Author's Note: This took me a bit, sorry for that. Wanted to do it right but couldn't find anything I truly loved for a while. Hopefully it turned out okay.

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Chapter 22

Original Word Count: 1,940

Revision Word Count: 2,888

Rhaegar was dead.

Elia Martell read and reread the first line of Aelor's letter over and over, her stomach hollow. Rumors had been filtering into King's Landing for several days, but the parchment in her hand confirmed they were, for once, accurate; Rhaegar Targaryen, the first of his name, had been slain in a shallow ford of the Trident by Robert Baratheon. Elia heard lute music and his beautiful singing voice in her head, accompanied by the memory of Rhaegar holding Rhaenys and Aegon and a thousand other moments of joy.

He's dead. After everything, he goes and gets himself killed. My husband is dead.

Elia slowly settled into the cushioned chair in her chambers, unable to get past the first line of Aelor's note. She knew there were answers to a thousand questions in the lines that followed it—was the war still going? Had her brother survived? Was Aelor wounded?

All those questions were shelved by the overwhelming fact that her husband, whatever his flaws, was dead, and with that truth came ramifications that terrified her.

My son is the King of the Iron Throne.

Words did no justice to how much that scared the Princess of Dorne. Elia had always known Aegon would one day be Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, but she had anticipated the crown passing to him when he was a man, not a child. Aegon was supposed to have children of his own to succeed him and a lifetime of grooming for the role of king. He was supposed to be ready.

The Seven and Robert Baratheon decided otherwise. Aegon was a baby, woefully unprepared for anything other than his next meal and nap, yet now he was suddenly saddled with the pressure of ruling a massive realm at war with itself.

That's not strictly true though, is it. That responsibility falls to Aelor, and to me.

Or would it fall to Aelor alone? Child kings normally didn't fare well, and while Elia knew in her heart Aelor cared too much for his nephew to attempt anything untoward, her mind also knew that it was likely many lords would call for Aegon to be usurped by his uncle. Would someone attempt to push that agenda along by removing the Infant King through less than moral methods? Was Rhaenys now heir to the throne, or was Aelor?

Elia didn't know, much as she hadn't known anything for months now. What she wouldn't give for it to be a year ago, when happenings such as these seemed impossible.

She sat in that chair, mind racing, for nearly an hour. It took her that long to force herself to read past that first, damning line. It brought so many emotions crashing in all at once—she felt she should cry, felt she should run though there was nowhere to go—that she had to make her mind focus on each word, one at a time, over and over until she could finally make sense of the rest of the letter.

Even when she had, the first line sat burning in her mind's eye. There was no getting around the death of a king, much less when that king had been your husband and father to your children.

She did finally manage to finish Aelor's short, concise letter, a very to-the-point update on events. Rhaegar and Robert were dead, and thousands of others besides. Renfred Rykker was among them, the hulking man that had been Aelor's constant companion since they were toddling children. Elia, already overwhelmed at the loss of Rhaegar, felt a different sort of pang at that, her mind going to a pretty, plump woman heavy with child. Malessa Rykker, formerly Malessa Buckwell, was due any day now, carrying a child rendered fatherless before birth. Her own father, Lord Buckwell, had brought her to King's Landing when Aelor had ordered him to remain as Elia's right hand, and the queen and Lady of Hollard Hall had gotten along swimmingly. She was a sweet, kind girl, not yet nineteen.

And now she is a widow. Now we both are.

The Queen of the Iron Throne—or is it now Dowager Queen, despite my youth?—had always heard war was terrible. Now, she truly understood why.

Despite the briefness of the letter, Elia could tell Aelor had been rocked by the loss. Or losses, as it were, for the death toll was near incomprehensible. Her brother was alive and well, thank the Seven, but Aelor's retinue had been slain nearly to a man. A dozen other lords she had once known personally and many she had not had lost their lives as well, corpses over the quarrel of a few men.

But there is a silver lining. Let us focus on that, lest it all become too much.

That silver lining had nearly been as shocking as the news of Rhaegar's death. A relief, as palpable as her fear for Aegon, flooded her body at the revelation that this foolish war was now, at a stroke, over. Finished, thanks to the death of two men. Why did so many thousand others have to die as well, if their blood was all it took?

The queen remained in her solar until dusk, a thousand regrets, hopes and fears taking turns running through her mind. Elia dismissed Ashara Dayne when she entered to check on her, still gathering her own thoughts and emotions into something she could move forward with. She said nothing to her close companion, but her appearance reminded Elia that the news would spread, and it would not wait for her to be ready for it. Aegon was now king, however cruel the circumstances, and Rhaegar was dead. No amount of sitting and wishing it otherwise would bring her husband back to life, she knew.

She rose, one thing on her mind.

My son is king.

Maegor's holdfast was quieter than usual. A few servants scurried here or there, lighting candles and sconces as night fell, but not much else moved. The guardsmen, either likely sensing her inner turmoil and smart enough to stay silent, said nothing. The two who had been at her door, Osney and Merrit, followed along behind her as quietly as they could manage.

Ser Manfred was at his post, of course. Now dressed in the white armor and cloak of the Kingsguard, the boulder of a man stood besides the door to Aegon's nursery, one hand on his sheathed blade. He bowed at her as she approached.

"My queen."

Elia came to a stop before him, eyeing the door between her and the new king of the Iron Throne. She opened her mouth to tell Manfred, then found that she could not utter a word. The big knight eyed her, face impassive, then spoke in an uncharacteristically gentle tone. "The nursemaid left a moment ago. No one else is inside." He nodded at her once. "I'll keep it that way."

Hoping her eyes conveyed her thanks, she entered her son's nursery and closed the door behind her.

And then she cried.

Silent sobs shook Elia Martell as she stumbled to the crib where her son lay sleeping, Valyrian face at perfect peace. He did not wake up to the sounds of her turmoil, nor did he stir when she gently took him into her arms and held him to her breast.

She sat in the cushioned chair nearest the crib and held her son, quietly crying into his silver hair, until the tears would no longer come.

A different Elia Martell rose then to lay Aegon back down. He barely moved, sleeping like the dead as he always had. He is the king. If he is to be a great one, he will need my help, and I can't offer any while hiding from the truth.

Ser Manfred was still there when she opened the door again, though the sun had fled entirely, leaving the halls lit only by candlelight. "Rhaegar is dead, Manfred. Robert Baratheon is too."

Manfred didn't flinch, nor did his eyes give anything away. Lord Donnel had once told her that was what made him such a deadly fighter—his eyes gave no hint to what he would do next. When the knight spoke, his rough voice was low. "Prince Aelor?"

"He lives and wrote to me that the war is over. The other rebel lords surrendered."

Manfred nodded. "Does Buckwell know?"

Elai shook her head. "No one knows yet, save you and me, not even Pycelle. Aelor sent the missive via rider—my guess is he's kept his lords from officially announcing it." She ran an olive hand through her raven hair. "I need to convene the remaining council and make the necessary preparations."

Manfred nodded again unflappable. "I'll fetch them." His voice suddenly rose to a bellow. "The queen is ready now, you buggering idiots!" Osney and Merrit appeared from around the corner a moment later, hurrying back towards them from wherever Manfred had sent them. The big knight lowered his tone back to its previous level. "I'll leave these two here with the…" Manfred stopped, the word 'prince' on the tip of his tongue. "With the king."

Elia shook her head. "I would rather you stay, Ser Manfred. I trust Osney and Merrit, but Aelor chose you as my sworn shield. If you become Aegon's shadow, at least until Aelor returns to the city, I would sleep a great deal easier. I will have Ashara bring Rhaenys as well."

The knight bowed his head. "As my lady commands." He barked orders, laced with profanities, to the two guardsmen, informing Merrit to first bring Rhaenys and Ashara to the nursery, then to gather the appropriate lords in the small council chamber. Osney would escort her there and stand in for Manfred at the traditional Kingsguard post outside the chamber while the meeting was held.

Elia thanked the big knight, squeezed his forearm, and left him standing guard over her son.

Her mind was a maelstrom as she made her way through the Red Keep, the halls and yards quiet and dim. Questions that had battered her in the dying daylight gave no reprieve in the deepening dark, pounding against her with their incessant possibilities like a gale against Storm's End. Rhaella does not know. Her son is dead, and she has no idea. That duty falls to me.

It was all too much, which is probably why she didn't understand what was happening until it was too late.

Two men in Targaryen livery—red dragons, not white—approached Elia and Osney with the ease of guards going about their usual business. It was a sight she had seen a thousand times before, so often that she never truly saw it anymore, never looked at the men beyond the sigil on their chests. She wouldn't have looked at them this time if not for the commotion at the base of the Tower of the Hand.

There, highlighted by the burning torches flanking the door, a golden haired man rushed out, his voice a loud cry. "No!"

Osney was a good man and an attentive guard, but he was dead before he ever knew there was danger. The bigger of the two men passing, startled by the shout from the tower, took a quick step forward and ran a dagger through Osney's throat, killing him instantly. Elia had no time to shout, no time to run, no time to so much as blink. She only stared for a heartbeat before the second man, slower than his compatriot, loomed in front of her.

A hand seized her slender shoulder and pulled her towards him. The blade didn't feel sharp as it plunged into her stomach. It felt more like she'd been punched, the blade driving deep and forcing her breath from her lungs. The fake guardsmen withdrew the blade and drove it in again, once, twice more, using her shoulder as leverage with each blow.

Elia had been so surprised she never even managed to feel afraid.

The man who killed her—and the blows had, she knew that despite the shocked stupor she was in—was suddenly sent sprawling. The golden figure who had shouted from the tower drove him to the ground, then sat astride his chest and brought his fist down with savage shouts, over and over as red blood filled the torch-flicked sky. The man who killed Osney stood back, his bearded face a mask of shock.

The queen stood watching, her hands having clutched her belly, more red flowing out from between her olive fingers.

Her knees gave out abruptly, Elia dropping to the cobbles of the courtyard. The golden man turned to her, catching her torso as it toppled, and Elia's dazed mind recognized Jaime Lannister, tears in his eyes.

Her trance broke then. Clarity rushed in, accompanied by near overwhelming pain.

Jaime was holding her, the poor boy's face a mixed mask of anger and fear and grief. Elia looked down at the mess of her stomach, then back to his emerald eyes hooded by the darkness. The man who killed Osney knelt by the unmoving body of the one who had killed her, his own face mired in confusion.

"I'm sorry, Your Grace," Jaime hoarsely whispered. "I didn't know there was a plan. I didn't know this was part of it until too late. I…"

Another voice, colder and authoritative, filled the air. "Move quickly, then make your escape. My son and I will leave now. There's already been too much noise as it is." Elia, her vision trimmed in red, still recognized the man despite the dark. Even filthy and haggard from the black cells, there was no mistaking Tywin Lannister. Three men in Targaryen colors rushed around him, off to obey some predetermined order.

Jaime snapped his head around to glare up at his father. "Where are they going?"

Tywin didn't answer him. "Come along."

The young man's voice was savage in the night air, and Elia heard a distant shout though she could not make it out. "Where?"

The father looked up towards the shout, then back down at his son. "We are leaving. Now, Jaime."

"Like hell. There was no point in killing the queen."

Tywin scoffed. "So you will stay and be killed yourself, is that it?"

Her vision was slowly dimming, the pain in her middle rising, but Elia knew what had happened. This breakout and assassination had been plotted by Tywin and his compatriots, though how many and how deeply it ran she could not say. Jaime—the boy she had played stones with, had befriended despite his breaking of his vows—had known none of it.

That made her feel a touch of relief, even as she lay dying. Jaime had a good heart.

Elia Martell was already dead. She wouldn't let this young man stay and die too.

Her voice was half a whisper, words very hard to force from between her lips. "Go, Jaime." The knight twisted around to look at her at the words. She smiled up at the shadow of him she could see. Aelor will burn half the world for this. You don't need to be the first. "It's okay. Go. Your…queen demands it."

Shouts rose in number and volume. Tywin hissed something, though Elia didn't understand it. She nodded weakly at Jaime, reaching a shaking hand up to pat his arm.

With a string of curses and one last, broken apology, Jaime lay her down gently against the stone, then dissolved into the night.

Elia lay in a growing pool of blood, yet she was unafraid. All the worries that had weighed her down for months were gone, replaced with the calm certainty that it would, after all, be okay. She wouldn't see her son grow into the great king he would be. She wouldn't see her daughter marry, her grandchildren grow, or be able to finally kiss every bloody inch of Aelor Targaryen, something she never realized she wanted so much until that moment. She was going to die here on the cold stone, killed by a man with the pride of a thousand kings.

And it was okay.

Her children would live. Even if those men Tywin had ordered away were meant to harm Rhaneys or Aegon, she knew they would fail. Manfred stood between those men and her children, and the boulder of a man she called a friend would stop them. She knew it in her heart, knew it beyond all doubt.

Her son would be the King of Westeros, guided by an uncle who loved him more than life itself. Her daughter would be a Princess, with more dolls than dresses thanks to that very same man.

Elia realized something in her last moments that she had never understood in life; no matter the world's troubles, no matter its constant state of terror and turmoil, it would all, in the end, be okay.

Though she could no longer see anything, she could still feel. With a shaky finger she began to write on the stone beside her. Halfway through, a wave of peace and tranquility she hadn't felt since before the Tourney of Harrenhal washed over her like a warm Dornish breeze.

Elia Martell slipped into the peaceful dark.