Jon
Elia's daughter always struck Jon as more Martell than Targaryen. She'd inherited her mother's hair and face. Rhaegar's look on her was only subtle, the sharp eyebrows and the keen purple eyes beneath with a certain cunning that could have come from either parent.
"Did Rhaegar ever tell you why he ran off?" Elia set Rhaenys down, looking out the window at the city below, where Jon could see the Great Sept of Baelor towering in the distance. The sun had risen, but not high enough to stop the Red Keep from casting a long shadow over the rooftops. Rhaegar and his son's funeral would soon begin, and Jon had decided to come and exchange a few words with Elia before they set off.
"I don't know," he said, looking at the ground, sitting on Rhaegar's old chair. Thanks to troubles at home, he was not there to say farewell when his silver prince departed Dragonstone on the journey that would bring him to Lyanna Stark. They only met again after Jon's disastrous defeat at the Battle of the Bells, a year past since they'd parted ways at the tourney at Harrenhal. Rhaegar never explained why he'd given the blue garland of roses to Lyanna in place of his wife, and so too did he remain quiet when Jon had tried to question him over what had happened between them. Jon looked back at Elia, who had turned to listen. "When I finally met Rhaegar on the road back to Harrenhal, he told me only that he regretted it," he said. "He was never comfortable when I asked about Lyanna, so I learned to stop asking." Elia leant back in her chair, deep in thought.
Rhaenys came over to him stiffly, a blood-red dragon sewn into the black velvet dress that concealed the bandages over her shoulder wound. Her mother had chosen that one in particular for her coronation, for its resemblance to Rhaegar's court garb, which also tended towards the melancholy. The girl's eyes had red in them; she must have wept for her brother recently. After hesitating, Jon let her sit on his good knee, rocking slowly her from side to side, smiling sadly. He had cause enough himself to weep, but they had to remain strong today. And for many days onward.
"Do you not resent that he kept such a secret from you, his best friend?" Elia asked.
"I never thought about it that way," Jon admitted. It was not his place to ask the heir such questions, and besides, he trusted Rhaegar to do what was right. Even setting Elia aside for some Stark girl he'd barely even met? Jon quelled the thought. "I know he would have told me... eventually."
"When he returned, just before he set off to fight Robert, he told me as much." Elia gestured at Jon. "In this very room."
It dawned on him that Elia meant to say Rhaegar had been right where Jon was seated. "What did he say?" Jon blurted out.
"He seemed overcome with guilt, almost to tears. It was hard to hate my husband when he was like that. I asked him about the Stark girl, he told me I would understand in time, but I think he was doubting himself. When he embraced me and our children farewell, I could feel him trembling. It was as if he knew something would go wrong. It was as if he knew he was going to die, that all this would happen. But if he knew, then why did he not try to prevent it?"
"The future is for the gods to decide. Did he possess the gift of Daenys the Dreamer?" Jon said.
Rhaenys looked up curiously when she heard the name. "Who was that?"
"A Targaryen lady who foresaw the destruction of Valyria in her dreams," Jon said.
Recognition glinted in Rhaenys's eyes. "The Doom," she said triumphantly.
Jon smiled. "She was the savior of your forbears. Remember that." Rhaenys probably only understood half of it, since with a confused expression, she returned to her mother, who hoisted her into her lap.
"Rhaegar's mother told me he had the gift," Elia said, running her fingers through her daughter's brown hair. "Though she called it a curse. He never slept easily. The morning before our daughter was born, I found him out of our bed staring at the sea, his cheeks wet with tears. He never was quite as warm after that, though he never told me why. He tried his best to hide it when Rhaenys was around."
"I always thought it was the burden of being a father," Jon said. "Perhaps I was wrong of that?"
"We will never know for sure."
Jon picked a piece of wood from the floor, and gingerly slid it into the hearth. "Why did you decide so quickly your daughter would be made Queen, after Tywin Lannister and the King made it clear they would kill your children over their claim?"
"My daughter's claim can be a dagger at her back, or the shield on her arm," Elia said, clutching Rhaenys close to her bosom with her good arm. "If you wish to speak of how men are out to kill us, please have the courtesy to not do so in my daughter's presence." She patted Rhaenys's head down when she looked up at the mention.
Jon bowed his head. He had indeed been foolish. "Please accept my apology then, My Lady."
Elia nodded. "It is forgiven."
"If I must be brusque," he said, taking a deep breath, "I am sorry that I let your husband die. I was unworthy of Rhaegar, and I was wrong to think you unworthy to be his wife. He wanted single combat with Robert, did not want to endanger his men in a fight over a quarrel he himself had begun. But I should not have allowed it. If I had only the courage to tell my best friend that his life mattered more than my own..." He blinked back tears, sure that his eyes were becoming red.
"It is not your fault," Elia said, taken aback. "I loved him as much as you did, but Rhaegar's death was not your doing, nor I do yet see a white cloak on your shoulders. He chose to fight Robert alone. It was not by your hand that he was slain."
"I broke his wish and my men killed Robert. I could have saved him."
Elia carried Rhaenys to her small bed in the corner, then turned and crossed her arms, looking hard into his eyes. "Let it go, Jon." Elia's voice was dead serious. "I know how you must feel, but it is not good to dwell on the dead. Think of the living. Rhaegar and my son are dead, and that cannot be changed. If you truly remain his loyal friend, protect his wife and daughter from the dogs who would see them dead."
Jon knelt at her feet. "I will die before I see you or your daughter harmed," he promised. "By the Father Above, by all the Seven, I swear it. On my life."
The funeral procession began at the castle gates, announced by a humble assortment of horns and trumpets on the red battlements and the tolling of a lonesome, ponderous bell from the Great Sept of Baelor. Elia Martell led the way holding hands with her daughter, guarded by a motley ring of knights, Jon among them, headed by Elia's uncle. All wore black, the Targaryen color. Elia insisted on walking, and since no one should ride when the Queen Mother is not, all were forced to go on foot. Myles and Jon both walked with staff in hand, both limping from their wounds. Behind them, a single horse pulled a small cart carrying Aegon's body, the red-fletched Lannister quarrel still embedded the infant's chest.
As they walked through the streets, cityfolk poured out of the doors and alleys to look, and on their faces were visible horror and disgust at the evil deed that had been done. Elia walked upright and proudly, but could not hide the tears, and perhaps she did not want to. Her brother Oberyn tried to comfort her with whispers, but could only steady her. Myles looked at the ground, eyes red. Jon could not bring himself to weep, but felt no better for it. And with every other heavy ring of the bell, led by a septon and a septa on either side and bowed beneath his crystal crown, the High Septon repeated, "King Aerys and Tywin Lannister did this."
The sun hammered down on their heads mercilessly, even as black clouds gathered in the east, carried on a westerly wind. Jon's thick tunic beneath his ringmail hauberk was soaked with sweat and though he did not wear a helm or hood, his neck felt like it was burning, like the wound on his leg. The High Septon did not seem all too bothered by the heat, but Rhaenys soon had to be carried; she was barely more than three years old, so there was no shame in it.
Soon waterskins were passed around from the smallfolk, a welcome relief, though Jon only drank from the one skin he brought on his belt. He knew full well where their water came from.
The Guildhall of the Alchemists was still under light guard when they passed through Fire Square and up Visenya's Hill. The gentle slope seemed less welcoming in the heat, step after step, but after the procession finished toiling its way up, the statue of Baelor was there to welcome them, overshadowed by the Great Sept towering behind. They stopped here for a while to wait in the plaza, as worshippers who'd come for their morning prayers jostled to see what had caused the commotion. Jon was glad to see they were nearly as outraged as him.
"King Aerys and Tywin Lannister did this." After mingling with the crowd for a time, the High Septon and his attendants made their way to the top of the steps and onto the raised pulpit outside the doors. There, his crystal crown glistening bright in the sun, he began to speak to the seething crowd below in a voice scarcely recognizable from the frail man to whom it belonged. Jon and the others pulled closer around Elia and Rhaenys, wary of any hidden blades in the press of bodies around them.
"I summoned you here to announce the death of Prince Aegon Targaryen, son of the late Rhaegar Targaryen. As you may have already heard, he was murdered on the orders of the King, and his servant, Tywin Lannister. Today we mourn for him, and commemorate the life of his father who was so cruelly ripped away from us. And now I have a question for you all. Will we allow the King and his child-murdering kinslaying to go unpunished? Will this grave crime against the laws of gods and men go unpunished?"
"No!" Jon shouted with the crowd, waving his fist.
The High Septon raised his arms for silence, and let the cries for justice dwindle reluctantly back to whispers. "King Aerys is no king of ours! Had Aegon survived his grandfather's wickedness, the throne would pass to him. But here he lies slain! His sister was his heir, and now she ascends to her rightful place!"
Lewyn Martell hastily helped his niece and her daughter ascend the steps, as Jon, Myles, and the other guards hurried to keep the cordon tight amidst the cheering crowd.
"Where is the crown?" Jon shouted at Lewyn, cursing the leg wound that made him stumble more than once. Lewyn seemingly did not hear, but two Dornish knights jostled past them both with a black wooden box in hand, hinged in gold. At the back of the pulpit, the High Septon's attendants stopped them all.
"Give this to the High Septon," Lewyn told Elia, before bringing the guards to stand back. Rhaegar's wife was allowed through with her daughter, then the septons and septas closed ranks to bar the way behind them. Jon glimpsed something golden glinting in her hands before it passed out of sight again. Was that the crown? And which one was it? Aerys's, the ugly fat one commissioned by Aegon the Unworthy?
Rhaenys came to the edge of the pulpit with the High Septon towering behind her.
"This is your queen," he said. "The picture of innocence, a soul pure and true, one worthy to follow in Baelor's line!" He raised his hands over the little girl's head, and there a circlet gleamed like fire in the sun, before he laid it on her head. The crowd began cheering again.
Jon recognized Aegon Dragonbane's crown on Rhaenys's head, gold and unadorned. It had not been worn since they pulled it out of the ashes of Summerhall, when the last man to wear it had perished in the flames. Jon wondered if that was a bad omen, but the circlet was also a wise choice, for it was light enough for a child, and it recalled the last king the smallfolk had truly loved. The High Septon let the applause run its course.
"All hail Rhaenys of the House Targaryen, the Second of her Name, Queen of the Andals and the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lady of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm!"
Jon, the High Septon, Myles, Lewyn, Oberyn, and all those around shouted as one the words poised on their lips. "Long may she reign!"
Aegon was laid to rest in the sept beside his father, where they would lie in state for the next few days. Then they would be burned. Elia Martell and her daughter were the first to pay their respects, after the High Septon delivered a sermon to begin the funeral. When the Queen and her mother at last walked away to the doors, Lewyn and Oberyn went to comfort them, rather than pay respects themselves.
The Great Sept of Baelor was filled with people who had come to pray or mourn or both. The High Septon stood beside the dead father and son, offering kind words. Seeing Elia and her daughter safely amongst the other guards, Jon made his way through the crowd to Rhaegar. Myles was already there, staring blankly at the bodies as people jostled around him. Jon joined him. The Silent Sisters had laid the bodies in incense to disguise the smell, but they would have to treat Aegon's body to forestall the decay that had begun within. Aegon's body still had the quarrel stuck in it, dried blood still lingering on the wooden shaft and fletching. His eyes were mercifully closed, his arms and legs huddled around the dart. I failed you, Jon thought.
Nothing he could tell had changed on Rhaegar's face from the night before, but in daylight the look of death was clearer to see. The skin was wrinkled, receding to the bone on the cheeks and on the neck and by the temple, and as a whole the prince had a tired look about him. Jon bowed his head. I let Robert kill you, and I let your son be killed as well.
"I will protect your wife and daughter to the best of my ability. I swear it. That is all I can do." Jon whispered, looking in Rhaegar's glassen eyes. They did not look back. "Farewell, my prince." He put a hand on Myles's shoulder. "Come. We have still the living to fight for." Myles looked at Rhaegar. "All right, I will be with the Queen." Jon was halfway to the doors when the knight came rushing behind him through the crowd. He stopped and waited until Myles caught up, but it was too loud in the sept to hear what he was saying, so after waving him to silence, Jon led him to the Hall of Lamps, where the Queen and her mother were making their way out with their attendants, amidst the acrid smell of smoke.
Myles seemed aggrieved, and he did not try to speak again.
"Shall we return to the Red Keep?" Jon said, looking at Rhaenys. Her eyes were drooping, almost shut, as her head poked over Oberyn's shoulder. Elia stood beside her brother, patting her daughter on the head.
Lewyn nodded. "My niece and her daughter exhausted, and we prefer to pray to our gods in silence." The doors fell shut behind them as they stepped into the hot air outside. "I arranged for squires to bring us horses, so we can move quicker..."
Jon craned his head over the crowd and there indeed were some men with steeds, waiting in the plaza below at the statue of Baelor. "I leave you at the gate, so I can inspect the defenses."
"I will come as well," Myles finally said, as they made their way down. "The air... would do me good."
At the foot of the stairs, Lewyn stopped abruptly. Jon's leg flared up, and he almost stumbled on the last three steps trying to avoid hitting him. Something loud crashed behind him, so as he regained his balance, he looked over his shoulder.
Then a flash of green light blinded him for an instant. The Sept of Baelor exploded with a roar, as pieces of masonry and glass and metal flew in all directions, long tongues of green flame rushing out greedily in their wake. The air rushed past Jon in the strongest gust he'd felt, and suddenly his face was burning.
"It is wildfire!" someone shouted, slapping Jon's head for a moment before running off. Protect the Queen! Jon rushed to the foot of Baelor's plinth, where he'd last seen her. The statue had fallen to pieces, and an arm and a leg stuck out of the rubble. Someone was already trying to pull it out, helm cast aside and an ugly gash across his head. Jon and others came to help, and dug out Elia Martell, covered with bruises and barely moving. Rhaenys was protected under her chest and seemed unscathed, her head bare, but she was crying. The ground shook again and wildfire burst out of cracks in the ground. In the smoke someone managed to find a horse and then another.
Lewyn came and mounted one and slung his niece over his arm. "Take Rhaenys out of here!" he shouted. Oberyn was nowhere to be seen, so Jon took the Queen himself and climbed into the saddle clutching her to his chest. Lewyn spurred his horse down the street and Jon followed. The remaining people behind ran in his wake, bearing the wounded as fast as they could, as smoke filled the air and the houses began to burn. Hot air buffeted Jon's face and his eyes began to water. Lewyn hastened his pace down Visenya's Hill, swerving to avoid a flaming timber beam falling to the cobbles ahead. Townsfolk rushed to and fro, bearing buckets, their treasures, their loved ones, all shouting, all panicked. Jon wove past them as best he could without slowing. The flames were everywhere.
Just when Fire Square came in sight around a bend, a wall collapsed just behind Lewyn, crushing a group of begging brothers fleeing in the same direction, and hiding the Kingsguard. Jon stopped for a moment, before turning to a narrower path to the right. The horse was tiring, but he urged it on. The air was like a fire itself now, and again and again Jon had to blink. His chest burned from the fumes, and drove him to coughing. Rhaenys was paralyzed with fright and had wrapped her arms around his neck in a death grip.
Jon turned left at the next opportunity, but then his horse stumbled and threw them on the street. He managed to roll safely to the side and protect Rhaenys from the worst of it, but a rock had gauged deep into her shoulder. He unslung his cloak and wrapped it around her to stem the bleeding, and ran to the horse. Its leg was broken; it would never walk again. With the fire drawing closer from the street they'd just left, he drew his sword and slit its throat, before breaking into a run, passing a group of women bursting out of a brothel.
He went downhill, knowing it would lead at least to a wider street. The way was growing crowded the further he went, numerous poor souls left behind in the rush, where hundreds of desperate feet had stampeded over their bodies. There was not enough time to sheath his sword, so he cast it on the ground and kept moving. He reached Fire Square quickly. The Guildhall of the Alchemists stood alone unharmed, ringed by burning buildings. It was only the girl hanging on to him that spurred him to leave the accursed pyromancers alone. The Red Keep was not far, towering over the burning city untouched. That place would be safest.
A man ahorse was up ahead, sharing his steed with a woman. Lewyn waved him over. Jon tried to hand Rhaenys to him, but he dismounted and stopped him. "You will be faster with just her," Lewyn said, helping Elia off. "We can go from here, and my niece is in no state to ride."
"Hurry!" Elia said. Nodding, Jon climbed in and spurred the horse to a gallop. Rhaenys cried at being separated from her mother.
"Shhhh. She will be okay. You will be safe soon." The fires were lesser here, and lines of people feverishly passed buckets of water from the wells. Jon stopped his horse at a bend and looked back partway up Aegon's Hill, where groups of refugees looked for refuge. The city was in flames. Visenya's Hill was shrouded in flame, a great column of smoke rising. The Dragonpit too was aflame, the shattered dome veiled in smoke, the whole of Rhaenys's Hill, too, burning. The flames thrust out into the city below like blades, reaching greedily for the wooden shacks of Flea Bottom, where the greatest potential for fire was—Jon turned away and spurred his horse on. Rhaenys had stopped crying again, but he could feel her breath on his neck. She would need a maester.
The gates had been thrown open to allow the smallfolk shelter. Jon and Rhaenys passed beneath the portcullis and through the courtyard and the inner gatehouse. At the inner ward in the shadow of Maegor's Holdfast, he found the tower of the rookery, where Edwyn, Ser Myles Mooton's maester, had taken up residence in Pycelle's forced absence. After dismounting awkwardly, cursing his leg, he turned the doorknob with one hand and shouldered it open.
"The Queen has been wounded!" The rookery was dim, littered with cages, lit only by a beam of light from the window. A raven cawed in the dark. Jon went down the spiral stairs instead to the chambers below. At the bottom he almost bumped into Edwyn, one of the few maesters he'd seen who were still young enough to travel. "The Queen is injured," Jon repeated breathlessly, handing Rhaenys to him.
Edwyn looked back at him curiously, then rushed to his table and laid her down, shoving aside scattered scrolls and inkwells to make room. "Where?"
Jon pointed at her left shoulder. "Here! My horse threw us in the street."
The maester looked at the dried blood on the cloak Jon had wrapped over it, and went to a shelf. He returned with strips of linen.
"Don't hurt me," Rhaenys whimpered.
Jon ran his fingers through her hair and found blood on his fingers. "You will be fine." He turned and whispered in Edwyn's ear. "She is bleeding on her head as well."
Edwyn nodded. "I understand." As the maester set to work, wetting a rag in wine to clean the wound, Jon's eyes drifted to a ring. It was plain and of gold. He realized Rhaenys's crown must have been lost. Nothing can be done of it, he thought. The maester was scrubbing the girl's head with a wet rag against her protests, bandages ready on the table.
Jon looked back at the ring. The candle standing beside it flickered in a breeze from the window, where he suddenly noticed a raven perched. Its leg was empty. Jon looked across the table, looking for a small parchment... There! Jon snatched it from beneath the tome that had held it down, and began reading.Greetings, Brother. I hope this reaches you in time, for time is short now. I learned shortly after your departure that our brother Kevan has been captured by the Ironborn. Lord Crakehall has begun negotiations for his release, but if news reaches Riverrun that Lord Hoster Tully or some other Riverlander rebel of note has been executed by the King, Kevan will pay for it dearly. Do everything in your power to convince the King of the need for mercy, at least temporarily. If that fails, do all you can to prevent the news from reaching the Riverlands. Kevan's life depends on it. A yellow ribbon hung from the end, pinned in place with red wax stamped with the lion's seal of House Lannister.
Tywin Lannister had sent this. Jon looked again at the ring on the table. A ruby was set into it which he had not noticed earlier. Carven into its flat top face was the dragon sigil of House Targaryen. Belatedly he realized it was the King's signet ring. Jon strode to the open window, careful to not disturb the Lannister raven perched at the rim. He looked out to sea, and saw a great fleet in the distance. The Royal Fleet had come to cut them off. He looked west, and saw the city wreathed in flames. And as the wind whistled in his ear, it carried down the sound of hacking laughter. Rage, burning rage filled his heart. Jon trod back to the table and opened the box where fresh raven-parchments were stored. He took as many as he could, ignoring maester Edwyn's raised eyebrows, and the burning pain he suddenly felt on his face. He dipped a black quill in black ink, and began to write.