The Dragon of Duskendale -- A Song of Ice and Fire Fanfic

Chapter 11

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 pants 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 before 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 gibberish all of it 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."