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

Chapter 22

Rhaegar was dead.

Elia Martell read and reread the first line of Aelor's letter over and over, her stomach hollow. Rumors had been filtering into King's Landing for several days, but the parchment in her hand confirmed they were, for once, accurate; Rhaegar Targaryen, the first of his name, had been slain in a shallow ford of the Trident by Robert Baratheon. Elia heard lute music and his beautiful singing voice in her head, accompanied by the memory of Rhaegar holding Rhaenys and Aegon and a thousand other moments of joy.

He's dead. After everything, he goes and gets himself killed. My husband is dead.

Elia slowly settled into the cushioned chair in her chambers, unable to get past the first line of Aelor's note. She knew there were answers to a thousand questions in the lines that followed it—was the war still going? Had her brother survived? Was Aelor wounded?

All those questions were shelved by the overwhelming fact that her husband, whatever his flaws, was dead, and with that truth came ramifications that terrified her.

My son is the King of the Iron Throne.

Words did no justice to how much that scared the Princess of Dorne. Elia 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. Aegon was supposed to have children of his own to succeed him and a lifetime of grooming for the role of king. He was supposed to be ready.

The Seven and Robert Baratheon decided otherwise. 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 ruling a massive realm at war with itself.

That's not strictly true though, is it. That responsibility falls to Aelor, and to me.

Or would it fall to Aelor alone? 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 moral methods? Was Rhaenys now heir to the throne, or was Aelor?

Elia didn't know, much as she hadn't known anything for months now. What she wouldn't give for it to be a year ago, when happenings such as these seemed impossible.

She sat in that chair, mind racing, for nearly an hour. It took her that long to force herself to read past that first, damning line. It brought so many emotions crashing in all at once—she felt she should cry, felt she should run though there was nowhere to go—that she had to make her mind focus on each word, one at a time, over and over until she could finally make sense of the rest of the letter.

Even when she had, the first line sat burning in her mind's eye. 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, and thousands of others besides. Renfred Rykker was among them, the hulking man that had been Aelor's constant companion since they were toddling children. Elia, already overwhelmed at the loss of Rhaegar, felt a different sort of pang at that, her mind going to a pretty, plump woman heavy with child. Malessa Rykker, formerly Malessa Buckwell, was due any day now, carrying a child rendered fatherless before birth. Her own father, Lord Buckwell, had brought her to King's Landing when Aelor had ordered him to remain as Elia's right hand, and the queen and Lady of Hollard Hall had gotten along swimmingly. She was a sweet, kind girl, not yet nineteen.

And now she is a widow. Now we both are.

The Queen of the Iron Throne—or is it now Dowager Queen, despite my youth?—had always heard war was terrible. Now, she truly understood why.