Author's Note: Small bit of housekeeping before the chapter. For reference, it is currently 282AC. Canonically, Elia and Rhaegar were betrothed in 279, married in 280, and had Rhaenys that same year. Aegon came at the beginning of 282. In this fic, Elia came to King's Landing/married Rhaegar three years earlier, in 277, though the children were born at the same times. I made the change in the original fic and am keeping it in this one, as it doesn't really affect anything but gives Elia and Aelor more time to have known each other pre-story.

I hope you enjoy and review this update.

Chapter 11

Original Word Count: 3,060

Revision Word Count: 4,351

The Sack of King's Landing had to have been one of the most puzzling battles in the history of Westeros. Aelor had been there, and even he was confused.

Twelve thousand Westermen had descended onto the lightly defended capital, gaining entry as supposed friends. But the gates of the city had no sooner been opened than the true intent of the Lions became clear, the guards cut down where they stood before the mass pillaging of the City of Dragons began. Women were raped, innocents slaughtered, gold and other valuables taken; in addition to the wharfs, half of Flea Bottom had gone up in flames, the cries of hundreds of smallfolk filling the grey sky as they burned in the filthy slum they called home.

And then another force had arrived, mounted and bearing the warring white dragons of Prince Aelor, smashing into the disorganized and distracted Westerman like a hammer. It had turned from a slaughter of civilians to a massacre of soldiers, many being caught literally with their breeches around their ankles, pulled off the women they were raping and disemboweled, their lifeblood flowing around their stiffened members to form great crimson puddles. Many of the Westermen were so committed to the utter chaos they were reaving that they never knew they were being attacked until it was too late. One moment they had been winning, the next they had been dead.

Infantry under Lord Randyll Tarly of the Westmarch had followed the horse of Prince Aelor, the lead forces rushing through each of the gates to help rid the capital of lions while the following men formed shieldwalls in them, cutting down any Lannister who tried to flee. Some Western lords managed to rally retainers and attempt breakouts at the Iron Gate and the Gate of the Gods, but the men of the Reach, unbloodied so far in the war, had held firm, keeping the lions in their cage.

What rattled most about the battle wasn't the quick changes in momentum, however; it was the presence of two Targaryen princes.

Aelor, Lord of Duskendale and second son of the king, had ridden through the Mud Gate first. As the bards would tell it, he cut bloody swaths through the enemy alongside Barristan the Bold and his best knights on their way to the Red Keep, through sheer brilliance anticipating Lord Tywin's move and arriving to thwart the lion. Rhaegar, Lord of Dragonstone and heir to the Throne, had ridden through the King's Gate with Ser Arthur Dayne. In that telling, he cut his own path through the carnage towards the same destination. To many he had appeared as a god, returning from his self-imposed exile in time to save the city of his birth with his brother.

Only the two men in question knew what utter drivel it all was.

The brothers sat in silence and torchlight in the Small Council Chamber, one at each end of the table. Rhaegar, ethereal face framed by long silver hair, was strumming his lute, seamlessly switching from one song to another in an unbroken chain. Aelor, his face bruised and bloodied with fresh stitches holding it together, held a chalice of wine in his right hand and a tankard to refill it in his left.

Neither spoke for a long time.

"Do I have to call you 'Your Grace' now?" The latter finally asked, the sewn flesh of his right cheek pulling painfully with each word. His deep voice was raspy, betraying the utter exhaustion that had settled in alongside the pain.

His elder brother smiled sadly. Rhaegar does everything sadly. His own voice was strong and clear, an octave higher than Aelor's. "Only in public. In private you and I can talk as we always have."

Aelor nodded sharply. "Good. Then you're a fool, king or not."

Rhaegar Targaryen, the first of his name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm, smiled all the sadder. "I know."

Their father was dead.

Ser Arthur Dayne, having gone to check the royal quarters once he and Rhaegar had gained the Holdfast—much as Aelor had sent Rykker and Desmond to do—had found the Mad King dead at the feet of Jaime Lannister in the throne room. The monarch's long fingernails had snapped from his impact with the ground, a bloody smile carved into his throat. Jaime sat the throne, dressed in the golden armor of his house instead of the white enamel plate of the Kingsguard, looking as calm as if he'd only swatted a fly instead of killing the king he was sworn to protect. The lad hadn't put up a fight or a word in defense, dropping his sword and submitting himself to chains when Ser Arthur demanded it. Renfred, Desmond, and the nameless knight, stumbling upon the scene fresh off killing a knight named Armory Lorch in Rhaenys' chambers, had taken him to the black cells.

Aelor, having been unconscious for an hour or so after his reunion with Rhaegar, had woken to find his father was gone. There had been no tears, no broken heart. The prince had felt relief, then disgust at himself for it. Not that it was a surprise—the good memories with his father from Aelor's younger years had mostly been replaced with burning men and the cries of his mother. There had been more of the good than the not in quantity, but the bad had been bad enough to damn all joy that might have once been.

And thousands have already died because of him, with thousands more to come. Aelor took a long gulp of wine. Including who I used to be. Death was an old friend now, one whose company Aelor found he enjoyed. That no longer scared him as it had only a moon ago.

Ser Barristan Selmy stood guard at the door of the chamber. The man in white had come sprinting into the Keep after it had all been over, having lost his horse to a spear halfway up the Hook during the charge. Barristan had already apologized a dozen times in the few hours since, though the Seven knew it hadn't been his fault. Aelor had told him as much, but Barristan still winced every time he looked at the second son and his stitches.

Ser Arthur was resting in preparation for the morning, for he and Barristan would have to split duties evenly between them as the only Kingsguard left in the city—aside from the new Kingslayer of course. The other two men to leave with Rhaegar, Gerold Hightower and Oswell Whent, had not returned with him, and Prince Lewyn Martell was with the new heir to the throne.

The seventh of their number, Ser Jonothor Darry, was dead. He had been found slain in the chambers of Princess Elia, having gone to protect the princess consort and instead run into a giant as he crushed a lady-in-waiting's head. Darry had been an excellent swordsman, but he hadn't stood a chance against the behemoth of Gregor Clegane. They'd found his body nearly cut in two at the waist, lying over the ruin of what had once been Talana Vaith, the lady in waiting looking as if she'd been ravaged by a monster.

That same monster had very nearly killed Aelor, only stopped from succeeding by the new king—the same man that had knighted him barely a year prior, at the Tourney at Sarsfield. Clegane's head, massive as the rest of him, now resided on a spike on the battlements of the Red Keep. He had only been seven and ten. Aelor shivered at the thought of what the beast might have done had he been allowed to live.

Rhaegar cleared his throat and for a moment Aelor thought he was going to begin to sing, but instead the new King of the Iron Throne spoke. Pity. I always liked my brother's singing; maybe it would have calmed me down enough to not want to kill him. "Where are my children?"

Aelor took another drink of wine, though he then made himself push the tankard away to ensure he didn't drink to the point of impairment. It would have been easily done in his current agitated state. "Halfway to Duskendale by now, if the winds were good."

Rhaegar waited for an explanation Aelor didn't voluntarily give. "How?"

"The same way I knew Tywin Lannister was marching; with the help of a Spider."

The king tilted his head back in understanding. "Lord Varys."

Aelor nodded. "You and I used to ditch our lessons and play in the secret passages as boys. The Spider knows them better than anyone, even us. I left my man Manfred Darke and recruited Varys' help should the city be attacked. He did the rest. Odds are good they were well gone by the time I arrived, though I had no way of being certain." Aelor grunted in irritation at the pain talking brought but forged ahead despite it. "I've already sent a raven to recall them, under the care of Aleqou."

"Your Pentoshi merchant?"

"One and the same. He'll use his best galley and return them with haste, likely before dark tomorrow."

Rhaegar nodded softly, strumming his lute and speaking over it. "Baratheon?"

Aelor clenched his jaw, teeth grinding. "I had the choice of riding for King's Landing or destroying the Rebellion's leader. I could not do both. I didn't know with certainty Lord Tywin's intentions, but I doubted they were good considering his relationship with father."

His brother nodded. "I understand. You made the correct choice, even if Tywin had stayed true." They sat for a few moments, the only sound that of the Rhaegar's playing. "But our father is dead. If I were to sue for peace, do you believe—"

"No," Aelor cut him off with a scoff. "Why would they? They have an army already amassing and reinforcements with a claimant marching towards them." His tone darkened. "And father may be dead, but you and I are still alive. We are as guilty of starting this war as he was."

Rhaegar raised an elegant eyebrow, though the weariness in his eyes hinted he knew this was coming. "Oh?"

"Yes," Aelor spat. "You ran off with a woman who wasn't your wife."

The king sighed. "Brother—"

"Save it," Aelor cut in, rising to his feet in his wroth, hands braced on the table as he peered across it at Rhaegar. "You stole a woman. You disrespected your wife, even though she will make the best queen since Alysanne Targaryen. And then your actions brought the girl's father and brother to King's Landing, where our father killed them. Thanks to you. You, Rhaegar." Aelor glared at his brother a moment before the fire left him. He dropped back into his seat in a defeated slouch, pinching the bridge of his nose and closing his eyes. "And me, I suppose."

Rhaegar, never having stopped strumming the lute, spoke in that same even tone. "How so?"

"We've always known what our father was, even in those good years before he truly became Aerys the Mad. For a long time, we didn't stop him because we couldn't. But what excuse do we have these last few years? We were his sons; the realm loved you and at least didn't hate me. We could have done something, stopped all of this." He opened his eyes and laid his head back against the chair, peering at his brother. "Instead, you steal a woman and I watch as a good man is burned alive, his son killing himself in a desperate attempt to save his father. I stood and watched. I could have done something, stopped the war before it began, but I did nothing. And then we ran. I ran so I wouldn't have to listen as he raped our sweet mother, and you ran so you wouldn't have to face consequences of your lust." Aelor laughed bitterly, a raspy, broken sound. "Some princes we are. Some men we are."

Rhaegar said nothing, The Dornishman's Wife filling the silence. The king played and the prince brooded, lost in their own thoughts,

"I suppose I owe you for saving my life," Aelor said eventually, making no secret of how distasteful he found that to be.

"No," Rhaegar responded. "You ensured Elia and the children were smuggled to safety. That is a debt I cannot repay."

"How'd you know to return when you did?" Rhaegar glanced at him, violet meeting violet, but didn't say anything before looking back to his strings. A dragon dream then. His brother had had them for as long as Aelor could remember, though it wasn't a talent—or curse—either of them spoke of openly. Aelor made the logical assumption that brought, and the anger he had tamped down earlier returned in full force. "You are a fucking idiot. Is that what all of this has been about?"

The king sighed. "I know you do not understand, Aelor."

"No, I don't."

"The prophecy—"

"Piss on your prophecy," Aelor spat, voice venomous as he rose to his feet again, the heavy chair clattering to the ground. "This delusion that you let become your obsession has killed thousands. You broke a good woman's heart and abandoned your two children because you buggering dreamed it was for the best! You tore a realm apart because of the decades old ramblings of a woods witch."

"The Prince that was promised—"

"Sure as hell isn't you or I."

Rhaegar clenched his jaw, only now beginning to grow angry at his younger brother's berating. "Careful, Aelor."

Aelor snorted. "Or what, Your Grace? Are you going to burn me alive as our father would have done? I've been fighting a war for you, Rhaegar. I've done it poorly at times, but at least I was trying to put a stop to the destruction of our dynasty. And what were you doing? Hiding hell knows where with a woman who for all I know you kidnapped, letting men die by the scores." Aelor had both his hands on the table again, violet eyes boring into his brother's identical ones. To Rhaegar's credit he met them evenly, even as Aelor's tone dropped into a growl. "If you took her against her will…"

Rhaegar's nostrils flared and he stopped playing, which told Aelor how angry the question truly made him. "Of course not."

The prince nodded slowly. Some decency left in you I see. As if that small exchange hadn't happened, Aelor continued. "Maybe Aegon is the Prince that was Promised, whatever that even proves to be. But he can only fulfill your prophecy, can only rise to greatness, if we guide him to it. And we can only do that if we are alive." Aelor threw a hand towards the windows behind his brother's chair, where the fires still glowed in the night. "In case you weren't aware, there are tens of thousands of men at Riverrun and thousands more heading there, all wanting to make sure we are not."

Rhaegar started to play again, Jenny of Oldstones bouncing around the chamber. While Aelor loved that song, right then he wanted to take the lute and break it over his brother's head. "Are we certain they are still at Riverrun?"

"No. Baratheon is marching that way and he has too far of a lead on Prince Oberyn and his Dornishmen. Whether the rest of the rebellion is still at Riverrun or marching to meet Baratheon not even Varys is sure."

"How many men do they have?"

"Close to forty thousand. We'll have less even after Oberyn arrives, but not by much. We can increase that number if truly desperate; I sent Mace Tyrell and the Redwyne Fleet to besiege Storm's End."

The king cocked his brow. "I imagine Robert's brothers are there, but does it truly matter whether Storm's End falls? Or even if we take them prisoner. I cannot say I ever saw the Baratheon brothers get along."

Aelor shook his head. "No, but it keeps Tyrell out of the way. Randyll Tarly leads the Reachmen with my army now that Tyrell is occupied, and I'd take one of him over fifteen of Mace."

Rhaegar smiled at him, and for the first time that day it wasn't a sad one. "Prudent of you, Aelor. You have made quite a name for yourself in this war."

The Dragon of Duskendale shrugged. Once upon a time praise from the brother he loved would have meant the world to him; now, considering what he'd had to do because of that same brother's foolishness, it seemed tainted. "The Seven know why. I've only fought a handful of battles, and in each of them I've either had the element of surprise or superior numbers. And I still had my flank turned by Selwyn buggering Tarth."

"Your men love you, and I daresay you're being thought of as the second coming of Aemon the Dragonknight."

I doubt Aemon the Dragonknight took half as much joy from battle as I. Or from killing. Aelor didn't say that out loud, instead tilting his head and narrowing his eyes. "You know me better than that. Blatant flattery will not distract me from your stupidity."

Rhaegar breathed half a laugh. "I didn't believe for a second that it would. But it was not blatant flattery, only truth."

He shrugged. "Turns out I'm good at killing people. So is every sellsword on either side of the Narrow Sea."

The king nodded in deference to the statement, but he stopped playing and laid his lute on top of the table to give his full attention to his brother. "But none of those sellswords are Princes of the Iron Throne. Or Hand of the King."

Aelor stared at Rhaegar for a long moment. "You're going to need to clarify that."

The king stood, speaking as he rounded the table. "Merryweather was replaced by Jon, who in turn was replaced by a pyromancer of all people. Roassart, I believe his name is. Or was, anyway. Jaime killed him shortly before killing our father."

Aelor had known of the replacement of Merryweather, though not that of Connington, one of Rhaegar's staunchest allies. He knew nothing at all about anyone named Roassart. "Why?"

Rhaegar shrugged. "I couldn't say, though I fully intend to find out. I need a Hand, one who can help me finish this war and could also rule the Seven Kingdoms in Aegon's name should something happen to me. I can think of no one better than you." The king held his hand out to his brother.

Aelor hit him.

It was a vicious backhand that sent Rhaegar reeling away, though he kept his feet. "No!" the king commanded Ser Barristan when the Kingsguard knight began to start for them, clearly intending to break them apart. "Let him go."

So Aelor went. Though three years younger, Aelor had been bigger and stronger than Rhaegar for most of their lives, and a childhood of fights left him more than proficient with his fists. Rhaegar, far from a weakling, fought back hard, landing several blows of his own, but both knew he was outmatched. They were full grown, bloodied men, arguing over a life altering moment, but for that split moment they were young children again, settling their quarrels the same way they always had.

By the time they were done Rhaegar's beautiful face was no longer quite as beautiful, bruises already forming and blood leaking from a split lip, but Aelor hadn't truly been trying to hurt him. When they fought they fought hard, but they had an unspoken truce to never truly harm the other; that was why Rhaegar hadn't struck near Aelor's wound even once, avoiding the stitches holding his brother's face together. The flesh had torn in a few places anyway, Aelor breathing heavy from both exertion and the last coals of his anger as fresh blood wept down his jaw and dripped to the floor.

The king spoke first. "Better?"

Aelor nodded because it was, though he voiced his argument anyway. "If you think that a damn pin changes anything, you are mistaken."

"I know it doesn't," Rhaegar replied from where he sat leaning against one of the chairs, breathing heavily. He spoke between the inhales. "But it's a serious offer. We have a war to win. You're the best man for it."

They stood there, catching their respective breaths. After several long minutes he spoke again, bloody fists clenched. "I'll take the damn pin until the war is over. Then you'll take it back and find someone else to run your kingdoms for you, because I sure as hell won't. Mending fences, building bridges…that's your thing. I'm the one that burns them down."

Rhaegar nodded. "Fair enough." He extended a hand that Aelor accepted, hauling his brother to his feet. "If I die, though, I want you to be Aegon's regent. You are perhaps the only man I know who wouldn't just kill him and take the crown for himself in that position. Instead, you would care for him and his mother and sister."

"I already do." Better than you do.

Rhaegar's sad smile returned, as if he had heard Aelor's added thought. "I know." He held his brother's gaze. "You love her."

Aelor's blood froze, though he tried to casually raise a brow. "Rhaenys? Of course."

The king tilted his head, eyes knowing. "Elia." He raised a hand to stall the denial on Aelor's lips. "Peace, Aelor. I know you haven't dishonored her or me." He paused just a minute. "She loves you too, baby brother. I don't know if either one of you ever fully realized it, but any man who knows you both as I do can see it as plain as day."

The Dragon of Duskendale didn't know what to say. There had always been something between him and Elia, a draw the prince had never understood. Part was certainly a physical attraction, as only a blind man wouldn't find the new queen beautiful, but whatever it was that set his entire body thrumming in her presence was much more than simple lust.

He'd known it since that day in the harbor when she had stepped off a Dornish galley and seemed brighter than the sun overhead. Aelor was not a shy man, nor had he been a shy child, and he'd never struggled with words before a day in his life. But when she had been introduced, glorious in a dress of Martell orange with bracelets and armlets of gold, he'd sounded like an utter buffoon.

She'd had the grace to smile at him despite his stumbling embarrassment of an introduction, and he'd been hers ever since.

Elia felt the connection too, Aelor had no doubts about it. They'd never spoken of it, not to each other or to those closest to them, but they had both known early on. Looks that lingered a touch longer than was proper, the way her bronze skin would break out in goosebumps when he touched her, the way they'd keep drifting too close together when dancing before they both realized it and took subtle steps back. It was there, wonderful and painful and completely ignored.

He'd never allowed himself to consciously acknowledge it, but Aelor Targaryen had known.

And apparently so had his brother.

Rhaegar patiently waited, taking a seat in the chair he'd been leaning against and saying nothing as Aelor's mind raced. Eventually the second son spoke, voice even rougher than it already had been with conviction and a touch of shame. "That changes nothing. As you said, there has been no dishonor, nor will there be."

To his shock, Rhaegar laughed. "I'm not worried about that, Aelor. I'm not worried about any of it, truth be told."

Aelor scowled. "You're not worried that your brother loves your wife?"

Rhaegar shrugged, a motion that caused him some pain judging by his wince. Aelor had landed a hard fist to his ribs. "No, nor do I care that my wife loves my brother." When Aelor stared at him in confusion, Rhaegar shrugged. "I love Elia in my own way, but I am not in love with her or her with me. Our match was political. This thing between the two of you, however, could be more. I won't pretend to know exactly what either one of you feels, for I am not you, but I have seen enough to know that much at least."

Aelor was still caught up on the earlier statement. "But she's your wife."

Rhaegar nodded. "Aye, she is." Rhaegar paused, as if considering something, before straightening his spine and looking at the only other figure in the room. "Ser Barristan, close the door if you will. I would speak to my brother alone."

No sooner had the door closed than Rhaegar rose, albeit stiffly. "Follow me. And here." He pulled a stretch of red silk from a pocket and pressed it into Aelor's hand as he passed. "Your face is bleeding." Aelor followed because he didn't have any idea what else to do, holding the silk to his stitching and hissing with the sting of first contact.

Rhaegar led them to the balcony, the glowing lights of torches and the fire in Flea Bottom stretching out below them as they leaned on the railing. When the king spoke he spoke softly. "In there one can never be certain, but out here in the open air there will be no other ears. I am going to tell you some things, Aelor. Some you will appreciate. Others you will not like. One you will hate." Rhaegar looked at him. "All I ask is that you listen first. If we must fight again afterwards so be it, but let me at least share some things you need to know."

The second son hesitated a long moment before he nodded. The first smiled at him, then began.