Elia Martell knew Rhaegar Targaryen better than almost anyone, and even she hadn't seen it coming.
When her husband had won the tourney at Harrenhal, unhorsing his own brother in the final tilt after both Targaryen's had broken twelve lances on the other's shield, Elia and the entire realm had expected the heir to the Iron Throne to crown her the Queen of Love and Beauty. It wasn't pride or a notion of her own beauty that made her believe so; it was simply expected of a victorious tournament winner to crown his wife. That was how it had always been, and how it always would be.
So when the Crown Prince of Dragonstone bypassed the royal box, bestowing the crown of winter roses on the head of the Stark girl, Elia had been duly surprised. While her union to Rhaegar had not grown into one of love, it had been a happy one, at least for Elia's part. She had thought Rhaegar to be happy as well; all the way until the day it was revealed that he had stolen Lyanna Stark.
The Princess of Dorne had had no warning, no word from Rhaegar before or after hand to soften the blow. Truth be told, she still hadn't wrapped her mind around it fully.
Her concern was more for her children than herself. Rhaenys was only two namedays old and Aegon was still an infant, so the scandal of their father's betrayal of their mother wouldn't dawn on them for years yet. The war that it alongside their grandfather's lunacy had started, however, threatened them here and now. The Vale had called its banners, and it only stood to reason that the North and Stormlands were doing the same. King Aerys had called his own after a terrifying rant that had included the King burning the messenger alive with wildfire, but Elia wasn't sure how many lords would answer. Her goodfather's epithet of the Mad King was well deserved, and Jon Arryn was well respected across Westeros. She was quiet but she certainly wasn't stupid; if this rebellion was to win, her children would be threats to whomever the traitors chose as king.
And in the game of thrones, threats were removed. Violently.
"Elia," called a rich baritone, and the Dornish Princess's heart stopped when she turned to face it. For just a moment Elia thought her husband had returned, striding towards her confidently. But no, this man was a few inches taller and a fair bit broader through the shoulders and chest, a beard growing on a face that, while still attractive, didn't quite possess the haunting beauty that Rhaegar's did.
"Aelor," the Princess greeted, genuinely pleased to see her goodbrother had returned. In Elia's—private—opinion, the Dragon of Duskendale was the only Targaryen with his head firmly on his shoulders. Her husband's recent lapse of judgment had only affirmed that belief. Though he was often away at Duskendale, ruing as a lord should, he still frequently visited King's Landing. He had a soft spot for his niece Rhaenys and was enamored with baby Aegon, at times seeming to care more for the children of his brother than his brother did himself. Aelor had also won Elia's undying friendship when he'd viciously berated his elder brother at Harrenhal, his rage having been so great that one would have thought he was the woman scorned.
That fury had been terrible to behold; in those moments, with his violet eyes wide and muscled arms destroying everything within their reach, she had seen the only hint of madness Aelor had ever displayed. Elia was glad she hadn't been with him when he had learned of Rhaegar's most recent transgression.
They stopped a few feet apart, Aelor bowing and Elia curtseying formally. The Lord of Duskendale's smile, however, was all warm familiarity, and he placed a hand on her shoulder, squeezing it reassuringly. "And how is my favorite Dornishwoman?"
Elia giggled girlishly, patting Aelor on the arm as he dropped his hand from her shoulder. "I'm the only Dornishwoman you know."
Aelor's grin grew wider. "Nonsense! I'm rather well associated with your Vaith handmaiden, if you recall. Talana, with the long legs and impressively flexible...everything."
The Princess scoffed a laugh, rolling her eyes even as her smile grew. "Of course, how could I forget? She went on about you for weeks, talking of how her dragon prince swept her off her feet."
The dragon prince in question adopted a mischievous grin. "If I recall correctly, she swept me off of mine."
They laughed for a good while, and Elia realized how nice it was to do so again. Heavens knew there hadn't been much humor in her life of late. Even Aelor, who always managed to coax a smile from her, had been gone for some time. She had heard he had arrived in King's Landing the day the Starks had come demanding Lyanna's release, and left that same night.
She couldn't blame him. Everyone in the Red Keep knew of the King's obsession with fire, and how it ignited his baser needs. The Queen's screams were terrible to hear.
"How are the children," Aelor asked, cutting into her momentary reminiscence. The prince's eyes lit up at the thought of his niece and nephew.
"Rhaenys is with Ashara, fussing over her kitten."
"Ah yes, the infamous Balerion the Black Dread."
Elia sighed in exasperation at the thought. "A title most appropriate, I assure you. Aegon is with his wet nurse. I am on my way there now."
"I'll make sure to visit with them both while I'm here. I bought a new doll for Rhaenys, all the way from Volantis. It has obsidian eyes as black as Balerion and cornsilk hair." Elia couldn't help but think that Aelor was more excited at the prospect of giving the doll than Rhaenys would be at receiving it, and there were few things her daughter loved more than gifts.
"You certainly spoil her." The reason for her earlier apprehension abruptly returned in full force, and her mirth dissipated rapidly. "Not that I am no pleased to see you, but why are you here? Your father just sent for you this past morning."
Aelor's smile faded instantly. "It didn't take a genius to know how Jon Arryn would react to my father's demands. I have already called my banners. They are camped outside the city."
Whatever hope Elia Martell had held out that maybe just maybe war could be avoided, leaving her and her children in no more danger than the eccentric King provided on his own, died in that moment. "I see. So you march to war then."
Aelor nodded, face grim. "I intend to scatter the Stormlord hosts before they can assemble."
"The North was risen against us as well, as I'm sure you know."
The dragonlord grimaced. "The Riverlands will as well. I offered myself in a marriage proposal to either of Hoster Tully's daughters, and received his response mere hours before we marched. He claimed his eldest was in grieving for her recently strangled betrothed, and that he would not consider offers for his youngest until Catelyn had recovered and was married herself."
It didn't take a superior mind to see through that. "A farce of an answer."
"Aye. I imagine Tully has something else planned for his daughters, and I'd wager those plans have to do with the rebellious houses."
Elia felt her worry grow. Four of the eight regions—half of the realm—in rebellion because I couldn't please my husband. She didn't know whether to feel guilty or enraged. "How many men do you have?"
"Six thousand, for now. I'll gather more."
"Will the King allow you to go?"
Aelor shrugged. "The King cannot stop me. I will not sit by while he and my brother destroy a dynasty that took fields of fire and rivers of blood to build."
Elia nodded softly. "So you have had no word from Rhaegar either."
Aelor's eyes filled with a mixture of rage and pain. "None." Elia had nothing to say in response, and the Lord of Duskendale seemed to realize that. "I will say my goodbyes to you and the children before we march. I am on my way to handle my father now."
Elia nodded. "Good luck. If you drive towards the Dornish Marches, you will probably meet up with my brother's vanguard. Oberyn is likely to be in command. The two of you will make a force to be reckoned with." She pulled her goodbrother into a quick hug. "Take care, Aelor. The King grows worse every day."
Aelor nodded, kissing her hand softly. "You do the same, Elia. I will make this right, I swear to you."
As the Dornish Princess watched the straight back of the Dragon of Duskendale stride away, she couldn't help but wonder if, by the end of this war, there would even be anything left to make right.
Each time Aelor saw his father, he looked worse than the time before.
Aerys Targaryen once looked the part of a King. His father had been tall, with a regal bearing. He'd had a love for dancing, for masked balls, for feasts. He had always been eccentric, even Aelor knew that, but the realm had prospered during the first dozen years of his reign. Tywin Lannister was to thank for that, it was true, as the Lord Paramount of the Westerlands was as capable a Hand of the King as the realm had ever seen, but his father had at least managed to avoid plummeting the crown into despair.
The Defiance of Duskendale, however, the very rebellion that saw Aelor rewarded a keep and vassals, had driven whatever remnants of sanity Aerys Targaryen possessed into the darkest abyss of the Mad King's mind. His jealousy of Tywin boiled over, with Lannister resigning his post as Hand of the King, leaving Aerys to rule unchecked.
It was then that it had all gone to utter shit.
"Father," Aelor greeted with a cheeriness he most certainly did not feel. Aerys hair was long and matted, his fingernails even longer, curving like talons. His once proud bearing had been replaced by a stooped posture, the crown upon his father's head seemingly driving the incompetent king below it into the ground. Aelor could even see a few fresh wounds the Iron Throne had inflicted upon Aerys, and the dozens of scabs from previous ones.
"Aelor," his father croaked out, his voice cracking as if the man mistrusted language itself. Aelor supposed that might actually be the case; King Aerys certainly mistrusted everything else. "You have an army outside my gates."
The Dragon of Duskendale sank to a knee below the Iron Throne. "An army here to serve you, Your Grace." Aelor rose after a few moments, knowing that if he waited for his father to bid him rise that he would be on that knee for hours.
Aerys didn't seem to notice, still transfixed on his first statement. "You have an army outside my gates. I only summoned you yesterday morning. How are you here?"
Aelor met his father's eyes, no mean feat considering Aerys' eyes were barely recognizable as human anymore. They reminded Aelor more of a cornered predator than a King. "I took the liberty of calling my banners days ago, Your Grace."
Aerys' eyes filled with rage and he leaned forward in his throne of twisted iron. "I did not command that. You are my son, you follow my commands!"
No, you didn't command that. You only abused your prized dogs and expected them to never bite. "Yes, father, as always. I merely intended to have my men ready to serve you quicker, so you need not wait for them to arrive." This seemed to appease the King somewhat, for Aerys leaned back on his throne. Aelor wished to bring this meeting to a close as quickly as possible, and with that goal in mind he wasted no time with preamble. "I hear we are at war. With your leave, I beg permission to gather the men of Lord Bywater and march on the Stormlands with them combined to my own strength."
Aerys nearly snarled. "He serves me."
"Yes, Your Grace, as do I. I only wish to bring these traitors to heel, for the glory of King Aerys and House Targaryen."
"I have already sent out missives labeling Lords Arryn, Stark and Baratheon traitors," rambled the old voice belonging to the even older Lord Owen Mayweather. Aelor had never cared for the man; he was amiable enough, it was true, but the replacement of Tywin Lannister as Hand of the King was about as useful as nipples on a breastplate.
"Yes my lord, and done nothing else," Aelor snapped, causing the elderly Hand to furrow his brow in insult. Good. Be insulted; the Seven know you can't do anything else. Aelor turned his attention back to his father. "Father I beg you, allow me to end this war. Let them sing of the praises of King Aerys, of how he ended a war before it could truly begin."
Aerys stared at his second son for a long time, Aelor meeting it. When he finally spoke, he thrust a gnarled, scarred finger towards Aelor, his talon of a nail angling down. The King's tone was suspicious, untrusting-mad. "You wish to make the people love you more than they do me!"
I could be an ugly, imbecilic dwarf and still manage that without much difficulty, father. "I do not, Your Grace. You are the King. I only intend to help you solidify and protect your kingdom."
This round of staring was longer than the first, and Aelor felt his patience wearing thin. He held his tongue however; he would do his family, broken as it was, no good dead, and Aelor knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that his father's mind had regressed to the point that he would willfully kill his own son. When King Aerys spoke again he rose, bringing the other courtiers to their feet as well. Aelor had paid them no mind; lickspittles each and every one, focused only on increasing their positions by flattering their King with praises they didn't mean. Aelor cared for none of them.
"Go."
The single word was both permission and dismissal, and Aelor wasted no time in exiting. "Thank you, Your Grace."
Ser Manfred Darke, Lord Harte and Lord Rykker awaited him outside the main hall, Aelor having left Ser Barristan in charge of his forces outside the city. The Dragon Prince had feared that, upon seeing the white of his armor, the King would demand Ser Barristan remain in King's Landing. Aelor refused to risk that possibility; he was a deadly warrior, a truth he prided himself on and strove to maintain, but Ser Barristan had experience of war Aelor knew he would need in the coming conflict.
"Send a rider to Lord Bywater. His force will be ready to march by the time I reach the Kingswood. From there we march on Bronzegate." Lord Harte hastened to obey, always diligent and timely when given orders, striding away quickly towards the courtyard where he had left his palfrey.
"I take it the King has approved of your plan then, my lord," Rykker mused. "That didn't take long."
"Is it unholy for a man to dread the company of his own father? If so, the Seven must surely despise me. I ascertained permission as quickly as I could and left. Time is, after all, of the essence."
"When do we leave?"
"By nightfall. See to the preparations, Ren. Strong shield."
"Stronger sword," Lord Rykker replied before he strode confidently in the same direction Lord Harte had just gone.
"Manfred," Aelor spoke to the boulder beside him, "with me." The big man dutifully fell into step behind his liege lord, following as the Targaryen prince strode deeper into the Red Keep.
The biggest obstacle has been removed, at least for the time being, thought Aelor Targaryen as he hastened through the castle where he had been born and raised. Now I just have a war to win.
Rhaenys looked more and more like her mother.
The toddler was still forming words, and she babbled unintelligibly but happily to the doll he had brought for her. Aelor couldn't help but smile down at her from the doorway, knowing that the tiny Princess would grow into a beauty that rivaled even Ashara Dayne, who was holding another of the dolls Aelor had made gifts to the girll, playing along. The tiny princess had her uncle wrapped around her tiny olive-toned fingers, and the entire Red Keep knew it. Aelor didn't care. He would fight and die for that child.
Thanks to both her father and his, he very well might.
"You can go in, you know." Elia appeared beside him, tiny Aegon resting soundly in her arms. The Dornish Princess had always been quiet, even in movement, and Aelor started slightly at her sudden appearance.
The Targaryen Prince grinned at the sleeping baby that reminded him so much of his brother. "I know, but I can't stay long. We march for the Stormlands tonight. I had Ashara give her the doll; she certainly seems to like it."
Elia Martell laughed. "Of course she did. She always does love presents." Elia offered the infant snoozing in her arms to Aelor, but he shook his head reluctantly. "I had best not. My men are already being roused and are preparing to march; I must join them. I was only waiting for you." Elia furled her brow in confusion. "Ser Manfred," Aelor called quietly.
The big man stepped around the corner, face impassive even as he bowed to the beautiful woman before him. Elia raised an eyebrow, looking to Aelor for explanation. "Princess Elia, this is Ser Manfred Darke. He is uncouth and savagely mean, but he is as loyal a man as I have ever met, and a good friend to me." Aelor looked the Dornishwoman full in the face, his dark violet eyes peering into her nearly black ones. "I am leaving him here with you, as your sworn shield. I will miss him on the battlefield, but his business here is much more important, though I pray to the Mother he never needs to go about it. The numbers against us are great, and my father's madness grows worse. If King's Landing is to fall, you and the children will be in the gravest danger of all, if not from the rebels than from the King himself."
Elia didn't like this talk of her greatest fear being realized, especially coming from the man with whom her best hope of preventing it lay. "King's Landing is well defended, her gates—"
"Breachable," Aelor cut in gently. "If that is to happen, Ser Manfred has been tasked with getting you and the children as well as my mother and Viserys out of the city. He has never failed me before and I know he will not in this. If the time comes, you must do exactly as he says, if not for yourself than for Rhaenys and Aegon." The Dragon of Duskendale held the Delicate Spear's eyes for a long moment, face set in grim seriousness. "Do you understand, goodsister?"
Elia could only nod, fear for her children and for the young Targaryen in front of her making it nearly impossible to speak. Aelor dropped his gaze to the baby in her arms, his grim face breaking into a sad smile for just an instant before he abruptly turned and strode away, offering no parting words nor waiting to receive any. Elia could only watch him go for the second time that day, wondering if it might be the last time she ever saw him.
Ser Manfred Darke spoke as Aelor rounded a corner and disappeared, the knight's voice nearly as ugly as his face. "I am here to serve, Princess."
Elia nodded absently. "Let us pray you never have to, Ser Manfred." The Dornish Princess turned and entered the room where her daughter played oblivious in the way only children could be to the dangers she was now in. "Let us pray hard."