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Chapter 10

Original Word Count: 2,718

Revision Word Count: 3,554

She knew something was wrong the moment she heard the trumpets. Call it instinct, call it premonition, call it paranoia; when the wind carried the first distant horn blast, Elia Martell's blood froze in her veins, and she knew the day she had feared had arrived.

It was undignified for a lady to run, but Elia didn't let that or the people she passed—each one more frantic than the last as everyone began to truly realize what was happening—stop her from sprinting down the stone halls of Maegor's Holdfast. By the time she burst into Rhaenys' chamber she could just pick up distant screams through the open window and could smell the acrid scent of fire. By the time she'd managed to sprint to her son's nursery, packing a confused and rapidly tearing up Rhaenys on her hip, the cries seemed as loud as her own heartbeat and the sky had darkened with great billowing clouds of thick smoke.

Elia had just stooped to pick up Aegon, somehow sleeping through the commotion, when the nursery door crashed inward so hard it splintered. The Dornish Princess nearly screamed in alarm, instinctively turning her body to shield her children from whoever had burst into the chamber. A man filled the doorway, broader than the width between doorposts, a huge hand resting on the sword at his hip.

Her knees almost gave out when that someone turned out to be Manfred Darke, her lady-in-waiting Ashara Dayne slipping around the boulder of a man and rushing into the nursery, her beautiful violet eyes panicked. Ser Manfred's brown ones were not, the knight as unflappable even in this clear emergency as he was in everyday life. Even the way he had flung the nursery open didn't necessarily indicate something was wrong; Manfred's normal state was unabashed anger.

"Princess," came his gruff voice. "We need to go. Now."

Elia needn't be told twice, and she gratefully handed the crying Rhaenys to Ashara before pulling Aegon, blissfully unaware of what was going on around him, closer to her chest. Ser Manfred, seeing all his charges were accounted for, turned and bulled back through the doorway, Elia following at his heels with Ashara close behind her.

The halls had become a rush of activity, men at arms rushing through the corridors, shoving one another and shouting as they hurried towards the parapets. Ser Manfred, despite being half a head shorter than many of them, strode confidently through their midst like a battering ram, sending one man at arms to the ground with a hard shoulder when the lad didn't get out of the way in time. Elia and Ashara huddled closely to his broad back, the noise of clanking armor and the sense of spreading panic waking Aegon, his cries joining those of his distraught sister. Elia hushed her children even though she knew it would do no good.

It wasn't clear who was currently raining all seven of the hells down on the city of King's Landing, but it didn't really matter; if they were attacking, they either wanted Elia and her children as hostages or wanted them dead. The Dornish Princess wasn't overly fond of either idea.

She had had no idea where Ser Manfred was going, but she followed him without complaint, Aelor's words from their last meeting echoing in her mind. If the time comes, you must do exactly as he says. Then the words of his letter spoke again. Keep Aegon and Rhaenys close to you. Be always ready, for what exactly even I cannot say. But when the time comes to act do not hesitate.

Where the squat knight came to a stop surprised Elia. Her bodyguard slammed his palm three times on the door of Lord Varys' chambers, and before she could even question it the Spider himself opened the door. The bald, portly eunuch wordlessly ushered them in. Princess Elia, as confused as she could ever remember being, hesitated outside briefly. She knew the Spider and considered him something close to a friend, but she had no misconceptions that he was a man of schemes and plots and assassins—right now, amidst a city under attack and on full alert, that seemed a scary thing indeed. But Ser Manfred waved his hand impatiently and, Aelor's words again flashing through her mind, Elia stepped inside with Ashara and the children.

The Spider's chambers were barren, with only a bed, table, and a few chairs as decoration. But it wasn't what wasn't in his chambers that surprised Elia even in this moment of panic and unknowing; it was what was. Queen Rhaella Targaryen stood in the center of the room, one hand placed protectively over her swelling stomach, the other clutching the hand of the six-year-old Prince Viserys. Both Targaryens had the silver white hair and beauty their bloodline brought, their expressions scared—Viserys' openly, the Queen's more subtly. Elia's uncle, aging Prince Lewyn Martell of the Kingsguard, stood beside them in his resplendent white enamel plate, his own hand resting on the sword at his hip.

"Elia," the youngest Targaryen called, his young face scared. He started towards the Dornishwoman, but the Queen held his hand firmly. Elia and Rhaella usually got along well, but the Queen clearly didn't want to release her young son's hand when she didn't know what she was doing here or what was going on.

Elia felt no offense, as she didn't blame her goodmother in the slightest. Elia smiled at the young boy, hoping to prevent him from joining the wailing of her own children. "Stay with the Queen, sweet one," she told Viserys, speaking over the cries as she pulled Aegon closer to her chest. I hope my smile does not look as manic as it feels. "It will all be alright."

The Spider had spared no words, walking in that strange stroll of his and making a quick motion with his hands on the wall even as Elia soothed the youngest son of Aerys. When that wall moved, neatly floating up to reveal a staircase, Elia decided that nothing made sense anymore.

Varys turned to them. "Up the staircase," he said in his fluttering voice. "My little birds will direct you from there."

Ser Manfred nodded sharply, turning to give them only a few gruff words. "Follow me, Your Graces. Keep close." The knight turned and without ceremony stomped up the stairs, his hand on his sword, the passel of royalty following like so many ducklings after their mother. Prince Lewyn, giving his niece a confident smile, took the rearguard, his own hand resting on his blade.

Ashara, Seven bless the woman, somehow soothed Rhaenys sufficiently that she stopped crying. Aegon, fully roused now, continued his own. They resonated in the narrow, musky passage, Viserys repeatedly asking what was going on despite his mother hushing him each time. Elia knew Ser Manfred and her uncle had to be gritting their teeth, escorting three women and three scared children down an old passage that lead to who the hell knew, but the squat knight and elderly Kingsguard said nothing, focused solely on the dark passage ahead.

At the top of the stairs was their escort. When Varys had referred to his 'little birds', he had literally meant little. Their guide was a child, no more than ten years old, a young girl with dark hair. The passage they were in was dark, only a few torches spaced generous distances apart offering light, but Elia recognized the youngster as a regular around the servant quarters, the daughter of the blacksmith or some other castle-bound smallfolk. If this child is for Varys, who else is as well? The thought was disconcerting to say the least, but since the Spider seemed to be her children's best way to escape, Elia decided to shelve it in her mind for another, safer time.

If the child kept her and her family alive, she didn't truly care what spying she might have done.

The girl said nothing, turning once Manfred was a few feet away and entering a labyrinth far more complex than Elia would have ever guessed. They made more twists and turns than she could keep track of, climbing then descending then going straight. Rhaenys began crying again, and this time nothing Ashara could do would soothe; Elia had long ago given up on soothing Aegon. The blacksmith's daughter handed them off to another child the Princess of Dorne didn't recognize before that child in turn handed them off to another and then another. Some were dressed like servants, some like urchins, ranging from eight to the cusps of adulthood. Elia was thankful for them all, because without them she would be as lost as a septon in a brothel.

The Princess Consort didn't know how much time they spent in the darkness, her children crying, Viserys growing more and more stressed and Ser Manfred charging stubbornly on, before the smoothed stone below her feet suddenly turned rough, the scent of the sea replacing the smell of musk and damp. The next thing Elia knew, she was being blinded by sunlight, her slippered feet sliding on pebbled stone.

"We need to move!" called the voice of a short, slender man with a rather ordinary face, standing a few feet from mouth of the cave they exited. A boat with black sails, one so small she had trouble believing Ser Manfred wouldn't sink it with his weight alone, was grounded on a narrow strip of rocky beach behind him. Elia spun around in a slow, awed circle, realizing they were surrounded by the rock of the cliffs on all sides save for a narrow inlet of saltwater. Far above the cave was the Red Keep, its pale red stone hazy with smoke from the city. Sounds, terrible ones, bounced off the cliff walls.

Ser Manfred stomped to the boat and the stranger, turning to the royal family and ushering them on. "Quickly, Your Graces."

They filed in one at a time, huddling close to one another, Aegon's insistent cries grating against Elia's already frayed nerves. I know you're scared, my love, but I can't protect you if I'm deaf. For the love of the Gods shush. Alas, that prayer went unanswered.

Prince Lewyn assisted the pregnant Queen Rhaella aboard with great care. "Careful now, Your Grace," Elia's uncle said, smiling as he always did. "I'm already disobeying the king's orders by being here. I can't have you hurting yourself and giving him even more reason to kill me."

"Do not worry, Ser Lewyn," said the Queen. Her tone was quiet, but it had more strength to it than Elia had heard in years. "If I were to die the King would probably reward you."

Viserys doggedly stayed on the beach even after his mother was settled, eyeing the man with the boat distrustfully. He reminded Elia of both his brothers, from the way he stood to the way he glared at the stranger. "Who is he, mother? He smells like a fish."

"Hush child," came the voice of the Queen, grown sharp. "This man is saving us. Get on board."

The young Prince scowled, and despite her fear Elia almost smiled at how much the expression reminded her of Aelor. "Father wouldn't like this."

Rhaella peered at him imperiously, giving that look that all mother's perfected. She tried to speak softly. "Your father isn't here, love." Then her tone became stone again. "Get in the boat."

Elia, having a good relationship with the boy, tried her own plea. "Come, Viserys. Rhaenys could use your bravery. Won't you make her feel safe?"

Viserys dug his heels into the sand, Targaryen stubbornness flaring up at the worst time as it usually did. "We are blood of the dragon! We don't go with peasants." Elia was beginning to fear Viserys may hold them much too long. She had known very little of the secret passages, knowing they existed but nothing else; if she, the Princess Consort, had been in the dark, it seemed unlikely that anyone who was a threat would know of them. And even if they did, it was a maze, difficult to pursue anyone through. All that being as it was, the sooner they were on the sea, the better she would feel.

That was an odd fact considering she had no idea who the small man waiting nervously by the prow of the boat was. Panic made for the strangest friends she supposed.

Elia began to rise with the intent of manhandling the youngest Targaryen Prince onto the boat, wanting more than anything to be gone from the wretched sounds echoing down from the city.

Ser Manfred beat her to it. "Your mother says go, you little shit," the big knight growled, his irritation as plain in his voice as it was on his ugly face as he stomped towards the boy. "You're going."

Viserys attempted to run back towards the cave, but Manfred moved astonishingly fast for a man of his breadth, and Viserys couldn't churn his young legs quick enough. Her sworn sword grabbed the Prince, one hand clutching an arm and the other a leg, snatching him up mid stride and turning towards the boat. Viserys wiggled in his arms, shouting, but Manfred held him in a grip of iron and paid his complaints no mind. At the prow of the boat he unceremoniously tossed him in, Viserys landing next to his mother who, despite her fierce protectiveness of Viserys, had not moved to protest the knight's actions. She wrapped an arm around him and pulled him close to her side, and Lewyn laid one hand on his shoulder from behind, keeping the lad pressed firmly down.

With a shove Manfred and the small man embarked the small boat, clambering in once she had sufficient water beneath her. Once on board, the small man took the till while Ser Manfred took the oars. "The wind is in our favor," the brown-haired savior said as Manfred's broad shoulders got them moving, Elia recognizing his accent as that of a man from King's Landing. "Once we row far enough out, we'll go full sail."

"Thank you," the Dornish Princess said, her heart feeling more and more relieved as they followed the small inlet out of the rocks and into the open waters of the Narrow Sea, staying far enough offshore to avoid the rocks but close enough to swim were it all to go to shit. She pulled Aegon closer, his cries no longer the nuisance they had been mere moments before, and reached to pull Rhaenys to her side. "We can never repay you, Ser…"

"Davos, my lady," the man said, giving her a quick grin through his salt and pepper beard. "And I'm no Ser."

Aelor Targaryen was going to die.

He'd managed to dodge out of the way of the monstrous assassin's initial blow, the wind from the blade's swing brushing against his cheek like a gale. Aelor barely had time to even step back, bringing his sword and shield up, before the giant was bringing his blade down overhead like an axe, intent on splitting the Targaryen's skull. Knowing it foolish to try and stop it directly, Aelor sidestepped to the left, the giant's blade digging into the smoothed stone of the nursery's floor, and swung his own sword at the big man's unprotected side.

How the giant was quick enough to bring his massive sword up in time to block him the Dragon Prince would never know, his blade knocking the prince's aside as the giant swung his opposite fist. It seemed the size of a small castle as Aelor attempted to lean out of the way, the blow grazing the point of the prince's chin. Despite its glancing nature the Dragon of Duskendale staggered back, ears ringing and vision reduced to stars. Only the fact that it hadn't connected fully saved every bone in the prince's face from being broken. If the assassin managed to land a hit cleanly, Aelor had no doubt it would shatter everything it touched. It might outright kill him then and there.

It was then, as he staggered back shaking his head to try and clear it, that Aelor knew he could not beat this…thing. Though he wouldn't make it easy, the prince would die here, in this very room. It was oddly peaceful, accepting one's death.

The giant roared, a guttural sound so frighteningly unhuman that Aelor wondered if this, not Warrior and himself, was what a demon looked like. The man swung again, Aelor seeing through the stars just enough to manage to dodge aside. His instinct was to strike but there was no time, the greatsword of his killer—meant for two hands, being used in one—already whistling in towards him in a horizontal swing. Aelor brought his shield up to meet the blow, there being no chance of dodging it.

Aelor was no small man himself, tall and broad shouldered with muscle to his frame, but he might as well have been the size of one of the many dolls he had gifted Rhaenys. When the giant's blade hit the shield, it barely even stopped its momentum. Aelor Targaryen went flying, armor and all, like a stone from a catapult, slamming into the wall of the nursery with a clank of steel plate on stone before hitting the ground in a heap.

Everything had already hurt, but this made each pain come back in full force. His face was an agony, the blood still flowing from his wound. His chin throbbed from the glancing blow. His right arm screamed, fatigued from the strength it had used to both swing and drive through armor, flesh, and bone. In contrast his left arm was nearly numb from fingertip to elbow, rendered so by the blow to his shield—the oak and iron itself was nearly sheared in two, the top half hanging onto the bottom only by a few slivers of wood and bent metal. Everything was pain, from his head to his toes.

He felt more than heard the massive footfalls of the giant assassin coming to end his life, the prince having struck his unarmored head hard against the stone wall and found his world swam as a result. Aelor couldn't find it in himself to care. No amount of the bloodlust or battle rage he had felt only minutes before was present, and even if it was, it couldn't have helped him. All he felt was pain, and even if he could move, his sword was gone.

Well shit. Knights are supposed to die with their swords in their hand. Aelor supposed that didn't really matter. No one was going to sing a story about him, the Dragon who had his ass handed to him by a man with dogs on his surcoat. Gods, dogs? Why couldn't his sigil be a tiger or a direwolf, something fearsome?

He wondered if everyone had such odd thoughts when they were about to die.

The mountain of a man stopped in front of the heaped pile of a Prince, raising his Westeros-sized sword and aiming it at the Dragon's head with a smile. Aelor met his eyes, willing himself even in his stupor to meet death head on.

And then a sword burst out of the mountainous assassin's neck, point angled upwards. The giant dropped his own sword, weapon clattering to the ground at Aelor's feet while its wielder clawed at the blade that had pierced his neck. With a sickening slosh it was withdrawn, going low to slash through the unarmored flesh at the back of the giant's knees, sending the beast crashing down on them. The creature was still so tall, even kneeling, that Aelor had no idea who was behind him.

The first hack dug into the side of the dog's neck, cutting flesh and tendon, but the muscle there was too thick to sever with a single blow. Somehow the giant animal still struggled, pulling a dirk from his belt and reaching for Aelor even as he choked on his own blood. Aelor could only watch dumbly as another sword blow dug deeper, then a third deeper still, but the giant kept reaching when any other man would have been dead long ago. It took several more strikes, the giant's open hand having gripped the collar of Aelor's breastplate, before a final swipe severed the animal's head, sending it rolling across the nursery floor like a child's ball.

The body of the assassin protested death for a moment longer, one hand still gripping Aelor's breastplate, the other holding a dirk aimed for his eye, before the strength finally left it. It toppled slowly to the side, like a great tree, collapsing on the stone with a clang of armor.

Aelor stared at the corpse for a long moment, mind still hazy, then at the dead hand that still gripped him. Face throbbing, the prince finally looked up at the soul that he thought had saved his life. But when his addled brain recognized it, Aelor realized he was already dead.

For there in the nursery, sword bloody and black armor shining, stood his brother Rhaegar, a sad smile on his face.

A/N: This story is still going to follow the original in terms of overall plot points-ex. Aelor goes to the Stormlands, Lannisters hit King's Landing earlier than canon, etc.. Next chapter, though, will have one of the first major changes/deviations in how we get where we're going. I hope you're ready/excited.