The King was dead.
Elia Martell read and reread the first line of Aelor's message over and over, her stomach hollow. Rumors had of course been filtering into King's Landing for several days, but the parchment in her hand confirmed their authenticity. Rhaegar Targaryen, the first of his name and her husband, had been slain in a shallow ford of the Trident by Robert Baratheon, who had soon after followed his hated enemy into death at the hands of the Dragon of Duskendale.
He's dead. After everything, he goes and gets himself killed. My husband is dead.
Elia blinked slowly several times, unable to get past the first line of Aelor's letter. She was certain there was important information contained in the following lines; was the war still going? Had her brother survived? What of Ser Barristan? Those questions and their potential answers took a backseat to the overwhelming fact that her husband, adulterer he may be, was dead, and the ramifications that fact brought with it.
My son is the King of the Iron Throne.
The mere thought terrified her. She 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. She'd anticipated Aegon having children of his own to succeed him and a lifetime of grooming for the role as King. She'd anticipated him being ready.
But no. 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 containing a massive realm at war with itself. Well, she supposed he wasn't truly saddled with that responsibility, at least not yet; it would fall to Aelor, and to Elia herself.
Fear ate at her as the thought of her son being a king continued to settle. 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 legal methods? Did this mean Rhaenys was heir to the throne, or was that now Aelor?
Elia didn't know. It was all too much, this sudden change of events. What she wouldn't give for it to be a year ago, when events such as these seemed impossible.
It took her a long period of time to be able to read past that first, damning line that brought so many emotions booming in all at once—she felt she should cry, yet she did not—that she had to go blank for a moment, reading Aelor's words as if his opening statement wasn't there.
It didn't work of course. 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. Renfred too, the great big man that had been Aelor's constant companion since they were toddling children. She felt a deep sadness at that; the man's widow Malessa was due any day now, a pretty if plump woman whom Elia had found to be almost unbearably sweet. Her father Lord Buckwell had been in charge of King's Landing when the Princess of Dorne arrived, a competent if not quite gifted regent. He had acquiesced to her taking over almost as soon as she'd docked, and had been doing his upmost to be of help since.
Now his daughter was a widow though not yet nineteen, pregnant with the child of a man it would never meet, a situation similar but so much worse than Elia's own. The Queen of the Iron Throne—or was it now Dowager Queen, though she was only six and twenty—had always heard war was terrible, but now she saw just why.
Many others had died too it seemed. Her brother was alive and well, something Elia thanked the Seven for, but two of the three Byrch brothers were now dead, as well as every knight in Aelor's personal retinue. Various other lords she had once known personally had lost their lives as well, corpses over the quarrel of a few men.
If she hadn't been ready for Rhaegar's death, she certainly hadn't been ready for news that the other rebellious lords had surrendered. A relief, as palpable as her fear for Aegon, flooded her body at the news that this stupid war that she had helped start was now apparently over. Is this all it took, the death of a few important men to end it? Why did so many thousand innocent ones have to die as well, if their death is all it took?
Regrets, hopes and fears dominated the Dornishwoman's thoughts for hours as she sat in her solar, dawn turning to afternoon, Elia shooing away Ashara when she entered to check on her. She said nothing to her close companion, but her presence alerted her to the fact that this news must be spread. Aegon was now a King, ready or not, and Rhaegar had meant much on a personal level to more than just Elia.
Arthur Dayne happened to be on duty outside her chambers, a convenient if unwanted truth that gave her no time to think of how to handle it. Arthur had been Rhaegar's best friend and closest confidant, and vice versa.
So when she blurted out word of the King's death, knowing not in her own personal turmoil how to soften the blow, the handsome knight of the Kingsguard turning as pale as his armor.
"D…dead?" Arthur, normally the essence of composure and chivalric grace, stumbled back against the wall, unable to stand straight under the weight of the news. "How?"
"Baratheon killed him. Aelor in turn killed Baratheon." Elia, feeling as untethered and hollow as the Sword of the Morning looked, could only watch as the knight buckled slightly, unable to root herself from her spot to grab him.
"The King…"
"Is dead, Arthur. My husband is dead." Elia finally managed to break herself from her turmoil-induced paralysis, stepping up to place her hands on Arthur's shoulders. "Aegon is your King now, Arthur. You owe it to Rhaegar to protect him every bit as well as you would have his father." The Sword of the Morning nodded shakily, battling to find his inner equilibrium. "Go to your King now. His protection is paramount."
Arthur stood to his feet, breathing slowing, recapturing his balance and calm disposition. "Rhaegar instructed me to watch you particularly, Elia."
"I'm instructing you to watch his son. Go, Arthur."
It took a good amount more of haggling, the familiar bickering giving them both a bit of a tether in the pit of turmoil that was about to engulf the city. Arthur did eventually go, and Elia found herself wandering, thinking over all that had happened and all that might. The war ending was a great thing, she knew, but it was only one of the problems that faced her son. Would the Lords call for another Great Council, trying to replace an infant with a proven warrior? Where was Lyanna Stark?
It was all too much, which is probably why she didn't see the men in time.
They were dressed in the livery of the guards of the Red Keep, five burly men climbing the stairs from the lower levels to enter the empty gallery Elia found herself wandering in. While that in and of itself wasn't unusual, the man who followed them closely certainly was.
He was filthy and haggard, once shaved head now covered in gold and white hair that gave proof to his balding state, but there was no mistaking Tywin Lannister. The white armored being behind him, equally as filthy but with a much fuller head of hair framing a stupidly attractive face, was also easily recognizable.
This was all odd. Jaime Lannister was supposed to be in the Westerlands, recovering at his home of Casterly Rock from injuries sustained while trying to defend the Mad King from the freakish assassin and his pig-like partner who had infiltrated the Red Keep during the attempted Sack of King's Landing. Yet there the young man stood, unkempt but standing tall, no sign of an injury anywhere in his stance.
And his father? Well, Tywin Lannister was supposed to be in the black cells, rotting for the attempted murder of her children. And her.
Elia's mind connected the dots too late. A big hand grabbed her shoulder, whirling her around. The dagger didn't feel sharp as it plunged into her stomach behind the force of another apparent guardsman; no, it felt more like she'd been punched, the blade plunging deep and driving her breath from her lungs. The reeking, clearly not-an-actual-guard who wielded it withdrew the blade and drove it again, once, twice more, Elia only able to stare at her killer as her body weakened, finding herself dropping to her knees before falling on her side, curling up as pain started wracking her body.
Just when Tywin Lannister approached to stand over her she wasn't sure, her vision going hazy. Her hearing, however, remained clear. "Kill the boy and his sister."
"My lord, we need to get you out of here."
"They will not be ready for an internal threat. The dragon thought it had the lion defeated. It is time to prove otherwise. Kill the infant."
"Father…"
"Now."
As Tywin Lannister sneered down at her one last time, Elia started to laugh, a choked, awful sound. She was dying she knew, but laughing seemed like such a good idea. In Lannister's need for revenge he was sending his men to their death. Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning, was guarding that boy Tywin was planning to kill. Manfred Darke, the squat, fierce knight with the strength and toughness of a boar, was with Rhaenys, and he would protect her to the very end.
Those men were going to die, and Tywin Lannister was going to follow. Even if he managed to escape the city, Aelor would track the old lion down if it took the remainder of his life.
Elia knew 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 the face of her dead husband's brother, something she never realized she wanted so much until that moment. She was going to die here on a stone floor, killed by a man with the pride of a thousand kings.
And it was okay.
Her children would live, their would-be killers chopped down by two of the greatest knights she'd ever met. She knew it in her heart, just as she knew she was going to die. Her son would be King, guided by his uncle who loved him. 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; no matter the world's troubles, no matter its constant state of terror and turmoil, it would all, in the end, be alright.
Something soothed her as the darkness closed in, a wave of calm and tranquility she hadn't felt since before the Tourney of Harrenhal. Elia Martell, so haunted and hurt in life, was finally at peace.