Scene 1: The Descent
Location: The Spiral Staircase of Maegor's Holdfast
Jaime was fast. He had always been fast. But he could not catch the bull.
He took the spiral stairs two at a time, his white armor clamoring against the stone walls, his breath tearing at his lungs. Ahead of him, Robert Baratheon descended with a terrifying, lumbering speed. The Usurper was a wall of iron and muscle, moving with the heavy, unstoppable force of a boulder rolling down a mountainside.
He wants them, Jaime thought, his mind racing through a haze of exhaustion.
The realization made his stomach turn. Robert wasn't running to secure the castle. He wasn't running to claim the Iron Chair. He was racing to the nursery.
He wants to do it himself, Jaime realized, gripping his sword hilt until his leather glove creaked. He doesn't trust my father's dogs to finish the job. He wants to make sure the Dragonspawn end here, under his own hammer.
It was the only explanation. Why else would a conqueror sprint? Kings walked. But butchers ran.
"Your Grace!" Jaime shouted, his voice echoing off the cold stone. "Wait!"
Robert didn't slow down. He didn't even turn his head. The massive muscles of his back bunched and released under his tunic as he vaulted down the narrow steps, his boots striking the stone with heavy, rhythmic thuds. He moved like a boar scenting blood.
Then, the sound came.
From the floor below, wood shattered. It wasn't the creak of a hinge; it was the explosive crack of heavy oak being smashed to kindling.
A second later, a woman screamed. It was a high, thin sound, filled with a terror so absolute it cut through the ringing of the evacuation bells outside.
Elia.
Jaime faltered for a heartbeat, the horror of it freezing his blood.
But Robert Baratheon didn't freeze. He didn't roar a challenge. He didn't shout a command.
He accelerated.
Jaime saw Robert's hand drop to the Warhammer at his belt. He saw the knuckles turn bone-white as he gripped the haft. The Usurper threw himself down the final twist of the stairwell, moving with a silent, murderous intensity that was far more terrifying than any battle cry.
Jaime cursed and threw himself after him, sliding on the smooth stone, scrambling to keep the monster in sight.
Scene 2: The Butcher's Bill
Location: Inside the Royal Nursery
The door to the Royal Nursery was gone. The heavy oak frame had been smashed inward, leaving nothing but twisted hinges and splintered wood littered across the floor like straw.
Robert stormed through the ruin of the doorway, and Jaime skidded in right behind him, his boots sliding on the rushes.
The scene inside was a nightmare made flesh.
To the left, Ser Amory Lorch was on his knees. The pig-eyed knight was grinning, dragging a screaming child out from under the featherbed by her ankle. Princess Rhaenys clawed at the floorboards, her fingernails breaking, shrieking for her mother.
To the right, the mountain that was Gregor Clegane had cornered Elia Martell against the wardrobe. The massive knight held the infant, Prince Aegon, in one gauntleted hand. He held the babe casually, like a doll, or a stone he intended to skip across a pond.
"Lannister!" Lorch barked, looking up and seeing Jaime's white cloak. "Lord Tywin's orders! We're cleaning the—"
He never finished the sentence.
Robert Baratheon didn't draw his weapon. He didn't stop to look. He simply continued his charge.
He hit Amory Lorch like a battering ram.
It was a collision of pure mass. Robert's shoulder slammed into Lorch's chestplate with a sickening crunch of crumpling steel and cracking bone. Lorch was lifted clean off his feet. He flew backward across the room, airborne for a terrifying second, before smashing into the heavy oak wardrobe.
He slid down the wood, limp as a wet rag, Rhaenys released from his grip.
Jaime stood frozen in the doorway, his brain struggling to make sense of what he had just seen.
He hit him, Jaime thought, the world seeming to spin. He didn't join him. He broke him.
Across the room, Gregor Clegane turned. The Mountain looked at the unconscious Lorch, then at Robert. He tightened his grip on the baby's leg. Aegon began to wail.
The sound snapped Jaime back to reality.
The Usurper wasn't here to kill the children. He was here to kill the monsters.
Jaime moved on instinct. He stepped over the threshold, his sword rasping free of its scabbard with a hiss of steel. He placed himself between Gregor Clegane and Elia Martell, turning his back on the woman he had sworn to protect, facing the beast his father had unleashed.
His hand trembled. He looked up at the black visor of the Mountain That Rides, knowing that if Gregor swung his greatsword, Jaime's parry would likely shatter his own wrist.
But he stood his ground.
"Stand down, Clegane," Jaime said, his voice shaking but loud.
He wasn't looking at Gregor, though. He was looking at Robert, who was rising from where he had tackled Lorch, dusting off his hands, his eyes fixed on the Mountain with a cold, blue fury.
The Mad King is dead, Jaime realized with a jolt of hope. And the new King... is cleaning the house.
Scene 3: The King of Beasts
Location: The Royal Nursery
The room went quiet. It was the heavy, suffocating silence of a crypt.
Gregor Clegane looked at the unconscious body of Amory Lorch, then turned his black, beetle-like eyes toward Robert. The Mountain was a siege tower of a man—eight feet of heavy plate and cruel muscle. He held the infant Prince Aegon high in the air, his fingers wrapped around the babe's leg like iron bands.
Jaime stood between them, his sword point wavering. He felt small. He felt fragile. Against the Mountain, skill meant nothing; one blow would shatter Jaime's guard and the arm behind it.
"Lord Tywin's orders," Gregor rumbled, his voice grinding like millstones. He didn't lower the child. "Clean the house."
Robert Baratheon didn't shout. He didn't charge again. He stopped in the center of the room, dust falling from his tunic, and simply... settled.
He felt heavy. That was the only word Jaime could find. Robert stood there, loose-limbed and still, but the air around him seemed to thicken, vibrating with a violence that hadn't happened yet.
Robert unhooked the Warhammer from his belt. He didn't brandish it. He let the heavy iron head drop to the floorboards with a dull, sickening thud.
"Put down the baby," Robert said.
The voice was low. It wasn't a king's command; it was a predator's warning.
Gregor hesitated. He was used to men screaming at him. He was used to men begging. He wasn't used to being looked at like a side of beef on a hook. He tightened his grip. The baby shrieked.
"I have my orders," Gregor said, stepping forward, trying to use his size to fill the room. "The Lion commands—"
"I am not the Lion."
Robert took one slow step forward.
Jaime felt the urge to press his back against the wall. The pressure radiating off the Usurper was physical. It was the feeling of standing in a cage with a bear that had stopped pacing and started staring.
"You are a big lad, Clegane," Robert said softly. The softness was worse than a roar. "But meat tears. Bone breaks."
Robert raised the hammer slowly, pointing the wicked iron spike directly at the vision slit of Gregor's helm.
"Drop the child. Or I will dismantle you. I will not kill you quickly. I will break your knees. Then your elbows. Then your hands. I will turn you into a ruin, and I will make you beg for the end before I grant it."
It was the certainty that did it.
There was no bluster in Robert's voice. No heat. Just the cold, absolute promise of agony.
Gregor Clegane looked at the hammer. He looked at the man holding it—the man who had caved in Rhaegar Targaryen's chest with a single blow. And in that silence, the beast inside Gregor—the instinct that had kept him alive through a hundred battles—did the math. It realized that size didn't matter. It realized that if he crushed that baby, the man in front of him would peel him out of his armor like a boiled crab.
Gregor's hand shook.
The spell of invincibility that had surrounded the Mountain for years shattered. He wasn't a monster anymore. He was just a man in a metal suit, facing something primal.
He lowered his arm. He tossed the crying baby onto the feather mattress—rough, ungentle, but alive.
"The... the baby is yours," Gregor muttered, his voice sounding hollow inside his helm.
He stepped back, his hand drifting to his sword, but he didn't draw it. He surrendered the space. He shrank against the wall.
Robert exhaled, a long, rough breath through his nose. The suffocating pressure in the room eased, just a fraction.
At that moment, the hallway behind them filled with the clatter of boots. Gold Cloaks, Robert's own men, swarmed into the room, swords drawn.
Robert nodded to the guards, then jerked his thumb at the two Lannister knights.
"Take them," Robert ordered, his voice flat. "Secure them in the black cells. If they resist, cut their hamstrings."
Gregor Clegane, the most feared knight in the Westerlands, let himself be disarmed without a word. He kept his eyes on the floor as he was led out, like a dog that had been kicked.
Scene 4: The Silent Mother
Location: The Royal Nursery
The room emptied of soldiers, leaving only the wreckage.
Elia Martell had scrambled onto the bed. She clutched both children to her chest—Rhaenys sobbing into her shoulder, Aegon wailing in her arms. She was trembling so hard the bedframe rattled.
She looked at Robert with wide, terrified eyes. Jaime saw the calculation in her face: One monster chased away the other. Now the new monster finishes the job.
Jaime sheathed his sword, the sound loud in the quiet room. He turned to Robert, half-expecting the King to demand the children be handed over.
Robert looked at the Targaryen woman. He looked at the children of the man he hated.
He didn't smile. He didn't offer false platitudes or try to comfort her. He looked uncomfortable, like a man finding a wounded bird and not knowing how to hold it.
"They are safe," Robert said gruffly. It was all he said.
He turned his back on them, facing the door. He looked at Jaime.
The adrenaline had faded from Robert's face, leaving him looking tired and old beyond his years. He wiped a smudge of dust from his brow, smearing it with sweat.
"You guard this door, Jaime," Robert said.
Jaime blinked. Jaime. Not Kingslayer. Not Lannister.
"Your Grace?"
"No one enters," Robert commanded, his voice hardening into steel. "Not your father. Not my brothers. Only Ned Stark. If anyone else tries to pass this threshold, you kill them."
Robert looked Jaime in the eye, searching for something.
Jaime straightened. His armor felt lighter. The shame that had clung to him since he drove his sword into Aerys's back seemed to evaporate, replaced by a cold, clear purpose.
"It will be done, Your Grace," Jaime said.
Robert nodded once, then turned and marched out into the hallway to deal with the war.
Jaime stood alone in the doorway. He looked back at Elia, who was staring at him in disbelief. He looked down at his white cloak. For years, he had been the Mad King's ornament. Today, he was a guard.
My father sent the dogs, Jaime thought, his hand resting easy on his sword hilt. The Usurper sent them away.
The Usurper was a demon, they said.
Good, Jaime decided. If a demon is like this, I will happily serve a demon.
Scene 5: The Iron Ledger
Location: The Hallway outside the Royal Nursery / Throne Room Antechamber
POV: Jaime Lannister
Robert stepped out of the nursery, wiping the gray dust of the tunnels from his face with the back of a gauntlet.
Waiting in the corridor was Ser Kevan Lannister, flanked by a dozen red-cloaked household guards.
Jaime watched his uncle's face. Kevan was a man of stone and ledgers, rarely surprised, but his eyes widened slightly as he saw the Gold Cloaks dragging Gregor Clegane and Amory Lorch away in heavy chains.
Kevan was smart. He understood the equation instantly: Tywin sent a gift. The new King rejected it.
The tension in the hallway snapped tight. Kevan's hand drifted imperceptibly toward his sword hilt. The Lannister guards shifted their weight. They expected a denunciation. They expected the Hammer.
Robert didn't draw a weapon. He walked right up to Kevan, looming over the smaller man like a tower.
"Ser Kevan," Robert rumbled. "Your brother brought an army to my gates."
"To aid the crown, Your Grace," Kevan said, his voice steady, though Jaime saw the sweat beading on his hairline.
"Good," Robert said. "Then put them to work."
Robert gestured to the narrow arrow-slit window. Outside, there was no smoke, only the roar of a terrified city. The streets were choked with half a million people being herded out of their homes by the evacuation order.
"The smallfolk are panicked. They are out of their homes, sitting in the open squares and the fields beyond the Lion Gate. They haven't eaten in two days."
Robert stepped closer, his voice shifting from the growl of a warrior to the sharp, clipped tone of a quartermaster.
"Open your baggage trains. I want soup kitchens set up in the Cobbler's Square and outside the city gates within the hour. Use the royal stores, but if they are empty, use your own."
Kevan blinked, completely thrown off balance. He had prepared a defense for murder; he hadn't prepared a logistics report.
"Your Grace... we brought rations for a siege. We have enough to feed our twelve thousand men for a month. But to feed the city? The stores will be gone in days."
"Then we act fast," Robert snapped. He wasn't asking; he was commanding. "Send ravens to the Trident. To Jon Arryn, Lord Tully, and Stark."
Robert began counting off on his dust-covered fingers.
"Tell them the city is taken. Tell them the war is done. But tell them not to bring the full host."
"Not bring the host?" Kevan asked, confused. "But surely you need the strength to secure the—"
"I have strength," Robert interrupted, tapping the Warhammer at his hip. "I don't need forty thousand hungry mouths marching into a food shortage. Tell them to leave the heavy infantry at the Ruby Ford. Tell them to bring the supply wagons. All of them. Grain from the Riverlands, salt beef from the Vale. And tell them to bring only the high lords and the knights—men enough to witness the oaths, not enough to eat the city bare."
Jaime watched from the doorway, stunned.
He had expected the Usurper to demand submission. Instead, Robert Baratheon was standing in a hallway, calculating bushels and mouths while the crown was barely cold on his head.
"And one more thing," Robert added, his voice dropping low, turning dangerous. "The wildfire."
Kevan stiffened. "Your Grace?"
"The caches are being secured, but they need to be disposed of. Take them to the ruins of the Dragonpit. Dig a trench in the center floor. Deep. Bury the pots in sand. Post guards day and night—shoot anyone who approaches with a torch."
Robert stepped closer, his shadow falling over the Lannister knight.
"You brought this mess into my city, Ser Kevan. You clean it up. Feed the people. Bury the fire. Can you do this? Or is the task too difficult for a Lannister?"
Kevan Lannister straightened. The fear left his eyes, replaced by a sudden, profound respect. He bowed, deep and genuine—not the bow of a courtier, but the bow of a soldier given a clear order.
"It will be done, Your Grace. At once."
Kevan turned on his heel, already barking orders to his captains to commandeer wagons and secure the granaries before he had even reached the stairs.
Robert watched him go, then let out a long, tired sigh. He rolled his neck, cracking the joints. He looked at Jaime.
"Well?" Robert grunted. "Don't just stand there, Ser Jaime. Guard the door."
Robert turned and lumbered down the hall, heading for his chambers.
Jaime turned back to the nursery, his hand resting easy on his sword. He looked at the retreating back of the man who had just stopped a massacre, ordered the burial of the green death, and organized a famine relief strategy in the span of five minutes.
The Mad King tried to burn them, Jaime thought. My father tried to sack them.
Robert feeds them.
For the first time since he donned the white cloak, Jaime felt like he was guarding something real.