Author's Note: For those that read Turn Left for Fate, you needn't fear. I am continuing on with that story. However, this little plot bunny wouldn't leave me. Compared to Turn Left for Fate, where I know exactly how that story ends, this one is a 'make it as I go along' one, maybe that will make it more realistic? Regardless, I hope you like it. Tell me what you guys think.

This will be AU from the get go.

Disclaimer: I don't own A Song of Ice and Fire.

Regency

Elia Martell knew when the raven arrived that it could only mean the death of her husband lord, and though it confirmed Rhaegar's death, her expression changed not at all. She had debated long and hard over the drops she had thought to add to Rhaegar's wine before his departure; had wondered whether his life would benefit her and hers more, or his death, had agonised over the decision with nobody to discuss them with. And now she would have to live whatever little time remained of her life with the decision she had finally settled on.

She had been reconciled to her death for some time now; be it by Aerys, the barbaric Baratheons, or even Rhaegar's inevitable further shaming had he succeeded in this war of his making, she knew she would die, and she knew that her daughter's death was all but guaranteed. Her son's life had been the only one she could protect with the meagre and untrustworthy means provided by Varys.

Yet nothing was heard of Robert Baratheon's health. She knew that oafish man enough that his ego would have allowed no one else to kill the Crown Prince. And she had taken extraordinary care to ensure that every aspect of any blade that Rhaegar could wield was covered in the colourless poison that she had carefully made. The smallest scratch should have been enough and yet there was no news. It irked her. She questioned her own work, though she had checked not once, not twice, not even thrice. She had covered every surface of the blades and then the other areas too. She would have Robert's blood any way that she could. And the lack of news filled her with more dread, more despair, than Rhaegar's death had.

She placed the baby carefully into the bassinet, almost lovingly. She stared at the child a moment longer, the pale hair, his blue eyes. The next moment, she had left her room, marching down the corridor towards the throne room. There was always the hope that Aerys would be a little less cruel if he had less to criticise but the hope was a wisp at best.

'Princess, condolences,' the whisper paused her steps. Varys appeared truly sympathetic. She almost believed it. 'Perhaps you could spare me a moment?'

'Perhaps you could walk with me?' Elia responded, no room left for any niceties.

'Of course, your highness,' he bowed subserviently. If he was offended by her brusqueness, he showed no sign of it.

She resumed her procession of sorts, observed by the few soldiers that Aerys trusted to remain in the building itself. She knew they would be less hope for protection than the blasted Kingsguard had been.

'I trust that you know the contents of the raven's news?' He spoke softly.

'I know my Lord Husband is dead,' Elia enunciated the proper address carefully.

'Ah, not just he,' Varys looked ever morose but Elia didn't care, couldn't care over the sickening pounding of her heart. He paused, as it for dramatics, the damned eunuch. 'Ser Lewyn sadly died.'

Of course the death of her uncle would mean nothing to Aerys, nor would the death of a member of his Kingsguard. He had threatened the two of them enough, held his own shameful blade against her neck, pressed it hard 'til blood trickled down, kept it there until Uncle Lewyn was out of sight, had held it even longer, sniffing the smell of her blood. He had grown hard, she had felt it against her; the Seven be praised that his Lady Wife was around to suffer his violent desires. Elia had no wish to be his victim in any further ways.

She had barely a misstep as she imagined her uncle, her only family in this prison, now dead. And Aerys hadn't given it a thought, not a mention. The loathing she felt for Aerys made her tremble. Let him think it was fear instead.

The stench of burning skin pervaded the throne room still, sickening Elia. It mingled unpleasantly with the body odours from the sweat and Aerys' seed. There were times when he hadn't needed his Sister Wife for his pleasures, or the whores in Kings Landing. There were even a handful of times when he had had his way with Rhaella in this very throne room, the echo of her screams still suffusing the air.

'What took you so long?' He spat the words at her, his hands were claws as he physically shook with spite and rage. 'Come here, you Dornish whore.'

She had no choice but to oblige him. He gripped her arms, nails digging in until the blood was oozing around his nails and she could smell him, unwashed for several days, pleasure staining his thighs no doubt.

'You know the news?' His eyes narrowed. Aerys was devoid of sadness. It was all heartless fury, self-centred to his very core. He cared little that he had lost a son, he cared considerably more that he may lose his throne, this war. 'Who's been telling you? Spies, bloody spies surrounding me.'

His right claw had moved to her face, clutching it so tightly that it was difficult to open her mouth to speak. She did so, regardless. It could be the difference between being burnt alive now or later. She infinitely preferred later.

'Nobody told me, I suspected,' His nails dug in deeper but she continued. 'Rhaegar would no doubt have sent me message as well as Your Royal Highness.'

His fist was both expected and unexpected when it arrived, leaving her an undignified heap on the floor. These weren't the first bruises she had received from him. She received his fist again and again but he tired easily; he had been eating and drinking less and less and Elia, at least, was not inclined to encourage his health.

It was with a particularly malignant glee that he informed her that his Lady Wife and his son were on their way to safety, to Dragonstone, to her home. And she would stay and pay the price for Lewyn's betrayal. With her life, Elia was certain, but it wouldn't be just her dying. Her daughter and the baby would undoubtedly be killed too.

She held to the belief that sooner or later, her poison would take effect in Robert. She would cling tenaciously to life long enough to hear the news of Robert's death, the only balm left available.

The steps back to her solar felt longer and more painful, and when she entered it, her eyes fell on the bassinet, its guest a poor substitute for her own beloved son. She searched for Rhaenys, needing to clutch her to her chest but panic set in. She wasn't in her solar, and when she rushed to her door, she was locked in. Of course, that evil old man would have her locked in her chambers, the easier to kill her at his own convenience.

She slid down to the ground, leant against the door. Her little daughter was out there and Elia was certain the end was nigh. It wouldn't be long now. Either Tywin Lannister threw in his lot with them – unlikely, when he despised both Aerys and herself in equal measures – or he sided with Baratheon. Or perhaps Aerys would kill her before either happened. It almost wrung out an embittered laugh but the tears didn't fall. Her pride remained intact.

She found herself jerking awake when the noises reached her. She heard the sound of yells, marching feet, and she quickly drew to the bassinet. She held the baby against her breast, made sure to look like a vision of maternal love and devotion.

When the doors were smashed open, she knew it was futile. The monster that loomed several feet over her, leers on his lips, lecherous eyes washing over her. She saw his eyes pause on her bruises and injuries, saw the same hideous delight that she saw in the Mad King's eyes and she knew her death would be more horrific than she could have ever imagined. When he gripped her arms, bruises sure to form where his fingers were tightening, she nearly dropped the baby. She clutched him tighter to her chest, the reality that he would die finally stirring up remnants of empathy she thought long lost these previous months. She was dragged to the Throne Room, and somehow, the sight of the old man dead by the sword of his only remaining Kingsguard did not elicit any surprise. The sight of Tywin Lannister by his son elicited even less.

'Princess,' the word sounded as big an insult coming from Tywin Lannister's mouth as it had coming from Aerys'. 'I'm sure you know what's happened.'

His lips thinned and he looked distinctively unimpressed as she raised a shoulder in response. 'The Crown Prince is dead.' He eyed her for a response that was not forthcoming. Eventually, he continued. 'So is Robert Baratheon.'