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Chapter 25

Original word count: 2,170

Revised word count: 3,609

King's Landing had both changed and stayed the same.

Aelor Targaryen rode through the Gate of the Gods into the city of his birth an hour after dawn, leading a small complement of knights and a single wagon. The cobbled streets had slowly regained their bustle in the time he had been gone, recovering some of the signature brisk activity that had been missing since the Lannister attack despite the scent of smoke and burned flesh that still clung to the capital. Fire-scorched buildings and other evidence of the Sack remained, but a small amount of normalcy had returned in the crowd and buzz of activity.

That buzz slowly died again, however, when Aelor and his men rode in, a hush flowing out from the Gate of the Gods like ripples in water. The Dragon of Duskendale, armor as black as his horse, rode at the head of the procession. Two figures in white flanked either side, Ser Barristan the Bold and Ser Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning. Behind them rode four men abreast, three in silk and finery and one in leathers and furs; Lords Arryn, Tully and Stark, with Prince Oberyn Martell. A wagon, drawn by two matched draft horses in Targaryen barding, followed behind the lord paramounts. Two columns of knights shadowed in turn, both mounts and men atop them bedecked in their finest livery, both honor guard and actual guard for the items on display.

Despite the glorious view they made, few eyes strayed from the contents of the wagon.

The sides of the cart had been removed, giving the smallfolk slowly lining the streets a clear view of what it bore. A small box, its unseen contents ash, rode in the middle, black and red Targaryen banner draped across it. A crown of red gold sat at its center, a blade and shield its flanks. A dragonwing helm and a dented breastplate, empty holes where rubies had once been embedded, lay beside.

Most of the smallfolk knew what it meant at once. The rest understood a few moments later when the bells at the Sept of Baelor began to ring, ordered by a rider Aelor had sent ahead.

The King was dead. Long live the King.

My brother is dead. Long live his son.

Rhaegar Targaryen, the first of his name, had been cremated at the Trident, as was Targaryen tradition. His ashes were to be interred at the Great Sept of Baelor, where so many Targaryen kings were buried. Some good, many not. I wonder where history will place my brother. His reign was short and entirely consumed by a war he started, but he was much beloved of the smallfolk and many lords besides. Will they remember that love, or only what Rhaegar's own love caused?

Aelor did not know, and with an internal sigh he pushed the thought out of his mind. He would mourn his brother this day, as he had every day since Rhaegar's death and would every day until his own, but that grief would have to be secondary to his duty. Aelor had seven kingdoms to run, and grief could play no part.

But she can. Aelor imagined the Seven frowned upon him for the impropriety of that thought, but the prince had done little since the start of the war to please any of them save the Stranger. He was ready to see Elia again, the proximity to her making his skin hum in anticipation. Rhaegar's death made a complicated issue both simpler and more complex, but Aelor had thought of little else since the surrender except what he would say to the Princess of Dorne. Pair that with Aegon, Rhaenys and Viserys waiting at the Keep, along with his mother and perhaps a new sibling if she had already given birth, and the prince was near chomping at the bit. Never very patient, he greatly desired to gallop ahead and to those he loved at once. He knew that was dreadful of him, to want so desperately to shirk this last duty he could perform for his brother, but he had said goodbye to Rhaegar on the banks of the Trident. For Aelor, that wagon held only ash and armor.

But the Dragon of Duskendale remained in place, his face a Valyrian mask. The streets cleared before him, Warrior's great form a stone splitting the current. From the Gate of the Gods, through Cobbler's Square, to the base of Visenya's Hill and then up it, he led the honor guard of a dead king. Smallfolk lined either side of the path, growing in number as the prince neared his destination. Silence, reminiscent of those days right after the attack, blanketed the city, only interrupted by the clop of hooves or creaks of the wagon or the rattling of sheathed swords and shined armor.

The High Septon and nearly a hundred of his order waited at the Great Sept when the procession finally reached it. The round man began a prayer almost at once, the septons and septas with him joining in. Seven silent sisters, their role of caretakers of the dead extending to include what remained of Rhaegar, took charge of the ashes. Aelor watched, wordless, until the women in grey disappeared into the same sept where he and the man in the box had spilled blood.

Aelor gave one final nod as they vanished through the arching door, then looked to the sky overhead, dark with rainclouds. Goodbye, my brother.

Gone was the reign of King Rhaegar. Come was the reign of King Aegon the Sixth. Best we get on about it.

"Ser Arthur," the prince said as he turned Warrior's head. "I entrust it to you and the column to see my brother's crown returned to the Red Keep. His armor, sword and shield are to be buried alongside his ashes."

The knight nodded. "Of course, my prince."

Aelor turned to the three lord's paramount. "I charge that duty to you as well, my lords, and I thank you for honoring my brother despite your grievances with him."

All three nodded, though it was Lord Arryn who spoke. "The honor is ours, Prince Aelor."

The Dragon of Duskendale waited no more. He kicked Warrior into a canter, several septons diving out of the way of the thundering warhorse and his rider. Ser Barristan followed close behind, white palfrey struggling to keep pace with the bigger horse. Prince Oberyn followed as well, his sandsteed having an easier time of it. Smallfolk and merchants scattered before them, Warrior taking the streets at a near breakneck pace.

The prince astride him did not care. Thoughts of Elia filled his head as he nigh on flew towards the Red Keep, the capitulated lords forgotten, the lingering pain in his hip and face ignored. Elia and the children waited. He had fought for this moment, killed for it, suffered loss and anguish both physical and mental to make sure it came. The Seven themselves couldn't stop him now.

He barreled through the portcullis of the Red Keep before it finished raising, ducking underneath. He treated the gate at the end of the drawbridge of Maegor's Holdfast the same, thundering across and through as the guards scrambled to clear his way. He only reined up when he reached its inner courtyard, jumping off Warrior's back with a lightness that defied his armor and the wounds he had suffered.

The fact that Elia's beautiful face was not amongst those in the courtyard should have forewarned him, but Aelor was too caught up in his own excitement to take heed.

Ser Manfred Darke and Lord Donnel Buckwell were foremost of those waiting to greet him, along with Varys and a handful of other lords and knights. Their faces, each of them, were carefully blank.

"Manfred," Aelor called cheerily as a stableboy took Warrior's reins. "Good to see you."

"And you, my prince," the bulky knight replied, his eyes downcast as he and the others bowed. That struck Aelor as odd, as Manfred never looked downcast. Murderous was much more his norm.

Aelor, still unsuspecting, grinned as he approached, slapping the knight on the shoulder once he stood up from his bow. "Bloody hell, Manfred, what's wrong? The war is over, friend, and that white cloak suits you!"

"I am afraid the war is not over, Your Grace," Lord Buckwell said, his eyes anywhere but on the prince he swore fealty to. "I fear it has only begun."

Finally comprehending the pallor hanging over the men of the courtyard, Aelor's smile disappeared. Dread chased away the excitement he had felt mere seconds ago away,and his tone shifted from cheery to intense when he spoke again. "What has happened?" Not the children, surely. My mother? Is there an illness about the keep?

"Tywin Lannister and his son have escaped," Manfred said. "Fucking Pycelle and an unknown agent smuggled in men dressed as our own guardsmen."

Buckwell continued. "The grandmaester then sent ravens to all of Lannister's bannermen remaining in the Westerlands, ordering them to gather at Casterly Rock. Lord Tywin didn't know the war was over, and though he surely does now it only stands to reason he intends to fight."

Aelor's face hardened. "We should have killed him before we left King's Landing. Is that all we know?"

Lord Donnel shook his head. "I have a full report for you, my lord, though I caution we discuss it in council. Know that we've acted to ensure there will be no more unwanted visitors."

The dragon of Duskendale nodded. There was anger at the audacity of the lion and the treachery of the maester burning in his stomach, but a wave of relief softened the sting. I was expecting so much worse. "This is a setback, I grant you. I had thought this war to be done and had found that reality a sweetness. Even so, we shall not despair. Tywin Lannister cannot possibly hold out against us, no matter the loyalty of his vassals. Give me a week here with the children, and then I'll return to the field and bring him to heel."

There was no relief on their faces, no nods of agreement. Aelor's stomach dropped again. "Out with it, man," he snapped.

Buckwell opened his mouth to do just that, but words seemed to catch in his throat. It was Manfred who delivered the news, bluntly. "Queen Elia is dead. Lannister had her killed as he fled."

His very soul went cold.

Aelor Targaryen heard the choked cry from behind him, knowing in some recess of his mind that it was Oberyn, but Manfred Darke's simple statement consumed him.

Elia is dead.

Elia is dead.

Elia is dead.

The entire reason he was still alive, the very thing that had given him that final burst of strength to kill Robert Baratheon, was gone.

He felt his breathing quicken, felt his body begin to spasm. Memories sprinted through his mind, from the first time he had seen the Dornish Princess to the last, and every time in between. I never got to hold her. I never got to tell her I loved her more than life itself. I never—

Elia is dead.

The voice began to speak again. Prince Aelor had heard it his entire life, though he'd always managed to drown it out, to ignore it, to convince himself it wasn't truly there. He'd battled it many times, more times than he could remember, and he'd always been victorious, though not always easily. It had nearly won out at Harrenhal, going so far as to have his dagger half-drawn mere feet from the turned back of Rhaegar.

It had made promises to him then. It made promises to him now, promises of what it could do to the Lannisters if only Aelor would listen. Of the vengeance it could bring, of the lives it could take. He loved taking lives, the voice knew he did even if Aelor didn't admit it. It could bring him so many more than he'd already taken. It could make those who wronged the woman he loved scream, could make them beg for mercy he would not grant, if only he would listen to it.

Elia is dead.

The prince fought as he always did, trying to drown out the voice and its offers, trying to keep it out. He was not Aerys. He was not Aerion Brightflame or Maegor the Cruel. He knew the voice lied, knew its promises came at a far greater price than it would tell him. He knew the reality of his situation, knew the course he should set.

But the reality was so much, so painful. Rhaegar is gone. Ren is gone. Wylis and Elwood and Balman and everyone, gone.

He had to be strong. He had to hold it together, keep the kingdoms intact. He had a duty to House Targaryen, to Rhaenys and Viserys and his mother, to King Aegon the Sixth. His nephew. His brother's son.

Elia's son.

Elia is dead.

He could handle all the rest of it, had handled all the rest of it, but he could not handle the last.

Aelor Targaryen surrendered to the voice, slamming the part of him that fought it into a box like the one that held Rhaegar's ashes.

His quick, tortured breathing stopped as his fists clenched at his sides. He'd curled in on himself at the news, like he had been fleeing from it, but now he stood to his full height, shoulders back.

Some of those in the courtyard had taken a step towards him in concern, but the look on the prince's face stopped them in their tracks. There was nothing human in his eyes. It was gone, burned out, replaced by the feral savagery of a dragon.

"I'm going to burn them all," the prince said, his voice low but as clear as the bells that had rang that morning. "I'm going to burn them all."

The storm that shook the eastern coast of Westeros that night seemed to give tidings of what was to come.

The wind blew Barristan Selmy's cloak wildly, the thundering rain singing as it beat against his white armor. Twice he had had to wrestle his horse back under control after the palfrey spooked at a loud clap of thunder, eyes white with terror, and he'd had to shout at the gate guard from less than a foot away to be heard.

It was foolish to be outside in such weather, much less on a horse, but Barristan soldiered on. Many times, he had stood silently aside while men not in their right minds ordered or carried out atrocities big and small. It was not his place to try and stop the madness, no matter his own thoughts on it. He was a Kingsguard. His duty was to protect the king above all else, even above the man's family. It was not his duty to protect the king from himself, to disobey the monarch in any way.

But this was Aelor. Barristan had sworn a vow to take no wife and father no children, and few things mattered more to the Kingsguard than honoring his vows, but that had not stopped him from loving the second son of Aerys like he was Barristan's own. He'd seen him grow, trained him in jousting and horsemanship and swordwork. When Aelor had been given Duskendale, Barristan had gone with him, watching the gangly lad become a lord proper, one men were proud to follow. When the prince had gone to war Barristan had been there, had seen the unbloodied youth become a warrior in the Kingswood, then a legend in the Stormlands and on the Trident. He loved Aelor Targaryen like his own son and knew him better than anyone alive.

And Aelor Targaryen was no longer himself.

It was a different man who had taken command of the Red Kep and King's Landing, one with flashes of the old but with a simmering, burning drive that Barristan recognized for what it was. Barristan knew better than most the eccentrics that could come with the Targaryen name, having seen it firsthand during the reign of Aerys, but to the rest of Westeros and likely to Aelor himself the prince had proven to be the brilliant side of King Jaehaerys' coin.

Barristan had seen it, though. He'd seen it since Aelor was small, though the lad always kept it controlled, kept it buried deep. It showed in his anger, in his rage. Not the ones he carried into battle, those brought on by adrenaline and fear and lust for the fight, but in the other type. The type that Aelor let fester and grow until his life's goal became the destruction of whatever he had centered that rage on. Those were where Barristan saw the lad for what he could be if he ever lost control.

And the death of Elia Martell had driven any control from Aelor, and all of House Lannister into the path of his ire.

The Red Viper was by no means helping, in his own anger at his sister's murder calling for the head of every Lannister they could find, even those currently serving in the loyalist army. Aelor had denied him so far, but Barristan knew. Barristan knew it was only a matter of time before Aelor's fury and anguish would make him buckle to the Prince of Dorne's demands. And when he did, even Ser Kevan, who was as innocent of Elia's death as Barristan himself, wouldn't be safe.

So Barristan rode. Aelor may have been able to save his family from Aerys' madness, but he couldn't save himself from his own. That duty fell to Barristan. Not as a Kingsguard, but as a father.

He could only pray that Aelor would someday forgive him.

The Westermen and their Lannister officers among the royalist forces had remained camped with the main army, unsure of how welcome they would be in King's Landing so soon after the Sack. Little had any of them known what a blessing that would prove to be.

Ser Kevan's tent was in the middle of the Westermen, its flaps latched down against the raging storm but with light from candles or lanterns inside casting shadows on its walls. There were no guards posted, what with the war thought to be over and the army merely waiting for Aelor to bid them leave to go, so Barristan reached the flap unopposed, slapping his hand against the canvas quickly.

It took several moments for Ser Kevan to untie the flaps and usher him in, moments that felt like lifetimes to Barristan. As soon as he stepped into the dry, noticing several other men seated in the large tent who could from their looks only be Lannisters, he whirled back towards Ser Kevan. "You need to go, my lord."

Kevan furled a brow. "Go?"

"Your brother and nephew escaped the black cells with the help of Pycelle. They have gone to the Westerlands to raise the remaining men there."

Kevan's face grew even more confused, trying to make sense of what Barristan was saying. "Jaime? He was wounded defending…"

The Kingsguard cut him off, voice betraying the urgency of his words. "No he wasn't, and there isn't time to explain." Barristan reached out to place his hands on Kevan's shoulders, stooping until he was face to face with the Lannister knight. "Tywin had Elia Martell killed, Kevan. Aelor is out of his mind with grief and anger, and Oberyn is no better. They want blood; Lannister blood, and it won't matter from which ones."

Kevan stepped back in shock. "But we here have served faithfully—"

Frustrated, Barristan cut him off. "I know that! Somewhere deep inside so does Aelor, or you'd be dead already. But listen to me, damn you. Until Tywin is brought to justice, no Lannister is safe. For the love of the Seven, Kevan, flee! Run! Go, gather your family and take them somewhere far away from all of this until it is over, until Aelor is himself again."

Another man at the table, having risen half out of his seat in alarm, spoke. "Lord Tywin—"

The knight of the Kingsguard whirled on them, out of patience. There may not be time, the thrice damned fools. "Lord Tywin killed an innocent woman and tried to kill her small children. I am warning you to flee for your own sakes, not his." Barristan turned back to Kevan. "Nothing you can do will save your brother; he has sealed his own fate. The only thing you can do is hide your family until all of this is over. When Tywin is dead, Aelor may be able to see sense again, but until then you must run." Barristan threw his arms out emphatically. "Run, all of you! Take your families and hide. Go, now!"

Finally, his words seemed to sink in, as the tent became a frenzied mass of rushing men. Barristan watched them as they pulled on boots and cloaks, grabbing whatever provisions they could before disappearing out of the tent and into the whirling winds and rain.

The man in white walked out with the last of them, Kevan disappearing to wherever his horse was staked. Barristan mounted his own in silence, then turned its head back towards the Gate of the Gods.

As he passed under the faces of the Seven carved into the stone, obscured by the driving rain, he sent up a prayer to each that his actions hadn't just cost him his head.