A/N: Happy New Year! This was gonna come sooner, but I got sick over the holidays and it got delayed. Feel 100% better so here we are :D

Enjoy and please comment :D

Chapter 58: Settling Accounts

Lurching backward, the panicked cry of the goldcloak were muffled by a gloved hand clamped over his mouth. The frantic writhing ended quickly as Jaime brought up his dagger and slit the man's throat. Corpse slumping in his hand, the knight dumped it in a dark corner of the street and sighed. Thankful there was no blood on his tunic.

There was no honor in this, but Jaime cared little. For you, my beautiful dragon. There were more important things in the world than honor, and Rhaella Targaryen was one of them.

"Coast is clear," he whispered, motioning to the dark alleyway. Out emerged a slight figure in a cloak, though it did little to hide her feminine curves. "We need to get moving."

"How much longer?" came a whining voice - male, but rather high-pitched. One of a boy rather than a man. Behind his mother was a boy of six namedays or so. Oddly, he possessed the same silver thatch of hair, but shaven close. "Tell me, lion," he demanded with the same haughtiness as any spoiled highborn brat, only without the gilt that showed off the wealth.

"My little one," his mother - who introduced herself as simply 'Sarra' when Jaime showed up at the house next to Chataya's - cooed at him. "You need to be quiet, or else the bad ones will find us."

"See!" Unlike her brother, the smaller girl, far younger - about Princess Rhaenys' age - said as she emerged from the alley, trailed by another boy, holding an infant in his arms. Sarra held another, one large, innocent family that Varys seemed to think so vital to protect that he sent a knight of the Kingsguard to sneak them to a boat in the harbor. "Stupid, stupid, stupid!" Reminds me of Cersei at that age.

Except for the bright silver hair that tumbled about her head - or the violet eyes set deep in her eyes. Every single one of them had some combination of the Valyrian traits, including the raven-haired Sarra with her purple eyes. From Lys, no doubt. Varys was a native of the city, so perhaps of his family.

Jaime truly didn't care. All that mattered to him was protecting Rhaella - if dancing to Varys' tune was needed for that, he didn't ask questions. "Follow me. The docks are close."

The city was deserted, a curfew imposed by Jon Connington immediately upon returning from Stony Sept. All information about the "Battle of the Bells" was banned from conversation on penalty of death - Aerys' rages already led to fifteen seperate immolations of anyone that looked at him in a quirky manner - but the word got out anyway. Discontent was rising, even if Commander of the City Watch Manly Stokeworth and Willam Darry kept a tight lid.

Passing across a large street, the lack of foot traffic benefitted Jaime and his charges. They guided back into a smelly alley - it was narrow and winding, but dark.

Boisterous laughter rang out ahead of them, causing Jaime to hold his hand up. "Wait." He tilted his head, trying to listen. Hearing the jingle of mail armor above the laughter. Goldcloaks… Under Manly Stokeworth and various bribe payments, they were some of the few still loyal to King Aerys. "Stay here," he whispered. "And quiet." Too many voices for him to take on.

While Sarra and her daughter seemed just as keen to listen as he did, the oldest boy started to whine. "I'm cold…"

"Shut it."

"You can't tell me…"

"Shut it," the girl hissed, kicking her older brother in the shin. Yes, exactly like Cersei.

But even the hushed tones, there was a reason Jaime shushed them. "Who's there?!" Everyone froze as the sound of swords drawn filled the air. "Show yourself, in the name of King Aerys!" Slowly, the glow of lanterns approached the alley.

Jaime acted fast. "Children, stay." Before the boy could complain, the girl clasped her hand over his mouth. Smart. "Drop the babe," he told Sarra, who nodded.

"I'm not going to ask again! Show yourself!"

Quickly, Jaime unlaced his tunic and loosened his breeches, glad Sarra didn't say anything when he suddenly rumpled her hair and dress. "Apologies," he murmured genuinely before adopting a cocky grin more suited to a Lannister than not. Without another word, he stepped out into the light. "Alright, alright… I'm coming out. No need to be rude."

Before him were three men, various coinpurses dangling from their rusting armor. Only the best and most noble for the institution of Daemon Targaryen. "Ser Jaime," their leader said, lowering his blade. "Forgive me, but I didn't expect you to be here."

"I didn't expect to be… here myself, but urges are urges."

Of course, Manly Stokeworth didn't choose the brightest of torches to serve as Aerys' glorified thugs. "What do you mean? Explain yourself."

"Innuendo doesn't register, does it?" No response. "Of course… Wylla, come out." Sarra on the other hand had the possession of a keen mind, apparently, and immediately emerged. In a state of dishevelment, combined with Jaime's appearance there was no doubt as to what they were likely partaking in within the alley. Wrapping his arm around her waist, Jaime grinned. "As I said, urges."

Recognition dawned on the lead Goldcloak. "Ah… well, you have good taste, Ser Jaime… but why not go to Chataya's? Why stay…" he looked at the alley in disgust. "Here?"

Jaime scoffed. "My father is the one who shits gold from his puckered arse. Do you honestly think he'd want me to spend his coin on expensive whores? As if."

Each of the goldcloaks laughed uproariously at that. "I can't disagree." Shaking his head, the leader smirked. "Carry on, Ser Jaime. Enjoy yourself." Making an exaggerated motion with his hips mimicking frantic fornication, he burst out in laughter, trotting off with his men to parts unknown. Likely to find a whore of their own to enjoy.

As soon as their laughs had dissipated into the distance, Jaime deflated. Letting go of Sarra's waist. "That was close… forgiveness again, my Lady." He wished never to dishonor a woman, and frankly… Rhaella was the only woman he desired.

Her own chest throbbing from apprehension, Sarra pressed her hand against her heart. "No… it's fine. Thank you."

"You called my muna a whore?" The eldest boy hissed, face red with anger as he held his squirming infant brother. "How dare you, lion scum!"

A sharp kick slammed in his shin. "Stop being a goo-mind," snarled his little sister, fire in her violet eyes. "Stupid stupid stipid!" The girl had a dragon temper, almost a less delightful version of the Princess Rhaenys. Behind, the smaller boy came out, clutching the other infant tightly.

Running a hand through his hair, Jaime redid the ties of his breeches and motioned for them to follow. "Not long to the docks. Let's go."

The things I do for love.


"Dracarys." A pair of amber eyes blinked at Rhaegar, flickering between his heavily bandaged and bruised form and the little chunk of chicken the King had the Lannister quartermaster deliver for the lot of them. He shook his head, amused at the young dragon. "You're just like Rhae, always stubborn. Dracarys." Unfortunately nothing happened.

Several paces away, Ned Stark watched the scene in both confusion and awe. "What are you possibly doing?"

Looking back at his goodbrother, Rhaegar laughed. "I'm trying to get him to eat, but the little guy is too stubborn for his own good."

"Seems to be a Targaryen trait," Tywin Lannister huffed. Out of everyone, he seemed to be taking the matter of the dragons returning to Westeros the best… meant he picked the winning side in the game of thrones. "In this case, I suppose such fortitude will lead to greatness."

"It will lead to greatness, Lord Tywin." Ser Barristan looked exhausted, barely hiding his grief at the loss of Ser Gerold behind his wan smile - they would hold a ceremony for the White Bull that evening… before the Hightowers would take his body back to Oldtown. Like Oswell, the kingsguard chose to bury himself in his duty.

Ned, meanwhile, was far more concerned about his living goodbrother than the dead. "And what are you saying to him?"

"The Valyrian command for generating fire. Dragons can't eat raw flesh."

"So why not just burn the meat and feed it to him?"

Rhaegar rolled his eyes, both at Ned and the dragon that had so clearly bonded to him. "And have him dependent on me for everything? A dragon is a partner, not a pet… all the ancient tomes and family lore taught me that." One last time… "Dracarys."

Finally, it worked. The dragon started letting out tiny coughs that belched out puffs of smoke… until one puff ignited and bathed the chunk of chicken in a flash of dragonfire. One that made the Lords jump and Rhaegar beam. Chirping at the praise of his father, the dragon summarily dug into his now charred meat, the picture of contentment.

Leaving him to his meal, Rhaegar stood and motioned the men over to a group of camp chairs positioned around the map table. "Well, that was enlightening," he chuckled.

"Indeed, brother." Ned simply couldn't believe everything that happened. Some northmen in his army were calling Rhaegar some kind of god. "If I may ask, what is his name? If you consider him akin to your son, then he must have a name."

Such had made Rhaegar twist and turn on his sickbed for hours in contemplation, but he grinned as the perfect name filled his head. "Aegerax, god of all creatures that walk, run, swim or fly. Creator of the first dragon." He looked at the magnificent creature, adorable as the size of a cat but promising to be something far greater in only a few years time. "No more fitting name."

"They are calling him the Sunrise Dragon," Tywin added, sitting straight with his fingers drumming the table. "Most of my men are also calling you that… I would ask you how, but I presume you don't rightly know yourself."

There was no wonder Tywin Lannister was underestimated at one's own peril. He was whip smart and observant. "Anyways, my Lords." Rhaegar leaned forward. "My apologies in the delay, but where were we?"

Barristan sighed. "We were discussing what to do with the prisoners, your Grace."

Any amusement or joy that Rhaegar held from Aegarax was dashed by the knight's words - opening up a kettle of worms he really didn't wish to deal with. "You mean whether I should execute them or pardon them for their treason."

"It is not so simple, my King," Tywin noted - out of all of them, he had the most experience with such rebellious lords. "The smallfolk warriors are illiterate nothings. They'll follow anyone who feeds them, so let them go in dribs and drabs…"

"Done," Rhaegar decreed. "But do not allow them their combat weapons. Only when their Lords prove loyal will we return them." Tywin nodded, rather impressed by the young King. He will go far. "Now the highborns… most knights are likely fighting for glory or land, so the lesser ones will get what they desire if they bend the knee to me."

"It's not the knights you need to worry about, though that is aside from the ones that escaped with Lord Connington and Jonothor Darry ahead of capture." Rhaegar's face darkened. Tywin didn't care - it wasn't professional or kingly to let grudges cloud one's judgement. "You need to make an example of the rebellious Lords. Unlike the Knights or smallfolk, they bear direct responsibility."

But Ned shook his head. "No, spare them, Rhaegar." He seemed insistent. "They've committed no atrocities."

Tywin scoffed. "Rebelling against one's King is an atrocity in and of itself. I would think you of all people would know what atrocity they are complicit in."

Shoulders heavy, Ned knew more than anyone… but what sort of son would he be if he abandoned everything his father and foster father taught him out of pure vengeance. "Aerys should and will pay, as will those responsible for the burnings, but massacring half the lords of the Realm solves nothing except seeding the next war."

"Not if you place loyal lords in their place." Tywin rolled his eyes. "You just want your old friend spared…"

"Enough!" Rhaegar was getting a headache from all of this. "Ser Barristan. You've been quiet."

Withdrawn from the discussion, Barristan only entered back in at the request of his King. "Your Grace, a King must be firm and cognizant of his own best interests, such is the lesson of your Grandfather." Depriving himself of Bloodraven, his most able councilor, had likely ruined Aegon V. "But a King must also answer injustice with justice, as is the lesson of your father."

Thinking hard, it took several moments for Rhaegar to heed such advice. "I will pardon all Lords that fought against me but who didn't commit atrocities." Before Tywin could protest, he raised his hand. "But, they will be my prisoners until I ascend the throne, and they will need to pay tribute to the depleted Crown treasury if they are to win their freedom." He looked at each of his impromptu councilors. "As for the others… they will die and their holdings attained."

"Your Grace…"

"I've made my decision. You're dismissed." Tywin and Barristan nodded, accepting of the King's decree. Soon, only Ned was left. "Thank you… for sparing him," the Lord of Winterfell said as Rhaegar moved back to Aegarax.

A sigh of frustration left Rhaegar's lips. "My father acts solely out of vengeance, not I… but I certainly wish to bury Blackfyre into Robert's neck." Letting the sated dragon cuddle into his arms like a babe. "I saw the hate in his eyes… he wished to kill me. To take both Lya and Elia for his own…" His voice took a dark tinge to it.

Ned closed his eyes, willing himself to be calm. "I am sure Oswell or Barristan told you of my reaction to it… but that wasn't the Robert I grew up with. Perhaps this will be the kick in the ass he needs."

"Perhaps." Lya will not be pleased. Thinking of his northern bride - holding Aegarax as such - it brought Rhaegar's mind to a forlorn place. "Brother… your wife is due to give birth any time now, correct?"

Face falling, Ned nodded. "Aye. Catelyn's letters said she is about one moon away… according to Luwin."

"You still have a chance to get there to see your newborn… I haven't even seen little Jon. Over a moon old and he's still never known his father." Decades of wariness filled his gaze. "For that I blame myself."

"We've discussed this before. It wasn't your fault. I don't find it that way, and I'm damn sure my sister and goodsister don't blame you."

Rhaegar offered a wan smile. "Let's hope Rhae, Egg, and Jon don't see it that way."

At that moment, Ser Oswell entered. "Your Grace, there are two men requesting your audience."

"Who?"

"Ser Lewyn." Rhaegar's eyes widened. "And Lord Lucerys Velaryon." The surviving brother of the Kingsguard fighting for Aerys… Jonothor was clearly with Connington, while he figured Jaime was protecting his mother - that left Lewyn, and better he join Rhaegar now than too late. But Lord Lucerys was different, a member of Aerys' small council.

Smells like conniving. But House Velaryon was powerful. "Let them in."

Lewyn looked worn but powerful in his Kingsguard armor, swarthy and handsome. Lucerys had the Valyrian beauty as most of his House, long the close ally of House Targaryen, but his skin was pale - the man nervous. "Your… your Grace," he stammered for the both of them.

Deprived of their swords, both ended in simply bending the knee. "From this day," both said, voices firm yet an undercurrent of nervousness filling them. "Until I die, I recognize no King but Rhaegar Targaryen."

Scrutinizing both, Rhaegar's expression softened. "Rise." He walked forward and clasped the kingsguard's arm. "Ser Lewyn, it heartens me to see you here."

"I would have come sooner, but matters weren't safe." The uncle to the Queen grew worried. "Is Elia…"

"She is well, as are her children and Lyanna." One matter was never in doubt, the loyalty of the Prince turned Kingsguard to his niece - such allowed Rhaegar the latitude to trust him. "Oswell, return to him his blade. He is a sworn brother, after all." Rhaegar turned to Lord Lucerys. "Now, what should keep me from throwing you in the traitors' pens, Lord Velaryon."

Lucerys gulped. "I… you understand what happened to Lord Celtigar, no? I couldn't let the Driftmark be so gutted by your father."

"You speak true, which is why I won't kill you now that you're here." Rhaegar rather enjoyed the craven man's shaking. "But twenty thousand gold dragons to the Crown as restitution, and you lose your position on the Small Council." Lucerys bowed his head in resignation, knowing it was but a small price to pay to escape the likely fate of most of the Crownlands lords. "But I will need a larger token of your loyalty."

That seemed to perk him up. "The Velaryon fleet is mustering. Combined with the Dornish we shall blockade King's Landing and prevent any escape."

Rhaegar raised an eyebrow. "Dornish?"

"Your Grace," Lewyn interjected. "My nephews sail from Dorne with fifteen thousand spears at your command." Looking at Ned, in all honesty Rhaegar didn't know what to feel.

Welcome to the game of thrones. As Crown Prince it was crippling, but as King he knew what fate awaited him if he lost.


Willam Darry pounded a fist atop the table. "Seven Hells, you are being a fucking fool, Connington."

"You dare speak to the Hand in that manner, Darry?" he shot back at the Red Keep Master-at-Arms.

Scoffing, Symun "Silveraxe" Fell crossed his arms. "Considering you're the Hand of a madman who controls nothing outside the walls of the city, then I wouldn't think you have any weight to throw around." Whispers were everywhere in the keep, but it was clear the gathered knights of the Realm didn't care anymore.

Ser Jonothor Darry made it quite clear as to why. "It's over, Connington. Rhaegar is going to march for the city and take it, for there's no army left to defend it." The last member of the Kingsguard who wasn't loyal to the King-claimant, he didn't know why he was approaching the broken Hand of the King, but something told him that they'd need his strategic mind in the future. "We're leaving the capitol. Ser Jaramy," he gestured to the heir to Duskendale, "Has procured a ship flying the colors of the Sealord of Braavos. We can leave tonight."

"I am not leaving while there's still a chance…"

Lifting him up by his collar, Ser Jonothor slammed Connington against a column. "Open your eyes, you fucking fool! The King is deluded, Rossart is running the entire keep, and Rhaegar is bent on killing us all!" There was no doubt in that - no matter how deep Connington's fantasies were, all of them had committed more atrocities than could be counted. "It's either between our exile or our deaths, so are you in or not?"

"We…"

"No, the Dornish are set to blockade us with the Velaryons. Make up your mind! In or out?!"

A long, deep breath fled Connington's lungs. Easy to read, a sign of resignation and acceptance in the reality he now found himself in. "Well?" Jonothor demanded. "Are you coming with us or do you want Blackfyre to take your neck?"

"Leave me, I need a moment before we flee."

"Gods damn it, Connington," Silveraxe began to snarl.

He was cut off by Ser Jonothor. "You have a quarter hour, otherwise we leave without you and you can face Rhaegar's wrath." His white cloak unfurled as he spun around and marched for the door. Behind, Fell, Rykker, and Ser Willam followed - each shooting contemptuous looks at the fallen Lord of Griffin's Roost.

Jumping slightly as the Ironwood doors slammed shut, Connington's knees buckled. Forced to prop himself against a column to keep from collapsing. He heaved, hand clutching his stomach. The urge to vomit was strong and it took all his self-control not to. Gods… what had happened? How had all of this happened?

Ripping the Hand of the King pin from his breast, he flung it across the room.

Staggering against the large map table, the kingdoms of Westeros stared back at him as if mockingly. The Westerlands, Tywin and his war machine annihilating all his plans. Dorne, home of the frail slut that begun tearing Rhaegar from him. The North, a frozen wasteland from which the wildling whore charged out of to finish the job that Dorne started. You took Rhaegar from me… you destroyed everything I fought to build.

From his gambeson, he pulled out a folded sheet of parchment. One that had been in the chest of his most priceless possessions, but he had taken to carrying it on his person since arriving from the disaster at Stony Sept. A letter from Rhaegar, one before the betrothals and the chaos, when things were normal. When all was possible, the restoration of Targaryen greatness something the two of them would accomplish together.

Slowly he walked to a brazier. It wasn't to be… perhaps it never was, doomed to failure as soon as the Mad King chose to spite Tywin by betrothing Rhaegar to Elia Martell rather than Cersei Lannister. Cersei… that harpy would have been so much easier to deal with. Wallflower she seemed, Elia was a snake just like all the Martells, and once Lyanna Stark was in the mix all hope was lost.

Hope lost… Free hand curling around the hilt of the dagger strapped to his waist, Connington came close to plunging it in his stomach. Ending it all. But a feeling came to him. One soothing, seductive, if dark.

"You will still achieve greatness. Leave, Jon. Leave and return the right hand of them that shall rule all."

His hand left the hilt of the blade. Turning towards the flames, the fingers holding the letter trembled. For the briefest moment, Connington could see black swirls within… but it lasted but a moment.

Tears trailing down his cheeks, Connington pitched the scroll into the brazier. Boots clicking on the Pentosi marble lining the floor, he didn't look back to watch the parchment inscribed with his Silver Prince's words combust in a bright orange-red glow. Taking all his once vibrant hopes and dreams up in smoke with it.


Alone, as the soaked rags passed over the cuts and bruises of his upper body, Rhaegar didn't hold back the winces and groans as his skin stung and ached. Among the loyal and trustworthy - at least those proven trustworthy even recently - he didn't need to put on the stoic airs necessary for those less trustworthy. That didn't mean he wasn't impatient. "Can you hurry this up?"

Chuckling, Melisandre clicked her tongue disapprovingly. The Red Priestess reverently washed his chest wounds with the wine-soaked rag. "Concern yourself with the great miracles, your Grace." Aegarax poked his head up from the cushion in which he was sleeping, as if sensing he was being talked about - it wasn't long before he tucked back into a curl and fell asleep again. "The King that brought the dragons back shouldn't bother himself over common wound treatment."

"I wouldn't, if it didn't hurt like… seven hells," he hissed at another sting. "Perhaps I should get a maester?"

"Should I be insulted, your Grace?" Septon Meribald, growing belly jostling with mirth, tightly wrapped the linen bandages around Rhaegar's upper arm. "I may have studied elsewhere in Oldtown, but I have far more practical healing experience than those stuffy fools."

Curling his fingers and tightening his biceps, Rhaegar admitted that Meribald knew what he was doing. Not too tight yet not loose either. "No insult, Septon." The kindly, barefoot man of the Faith grew popular on both sides, tending to the wounded and handing out rations to the prisoners all day. It was a miracle he hadn't collapsed from exhaustion. "Where will you go from here, if I may ask?"

The septon pursed his lips in thought. "Was thinking of going back to Oldtown, but methinks his Grace will need some spiritual guidance in the near future… if he bids me well?"

"You may accompany me." Meribald bowed and took his leave, bandages all redressed where needed. "I hope to trust him, but the Faith was never loyal to dragonriders."

"I do not get along with the Faith," Melisandre concurred. "But Meribald is trustworthy, I believe. Make him High Septon."

"There is already a High Septon." As she pulled away, he reached for his tunic and pulled it over his head.

Melisandre smirked darkly. "You are the Sunrise Dragon. Does the Starry Sept stop you?" A word of advice she left him to ponder.

Garlan entered the tent next - the once eager and adventurous young highborn of the Reach had aged overnight into a tough young warrior. Face hard, back ramrod straight, the loss of his older brother and the realities of combat destroyed all ideals and joys out of knighthood for him. Rhaegar despaired it, but was glad the boy had become a man. "How is your father, Garlan?"

Already helping Rhaegar donning his armor - the last task of his squire duties before Rhaegar would knight him as Ser Garlan Tyrell - Garlan sighed. "Not well, though your paroling him to escort Willas' body to Highgarden is helping."

"I made the promise to your grandmother. She did… pay his ransom fee and more beforehand." Eyes flickered to Aegarax, who continued to sleep peacefully.

The dragon seemed to perk Garlan up a bit. "Still seems impossible."

Fully dressed, armor polished and fitting as magnificently as any of his past Tourneys, Rhaegar walked over to his dragon and scooped him up. Earning a surprised squawking for his trouble. "You're telling me. One and a half centuries since the last dragon, and here one is. By the grace of the gods, I have the chance to restore House Targaryen to greatness." Aegarax chirped and scrambled on his shoulder, as if the picture of joy.

"You'll have my undying loyalty, your Grace."

"Thank you, Garlan. I couldn't ask for a better Warden of the South… at least in the future."

Clipping Blackfyre to his waist, the rightful King made his way out of the tent. Outside waited Moondancer, the mounted figures of Ned, Tywin, Melisandre, Ser Barristan, and Ser Oswell patiently standing still for him to arrive. Hooking his boot into the stirrup, Rhaegar closed his eyes and thought of his beloved brides. I love you… soon we'll be back together.

"Ready, your Grace?" Ned asked from beside him.

"As I'll ever be, goodbrother." Cracking the reins, Moondancer lurched forward, leading the procession of Lords and knights towards the thousands of awaiting troops.

He rode on to the middle of the camp, past hundreds of knights and thousands of men-at-arms gathered to see the King off. All were quiet, gaping at awe at the first dragon in centuries and the great Targaryen King that brought him from the stone. Even the prisoners fenced off from the victors stared at Aegarax - cowed and amazed by the greatness of Rhaegar I Targaryen. From Randyll Tarly to Baelor Hightower, all knew they would soon need to bend the knee formally before the great Targaryen King.

Tuckered into a corner, Robert Baratheon glowered. Unknowing of what to do or how to proceed… I hope the Mad King kills you, dragonspawn.

Assembled before them were twenty thousand Westermen, their armor clean and bodies well-rested. Unlike the rest of the savaged armies of the Sunrise Dragon, they were ready to march and confront the Mad King within the Red Keep - to prove their loyalty and the loyalty of their liege Lord in this brave new world. "Gods save the Sunrise Dragon!" someone called out.

"Long may he reign!"

"LONG MAY HE REIGN!"

Rhaegar took a steady breath and wheeled the horse around, letting the army catch a glimpse of him and Aegarax. Wanting it over, but knowing this moment would be one where his words were needed.

"Men of House Targaryen!" he boomed, putting an end to the last of the whispers and binding all under the three-headed dragon. ''Long ago, Aegon, Visenya, and Rhaenys Targaryen forged the greatest empire the world has ever seen under the shadow of their dragons. Behind them were the combined armies of this land, fighting against the siren song of the past in favor of the glory of the future. A future where Andal, Rhoynar, and First Man surpassed the greatness of the Valyrians past."

Letting Aegarax pull up his head at full height, Rhaegar knew he had their attention. "The gods speak to me." Best not tell which gods just yet. From her smirk, Melisandre knew. "They charge me with restoring the Conquerors' peace and greatness to this land that little men tore down for the sake of personal greed. In this, they gifted me with the beast of fire and blood. The dragons returned to the sunrise of Westeros after so long in the dark.''

Reaching out, he grabbed Ned's hand in one and Tywin's hand in the other. "Stark! Lannister! Tyrell and Tully! Martell and Baratheon and Arryn! All behind House Targaryen to bestow the light of dead dreams back to our land and our people. Do you accept this call?!"

"AYE!"

"Do you accept this mantle?!"

"AYE!"

He drew Blackfyre from its scabbard, holding it high just as Aegon the Conqueror did centuries before. ''For House Targaryen! For Westeros, forged with Fire and Blood!''

"FIRE AND BLOOD!"


It was called the Tower of Joy.

A round tower somewhere between the Torrentine and the Prince's pass, the songs had it that Maekar Targaryen met his bride Dyanna Dayne within its walls - the only time the dour man had any happiness in his adult life, hence the name. No one knew who dubbed it such, but the legend stuck.

Walking up the winding staircase, only the bundle in her arms prevented Elia from wistfully brushing against the sandstone brick that formed the edge. This tower had fond memories for her as well, of a respite she and Rhaegar held upon a royal progress to Dorne once Rhaenys was old enough to travel. I believe we conceived Egg on that trip. A memory not then appreciated, though in the hindsight of it all Elia gave it its due.

In her arms, little Jon began to squirm. A large yawn threatening to split his head in two. "Oh, little pup." Elia leaned down to nuzzle his cheek, pressing a soft kiss to it - she had taken to call him by Lya's nickname. "I never realized it for so long, but I love your father dearly." Two violet orbs found her, staring in familiar awe. "I don't care what people say, you look exactly like him."

Jon seemed to enjoy that, for he smiled. Arms raising as if begging to be held closer.

"Now that, you get from your muna." As with his muna, Elia could not refuse.

It didn't take long to put him to bed… Jon out like a lantern as his head hit the pillow of his bassinet. After pressing loving kisses to the sleeping forms of Rhae and Egg in their nursery - just one floor below the main chamber at the top - Elia made her way slowly up the stairs. Gods, she was eager to slip into her bed next to her wife.

Apparently, Lyanna had the same idea. Soft candlelight filled the bedchamber, Elia gasping softly. Stopping as she took the sight on the bed. "I was starting to worry at how long you were taking, my Queen," the Northern beauty grinning, clad in nothing but a silk shift that barely made it to her knees. "It's cold here without you."

Opening her mouth to say something, the words died on her tongue. Taking in her throaty chuckle, the way the wild northerner rubbed her legs together expectantly, Elia's hands went automatically to the ties of her robe. Letting it drop, followed quickly by her nightdress.

Lyanna bit her lip, admiring the view. "I do like this. I like this a lot." Once her wife was fully nude, she patted the side of the bed. "Now come here, your Queen demands it." She played this game with Rhaegar plenty of times, and it was equally as sensual and naughty when done on Elia.

Crossing her arms over her breasts, Elia found her voice. "And who are you to make demands of me?"

Oh… From the sopping mess between her legs, Lyanna quite enjoyed where Elia was taking this. "Forgive me, your Grace," she said meekly, though quickly peeling the shift off of her. "Allow me to make up for my insolence." Only now did Maester Qyburn proclaim her body sufficiently recovered from Jon's birth, and her core burned for attention from the ones she loved. "Please, my Queen?"

Her pleading moved her. "If you insist."

Slowly crawling upon the bed, she drew it out. Enjoying how her direwolf squirmed as she hovered over her - breasts just out of reach of her mouth. Elia planted a soft kiss on Lya, sucking gently on her bottom lip. Spurred by the moans, she started to place a whole trail of kisses across her cheek. Her tongue licked the shell of her ear, then went behind it and down the soft skin of her neck.

It was delicious and excruciating at the same time. "Elia, please," Lyanna moaned as the other woman continued kissing down her body. "Don't tease me."

"Why would I tease you?" She settled between Lyanna's legs and playfully nipped the skin of her inner thighs.

"Because you would do that... ah!" Lyanna was cut off by the feeling of Elia's tongue swiping through her folds. Her hands weaved into silky, dark hair. "Don't you stop."

"Never, my love."

Lyanna curled her toes into the sheets as Elia's fingers started to tease her entrance, the wetness continuing to pool.

"Elia, please!" she begged. "I need you."

Grinning, she continued, flicking her nub and shoving two digits past her pussy lips. Delighting in the filthy sounds escaping Lya's mouth - her direwolf was loud in bed and she loved it. Elia pounded into her. Fingers curling and tongue drawing her nub between her lips to suck. Making Lya buck, trying to take her deeper just as she did with Rhaegar's cock. "Do it," Elia ordered, putting a heavy Dornish accent in her voice. She watched as Lya's eyes darkened at it as she knew it would. "Cum on my face and fingers, my dirty wolf."

Moaning loud, Lyanna arched her back as she released just as Elia had demanded. It felt positively sacreligious, as if the High Septon would descend from the Starry Sept to condemn her in that very moment - the Queen would tell him to pound snow, her desire only growing from the release rather than quenched from it. "Get over here," she snarled.

Yelping, Elia found herself yanked by her shoulder. A warm set of lips melding to hers and insistent fingers working between her legs. Mmmmm… pleasure me, my wolf...

Deep in slumber a pleasurable yet exhausting two hours later, smiles dotted the faces of the two Queens - huddled close in their shared embrace. But for one, the dark force found a perfect mark. One with a mind ripe for exploitation. Just as the other, one that could factor into his new plans rather well.

He delighted in the pain of the House that destroyed his greatest triumph.

A giggle left Elia's lips, lifting young Egg into the air. He had grown so much, into a copy of his father with flowing locks of silver hair and a perfect face - one that promised to break many a maiden's heart in the future. "I love you, Egg," she murmured, kissing him on the cheek.

His eyes were suddenly captivated by something in the distance. "Muna! Throne!" Out of her arms, he started running for the Iron Throne - the one he would sit in.

"Egg!" Elia called out, more worried than scared. "Be careful…"

Her words were interrupted as a flash of white bounded into view. Before she could even speak, Elia watched as a massive white direwolf set upon her baby boy. With a growl, his massive jaws ripped out Aegon's throat, splattering blood everywhere.

"No!" Elia was at her boy's side in a flash. "My beloved son…" She cradled the body in her arms, weeping softly.

"This is a warning," a soft, seductive voice whispered in Elia's ear. "Remember the blood seeping through your fingers." A fine black mist swirled around her. Around Egg's lifeless body. "Remember who gains…"

Suddenly, the wolf from before trotted by. Smoke puffed out of its nostrils as two large wings poked from outside its back. She gazed at it with pure hate, but Elia's jaw dropped as another figure stepped beside it. There was Lyanna, dressed in immaculate Northern armor… fierce and beautiful, but an evil grin on her lips. "Go, my love." She ruffled the bloodstained white fur. "Take what's now yours."

Howling, the direwolf bounded up the steps until it reached the Iron Throne. Sitting on its haunches upon it and howling again. A piercing, malevolent cry that was soon joined by a puff of fire from its mouth… wings spread out in triumph. "There…" The voice was honey-sweet in her ear. "The bane of your son shall take it all from your dear Egg."

Lucidity seemed to gloss over Elia's eyes. "No… not… not Jon." There was only one that the winged wolf could be, and she refused to believe it. Even as the spectral Lyanna only grinned wider. An evil curve of the lips as she watched her victory.

"The mother of a monster."

"No! I don't believe you…"

"Usurper… she is a usurper. She'll take everything from you."

"No!"

"Elia…" Her eyes fluttered open, a sheen of sweat covering her nude body even with the cooling breeze blowing through the open window. Pressed against Elia, Lyanna gently stroked her slender back. "Are you alright?"

The Dornish Queen blinked her eyes, trying to overcome the confusion in her mind. "Huh?"

"The mother of a monster…"

"The bane of your son…"

"Usurper…"

"Usurper…"

A pair of lips pressed against her brow. "You were moaning in your sleep. I was worried."

What was Elia doing? Thinking these things, letting these words and dreams affect her… with a simple kiss and tight hold, Lyanna showered her with the dearest form of love only Rhaegar could match. "It was nothing… just worried for our husband." Elia lied, though it wasn't complete - she did worry for Rhaegar… every day.

Lyanna held her closer, burying her face in the crook of Elia's neck. "I know. Gods, I know." A tear fell from her eyes and onto Elia's skin - it burned hot. "He'll come back to us. I know he will."

Wordlessly, Elia just snuggled deeper into the embrace. Imagining that Rhaegar was among them, pressing against her back. Letting Lya's love calm her.

But the voice still echoed in her mind.

Usurper…

Usurper...

A/N: And Rhaegar marches into the thick of it... only his father left between him and the Iron Throne. Praise R'hllor and pass the Valyrian steel.

Aegarax is of the Valyrian pantheon of gods, and I thought such would be a perfect name for the alt-Rhaegar.

Jaime... what could Varys possibly be doing with you? Who are those people? Speculation is welcome.

Elia already loves Jon as her own, and he's an adorable little babe. Much better times in the Tower of Joy (actual joy) than in canon, but her dreams are ominous, no?

Next up, the final confrontation with Aerys.

The more reviews, the sooner I'll update :)