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Jaime casts a hopeless thought to the Warrior. Grant me the strength to hold fast.
To the Mother- grant me the courage to hold fast.
And To the Father- grant me the honor to hold fast.
He has little hope his prayers will be answered. He's in no sept, making no offerings. Aerys storms past him, down the steps to Rossart, and Jaime doesn't flinch. He turns enough to see his King.
If I am to burn- Crone, let me see it come!
"Burn them," Aerys tells his Hand. "Burn them all. In their beds, in their homes, in the streets- burn them. Do it now, while the old Lion rides through my city- he can rule ashes from the ashes! Go, burn them all!"
Rossart turns to do as he is bid. Jaime can scarce hear the Hand's boots through the blood throbbing in his ears.
To the Smith- guide my hand.
To the Maid, as he walks smoothly to meet Rossart, as he draws his sword, and thrusts- my innocence is gone. Hold my soul fast.
Aerys looks at him, and sees the Stranger in his eyes. When Jaime drags his blade from his King's back and across a dying man's throat, it is with the courage and strength and honor and guidance that has been afforded him.
And when Jaime slowly, woodenly, climbs the stairs again and sits in a truly hideously uncomfortable chair, it is with the burst of vigor granted him by the patron of the outcasts and unwanted and unworthy.