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

Chapter 25

King's Landing had both changed and stayed the same.

Aelor Targaryen rode through the Gate of the Gods into the city of his birth an hour after dawn, leading a small complement of knights and a single wagon. The cobbled streets had slowly regained their bustle in the time he had been gone, recovering some of the signature brisk activity that had been missing since the Lannister attack despite the scent of smoke and burned flesh that still clung to the capital. Fire-scorched buildings and other evidence of the Sack remained, but a small amount of normalcy had returned in the crowd and buzz of activity.

That buzz slowly died again, however, when Aelor and his men rode in, a hush flowing out from the Gate of the Gods like ripples in water. The Dragon of Duskendale, armor as black as his horse, rode at the head of the procession. Two figures in white flanked either side, Ser Barristan the Bold and Ser Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning. Behind them rode four men abreast, three in silk and finery and one in leathers and furs; Lords Arryn, Tully and Stark, with Prince Oberyn Martell. A wagon, drawn by two matched draft horses in Targaryen barding, followed behind the lord paramounts. Two columns of knights shadowed in turn, both mounts and men atop them bedecked in their finest livery, both honor guard and actual guard for the items on display.

Despite the glorious view they made, few eyes strayed from the contents of the wagon.

The sides of the cart had been removed, giving the smallfolk slowly lining the streets a clear view of what it bore. A small box, its unseen contents ash, rode in the middle, black and red Targaryen banner draped across it. A crown of red gold sat at its center, a blade and shield its flanks. A dragonwing helm and a dented breastplate, empty holes where rubies had once been embedded, lay beside.

Most of the smallfolk knew what it meant at once. The rest understood a few moments later when the bells at the Sept of Baelor began to ring, ordered by a rider Aelor had sent ahead.

The King was dead. Long live the King.

My brother is dead. Long live his son.

Rhaegar Targaryen, the first of his name, had been cremated at the Trident, as was Targaryen tradition. His ashes were to be interred at the Great Sept of Baelor, where so many Targaryen kings were buried. Some good, many not. I wonder where history will place my brother. His reign was short and entirely consumed by a war he started, but he was much beloved of the smallfolk and many lords besides. Will they remember that love, or only what Rhaegar's own love caused?

Aelor did not know, and with an internal sigh he pushed the thought out of his mind. He would mourn his brother this day, as he had every day since Rhaegar's death and would every day until his own, but that grief would have to be secondary to his duty. Aelor had seven kingdoms to run, and grief could play no part.

But she can. Aelor imagined the Seven frowned upon him for the impropriety of that thought, but the prince had done little since the start of the war to please any of them save the Stranger. He was ready to see Elia again, the proximity to her making his skin hum in anticipation. Rhaegar's death made a complicated issue both simpler and more complex, but Aelor had thought of little else since the surrender except what he would say to the Princess of Dorne. Pair that with Aegon, Rhaenys and Viserys waiting at the Keep, along with his mother and perhaps a new sibling if she had already given birth, and the prince was near chomping at the bit. Never very patient, he greatly desired to gallop ahead and to those he loved at once. He knew that was dreadful of him, to want so desperately to shirk this last duty he could perform for his brother, but he had said goodbye to Rhaegar on the banks of the Trident. For Aelor, that wagon held only ash and armor.

But the Dragon of Duskendale remained in place, his face a Valyrian mask. The streets cleared before him, Warrior's great form a stone splitting the current. From the Gate of the Gods, through Cobbler's Square, to the base of Visenya's Hill and then up it, he led the honor guard of a dead king. Smallfolk lined either side of the path, growing in number as the prince neared his destination. Silence, reminiscent of those days right after the attack, blanketed the city, only interrupted by the clop of hooves or creaks of the wagon or the rattling of sheathed swords and shined armor.