaime mostly blocks them out, looking over the scrolls in front of him to see if anything makes sense.
It’s mostly High Valyrian, very little translating for him to truly understand. He recognises the word dragon and the word stone—didn’t Davos say the red witch went on about waking dragons from stone, and didn’t Daenerys hatch those eggs that had turned to stone—and there are a few parchments that look like old Westeros lineage charts.
Underneath one sheet denoting the line of Targaryen’s leading back to the Dance of Dragons, there’s a single dark piece of wood, with red etching on it. En enkelt krusning kan føre til en kraftig bølge. It’s Old Tongue, not Valyrian, and it doesn’t look like it belongs with all the other pieces of parchment. Jaime smooths his fingers along the carved words, slipping the wood under the sleeve of his tunic.
A single ripple can lead to a powerful wave.
A single ripple. One small change, one thing he can alter will change all the others.
“What’s wildfire?” By now, Aerys has to have started amassing the wildfire caches. King’s Landing is too big for it to have happened too quickly, and Rossart has been around since before Jaime was sworn to the Kingsguard. If he can get them to focus on that, they’ll have reason to depose the King, Prince Rhaegar can unseat his father, and then he’ll be too busy making sure the Realm runs smoothly to run off with Lyanna Stark.
“What?” Prince Rhaegar stops trying to make some kind of excuse to Ser Arthur about working something out to properly address things, turning to Jaime with a shocked look.
“What’s wildfire?” Jaime repeats, deciding to play into being an idiotic six-and-ten boy surrounded by all these so much better people. “There are whispers, in the dream, about wildfire under the city, about burning, and then there’s the green light.”
This time, he gets a better reaction.
Prince Rhaegar almost throws him out, although Ser Arthur manages to soothe that sting, before Lord Commander Hightower, the Hand of the King and Queen Rhaella are all discretely sequestered away for the entire evening and Jaime returns to White Sword Tower.
The following day, Ser Barristan hands out the assignments, informing them that the Lord Commander was busy with something with the small council, and they’d have to wait until later for more details. It does mean they’ll have to pull double duty for the day—possibly a few days—but they’ll work it out later.
So Jaime spends his morning and afternoon with Rhaenys, but inside today to avoid any potential problems; Jaime plays some small games with her, teases her cat and tells her some stories, enough that she doesn’t mind not getting to go outside on another adventure today. Unfortunately, pulling the double shift means after he’s eaten something, he’s attending to the King in the Throne Room.
Standing by the King’s side, listening to his droning voice before the pitch changes as his excitement builds, the threat of yet more burnings, has Jaime almost breaking out in a cold sweat. Ser Jonothor is at the other side of the throne, standing still and facing forward, and Jaime tries to force the memories away—it’s been decades since he had to go away inside, since he had to block out the world and settle in his memories, the year spent in Robb Stark’s camp being the only time it’d come up.
It’s harder now, drifting away, he doesn’t have the same regard for Cersei that had once helped him escape from reality, doesn’t hold on to those memories of her the same way. After the Sept, after her wildfire use, it was harder and harder not to see Cersei as the monster he’d never wanted to admit she was.
Jaime bites down a sigh as the screaming starts, as two supposed criminals—they stole bread from the market, if Jaime’s memory serves him right—are burned alive in the middle of court. Neither he nor Ser Jonothor move from their positions, both of them aware that they needed to give no reaction at all. If something doesn’t change, and soon, if Jaime is forced to live through all this again, he will literally throw himself—and the King—off a cliff.
Thankfully, there are only three other executions, although that then leads to the King making his way towards the Queen’s chambers directly afterwards and Jaime realises he’s about to be forced to listen to another rape. She’s with child, although at this point Jaime has to understand she’s barely confirmed that she’s with child, but surely then it should be understood that putting her through such turmoil is likely in part why she’s lost so many children. When they arrive at the Queen’s apartments, however, she’s not there. Departing quickly, Jaime feels the anxiety spike when he notices they’re heading towards the Maidenvault, a glance at Ser Jonothor telling him they’ve reached the same conclusion and Jaime starts to panic.
Barging into Princess Elia’s rooms, the King snarls out questions about his wife, demanding to know where she is, as the Princess makes attempts to calm and soothe him. It doesn’t work, as no one has ever been able to calm or soothe these moods and as Aerys reaches out and grabs at Elia’s hair, Jaime makes the motion to intervene right as Rhaegar’s voice calls from the doorway.
“Father,” Aerys releases Elia to turn towards his son, Jaime continuing his motion to put himself in front of Elia and block Aerys, even as Ser Jonothor glares at him. “What do you have need of my wife for?” It’s lacking the accusations that should be there, even as Jaime feels Princess Elia lean her head against the back of his shoulder, her hand gripping at his elbow while she struggles to compose herself.
Jaime doesn’t move himself at all. Regardless of what Ser Jonothor might say, or how he’ll be reprimanded later for his actions, he stays firmly between Princess Elia and any threat.
“Where is my wife?” The King doesn’t answer his son, his ire doesn’t cool, and the best outcome here is someone potentially being thrown in the Black Cells—considering his actions, Jaime’s certain it would be him.
“With your small council.” Rhaegar is matter of fact, and Ser Gerold and Ser Arthur step into the room with them at that point, more guards outside the door. “It pains me to do this, Father, however you have gone too far. Your wildfire has been located, you have put the entire realm in danger, including the legacy of our House. For the good of the Realm, for the future of House Targaryen, I am hereby stripping you of kingship.”
Aerys screams in rage, as Ser Arthur and Ser Gerold move towards him, the King whirling towards Elia again with his talon nails outstretched, but finding Jaime instead of the Princess. His claw-like fingers scratch across both sides of Jaime’s face as he extends his arm to keep Elia behind him, refusing to move even to block the attack, until Arthur and the Lord Commander have Aerys gripped tightly to pull him away, the King hissing and screaming the entire time.
“Princess,” Jaime only turns when the King is clear of the doors, Princess Elia sagging as he offers a hand to support her. “Are you alright?” There’s absolutely no doubt in Jaime’s mind that the King would’ve substituted his son’s wife for his own should Queen Rhaella not be found, given his numerous mistresses and the fact that he took his own wife unwillingly.
“Ser Jaime, your face,” her hand reaches up to brush his cheek, and Jaime can feel the warm blood running from the stinging scratches, but he barely gives them thought.
“Scratches, nothing more. Are you well?” She nods shakily, allowing Jaime to support her as she stands, turning to face Prince Rhaegar.
“Elia, my love,” she’s shaking, even as Rhaegar moves towards her, a small noise escaping her. It makes Rhaegar pause in his motions, looking like she’d just struck him.
“I’m alright, I am fine, I just—I am shaken. He was—” He was going to rape her. “I need—”
“You need a maester. As does Ser Jaime. Will you take her?” Jaime gives the Prince a nod, more than willing to tolerate Pycelle for a brief time. “Ser Jonothor, will you accompany me back to the small council?”
“Can you walk, Princess?” Jaime asks quietly, although Elia shakes her head, her entire body trembling. “Will you allow me to carry you?” He’s more than capable of taking her, slight as she is, but he doesn’t want to leave her more unsettled. At his offer, she nods, however, leaning closer towards him, so Jaime carefully gathers her in his arms and strides from the room, allowing the Princess to hide her face against his shoulder as he passes servants on the way to the Grand Maester’s quarters, ignoring the gasping sobs she hides in his throat as they move.
Elia insists that Pycelle treat Jaime’s face before she’ll take anything to calm her. So he sits and allows the old fuck to dab at each scratch on his face with vinegar soaked rags, to clean the blood and stitch only two portions that have deeper cuts in his face. He’ll heal, but it will be slow.
Only then does Elia take the vial of dreamwine, promising to take it once she is back in her chambers. As Jaime moves to escort her, she pauses before asking him to take her to a guest chamber, informing Pycelle of such and asking him to tell her husband before Jaime once more cradles her close, requesting a maid to lead them to a prepared guest room.
“Ser Jaime,” she takes the dreamwine only when they’re sure the room is secure, her hand shaking the entire time. As she lays down on the bed on top of the covers, still fully clothed, she reaches out to grab for his hand. “I—that is—I cannot form the words to thank you for—”
“Princess Elia,” Jaime goes to his knee beside the bed, carefully taking her hand in his. “Our mothers were the best of friends,” Joanna had always had the best things to say about Princess Loreza, about their friendship. “And even if that were not the case, irrespective of my oaths, please believe when I say, I would’ve sooner killed the King than let him harm you.” He knows it’s treason to speak, knows that even just between the two of them, it could filter back to the little birds and cause untold drama.
But he’d sooner lose his head than allow her to think she cannot trust him. This time, he will ensure that she believes she can trust him, he will be someone she can rely on, that she can believe she and her children are safe with.
“You are the bravest of them, sweet lion.” Elia’s hand gently touches his cheek, Jaime weathering the sting from the new cuts for the affection behind her gentle touch. “Will you stay?”
“I shall not leave the door until you wake, my Princess.” She nods, sleep creeping up on her, and Jaime presses a kiss to the back of her hand before rising and moving to the door. He’s perfectly content to stand guard until Princess Elia wakes up. It allows him the time to process things, to come to the understanding as to what he’s just done.
It’s highly likely he’s just thwarted the rebellion.
The King is being deposed right then, either locked in the cells or restrained in some rooms. King Aerys will not murder Lord Rickard and Brandon Stark, even if Rhaegar does still abscond with Lyanna at some point, there will be no one to lose sense and kill the Warden of the North. Robert’s Rebellion will not rise and the Targaryen’s will not be wiped out, save for two children cast across the Narrow Sea and a boy hidden in the snow.
While it’s unclear what that means for the rest of the realm, he’s decidedly hopeful it means a stronger Westeros for when the Night King marches. It’s decades away, Daenerys still has to grow up, still has to hatch her dragons. But the Realm will not be broken and weak, the War of the Five Kings will not leave the kingdoms without men or alliances.