The Targaryen Legacy

She knew something was wrong the moment she heard the trumpets.

She'd just burst into Rhaenys' chamber when the first cries entered the fringes of her hearing. By the time she'd managed to sprint to her son's nursery, cradling the infant under one arm and hoisting her toddler on the other hip, the cries were as loud her own heartbeat.

The Dornish Princess nearly screamed when the door to the nursery crashed inward, instinctively shielding her children from whoever had burst into the chamber. A being filled the doorway, broader than the width between doorposts, a huge hand resting on the sword at his hip.

Her knees almost gave out when that someone turned out to be Manfred Darke, her lady-in-waiting Ashara Dayne slipping around the boulder of a man and rushing into the nursery, her violet eyes panicked. Ser Manfred's eyes were not, the knight as unflappable even in this clear emergency as he was in day to day life.

"Princess," came his gruff voice. "We need to go. Now."

Elia needn't be told twice, and she gratefully handed the whimpering Rhaenys to Ashara before pulling Aegon, sleeping and blissfully unaware of what was going on around him, closer to her chest. Ser Manfred turned and Elia followed instantly, Ashara close behind her.

Men at arms rushed through the corridors, shoving each other and shouting as they sprinted down the halls of the Red Keep. Ser Manfred strode confidently through them like a battering ram, sending one man at arms to the ground with a quick shove when the lad didn't get out of the way in time. Elia and Ashara huddled closely to his broad back, the noise of clanking armor and the sense of spreading panic waking Aegon, who began to cry.

Elia hushed her son even though she knew it would do no good. She didn't know who was currently raising hell on the city of King's Landing, but it didn't really matter; if they were attacking, they either wanted Elia and her children as hostages or wanted them dead. The Dornish Princess wasn't overly fond of either idea.

Elia had had no idea where Ser Manfred was going, but where he came to a halt would have been one of her last guesses. Her bodyguard slammed his palm three times on the door of Lord Varys' chambers, and the The Spider opened it instantly.

The bald, portly eunuch wordlessly ushered them in. Princess Elia, as confused as she could ever remember being, followed Ser Manfred in only when he waved his hand impatiently. The Spider's chambers were barren, with only a bed, table and a few chairs as decoration. But it wasn't what wasn't in his chambers that surprised Elia even in this moment of panic and unknowing; it was what was.

Queen Rhaella Targaryen stood in the center of the room, one hand placed protectively over her swelling stomach, the other clutching the hand of the six year old Prince Viserys. Elia's uncle, aging Prince Lewyn Martell of the Kingsguard, stood beside them in his resplendent white enamel plate, his own hand resting on the sword at his hip.

"Elia," the youngest Targaryen called, his young face scared. He started towards the Dornishwoman but the Queen held his hand firmly. While Elia and Rhaella got along fairly well in their limited exposure to the other, the Queen clearly didn't want to release her young son's hand when she didn't know what she was doing here or what was going on.

Elia didn't blame her. She pulled the crying Aegon even closer to her chest.

The Spider spared no words, merely walking in that strange stroll of his and making a quick motion with his hands at the wall. And then that wall moved, neatly floating up to reveal a staircase, and Elia decided that nothing made sense anymore.

"Up the staircase," came the fluttering voice of Varys. "My little birds will direct you from there."

Ser Manfred nodded, turning to give them only a few gruff words. "Follow me, Your Graces." The knight turned and without ceremony stomped up the stairs, his hand on his sword, the passel of royalty following. Prince Lewyn, giving his niece a confident smile, took the rear.

Aegon's cries resonated in the narrow, musky passage, and Viserys repeatedly asked what was going on despite his mother hushing him each time. Rhaenys took to crying as well, Ashara trying and failing to calm the child. Elia knew Ser Manfred and her uncle had to be gritting their teeth, escorting three women and three crying children down an old passage that lead to who the hell knew, but the squat knight and elderly Kingsguard said nothing, focused solely on the dark passage ahead.

At the top of the stairs was their escort. When Varys had referred to his 'little birds', he literally meant little . Their guide was a child, no more than ten. The passage they were in was dark, only a few torches spaced generous distances apart offering light, but Elia recognized the youngster as a regular around the servant quarters, the daughter of the blacksmith or some other castle-bound smallfolk. If this child is for Varys, who else is as well? The thought was disconcerting to say the least, but since the Spider seemed to be her children's best way to escape, she wasn't going to give it all that much thought.

Priorities.

They made more twists and turns than Elia could keep track of, climbing then descending then going straight, the blacksmith's daughter handing them off to another child the Princess of Dorne didn't recognize before that child in turn handed them off to another and then another. Elia was thankful for them all, because without them she would be as lost as a septon in a brothel.

Elia didn't know how much time they spent in the darkness, her children crying, Viserys growing more and more stressed and Ser Manfred charging stubbornly on, before the smoothed stone below her feet suddenly turned rough, and the next thing Elia knew she was being blinded by sunlight.

"We need to move!" called the voice of a short, slender man with a rather ordinary face. A boat with black sails, one so small she had trouble believing Ser Manfred wouldn't sink it with his weight alone, was grounded on a narrow strip of beach behind him, surrounded by the rock of the cliffs on all sides. The smell and sound of the Narrow Sea was overpowered by the smell of smoke and the cries from the city on the cliffs above them.

Ser Manfred stomped to the boat, turning to the royal family and ushering them on. "Quickly Your Graces."

They filed in one at a time, huddling close to one another, Aegon's insistent cries grating with Elia's already frayed nerves. I know you're scared, my love, but I can't protect you if I'm deaf. For the love of the Gods shush. That prayer went unanswered, as Aegon's cries only grew louder and more frequent.

Prince Lewyn assisted the pregnant Queen Rhaella aboard with great care. "Careful now, Your Grace," Elia's uncle said, smiling as he always did. "I'm already disobeying the king's orders by being here. I can't have you hurting yourself and giving him even more reason to kill me."

"Do not worry, Ser Lewyn," said the Queen. Her tone was quiet, but it had more strength to it than Elia had heard in years. "If I were to die the King would probably reward you."

Viserys doggedly stayed on the beach even after his mother was settled, eyeing the man with the boat distrustfully. "Who is he, mother? He smells like a fish."

"Hush child," came the voice of the Queen, growing firm. "This man is saving us. Get on board."

The young Prince scowled. "Father wouldn't like this."

"Your father isn't here, love. Get on the boat ."

Viserys dug his heels into the sand. "We are blood of the dragon! We don't go with peasants." Elia was beginning to fear Viserys may hold them much too long. She had known nothing of the secret passages of the Keep, and it seemed the Queen hadn't either, so it was unlikely someone would follow them, but the sooner they were on the sea the better she would feel.

That was an odd fact considering she had no idea who the small man waiting nervously by the prow of the boat was. Panic made for the strangest friends she supposed.

Elia began to rise with the intent of manhandling the youngest Targaryen Prince onto the boat, wanting more than anything to be gone from the wretched sounds coming from the city. Ser Manfred beat her to it.

"Your mother says go, you little shit," the big knight growled, his irritation as plain in his voice as it was on his ugly face. "You're going." Ser Manfred moved astonishingly fast for a man of his stature, and Viserys couldn't churn his young legs quick enough. Her sworn sword grabbed the Prince, one hand clutching an arm and the other a leg, and jumped on board, the youngest son of Aerys shouting the whole way. Ser Manfred payed him no mind, depositing the boy next to his mother who, despite her fierce protectiveness of Viserys, had not moved to protest the knight's actions. The big man kept one hand pressed down on the Prince's tiny shoulder, keeping him firmly attached to his seat.

"Be off," the knight barked, and the small man obliged, heaving the boat into the water with a strength that surprised the Princess of Dorne. Once it was sufficiently water bound, the nimble man jumped aboard, taking one oar while Ser Manfred took the other, handing the duty of containing the still struggling Viserys to the knight of the Kingsguard.

"The wind is in our favor," the brown haired savior said, Elia recognizing his accent as that of a man from King's Landing. "Once we row far enough out we'll go full sail."

"Thank you," the Dornish Princess said, her heart feeling more and more relieved the farther away from the cliffs of King's Landing they rowed. She pulled Aegon closer, his cries no longer the nuisance they had been mere moments before, and reached to pull Rhaenys to her side. "We can never repay you, Ser…"

"Davos, my lady," the man said, giving her a quick grin through his salt and pepper beard. "And I'm no Ser."

Aelor Targaryen was going to die.

He'd managed to dodge out of the way of the monstrous assassin's initial blow, the wind from the blade cutting through the air brushing against his cheek like a gale. Aelor barely had time to even step back, bringing his sword and shield up, before the giant was bringing his blade down overhead like an axe, intent on splitting the Targaryen's skull. Aelor jumped to the left, the giant's blade digging into the smoothed stone of the nursery's floor, and swung his own sword at the big man's unprotected side.

How the giant was quick enough to bring his massive sword up in time to block him the Dragon Prince would never know, the beast's blade knocking the Prince's aside and his opposite fist, the size of a small castle, grazing the point of Aelor's chin. The Dragon of Duskendale staggered back, ears ringing and vision reduced to stars. Only the unbalanced manner in which the giant had landed the blow paired with the fact that it hadn't connected fully saved every bone in the Prince's face from being broken. If the assassin had managed to land the hit clean Aelor had no doubt it would have shattered every bone it touched, and most likely would have killed him then and there.

It was then it became clear to Aelor that he could not beat this… thing . It was oddly peaceful, accepting one's death.

The giant roared, a guttural sound so frighteningly unhuman that Aelor wondered if this, not Warrior and himself, was what the embodiment of the Stranger looked like. He swung again, Aelor seeing through the stars just enough to manage to dodge aside. The Prince never even had time to go on the offensive, the stupidly long blade of his killer already whistling in towards his side, Aelor bringing his shield up instinctively.

Aelor was no small man himself, tall and broad shouldered, but he might as well have been the size of one of the many dolls he had gifted Rhaenys. When the mountain of a man's blade hit the shield, it barely even stopped the swing's momentum. Aelor Targaryen went flying, armor and all, like a stone from a catapult, slamming into the wall of the nursery with a clank of steel plate on stone before hitting the ground in a heap.

Aelor suddenly realized how much everything hurt. His face hurt, the blood still flowing from his wound and his chin throbbing. His right arm hurt, fatigued from the strength it exerted to both swing and drive through enemy armor. His left arm hurt now too, from fingertip to elbow, his shield nearly sheared in two, the top half hanging onto the bottom only by a few slivers of wood and bent steel. Hell, his whole body hurt, from head to toe.

He felt more than heard the massive footfalls of the giant assassin coming to end his life. Aelor couldn't find it in himself to care. No amount of the bloodlust or battle rage he had felt only minutes before was present, and even if it was, it couldn't have helped him. All he felt was pain. Hell, he didn't even know where his sword was.

Well shit. Knights are supposed to die with their swords in their hand. Aelor supposed that didn't really matter. No one was going to sing a story about him, the Dragon who had his ass handed to him by a man with dogs on his surcoat. Gods, dogs ? Why couldn't his sigil be a tiger or a direwolf, something fearsome ?

Aelor recognized his thoughts as the ramblings of a disconcerted, dying man. That was all well and good, because that was exactly what he was.

The mountain of a man stopped in front of the heaped pile of a Prince, raising his sword the size of Westeros and aiming it at the Dragon's head with a smile. Aelor met his eyes, willing himself even in his stupor to meet his death head on.

And then a sword burst out of the mountainous assassin's neck, angled upwards. The giant dropped his own blade, the greatsword clattering to the ground at Aelor's feet while its once-wielder clawed at the blade that had cut his throat. With a sickening slosh the blade was withdrawn, only to reappear a moment later slicing through the flesh at the back of the giant's legs, sending the beast to his knees. Aelor still didn't know who was behind the saving blade, for the monster before him was tall even when cut down to half his normal size.

The first hack dug into the side of the dog's neck, cutting flesh and tendon, but the giant animal still struggled, pulling a dirk from his belt and reaching for Aelor even as he choked on his own blood. The second hack dug deeper, the third even more so, slowing the giant hand reaching to end the Lord of Duskendale's life. It took several more, Aelor watching in grim astonishment as the mountainous man fought on despite a wound that would have killed most long ago, before a final swipe severed the animal's head, sending it bouncing across the nursery floor like a child's ball.

The body of the assassin protested death for a moment longer, its hands still trying to grasp the battered Prince before them, before it finally toppled like a falling elm to the bloody stone.

Aelor stared at the corpse for a long moment, mind still hazy, face still throbbing, before he finally looked up at the soul that had saved him. When the face registered through his addled brain, Aelor knew he had to be dreaming.

There in the nursery, sword bloody and black armor shining, stood Rhaegar Targaryen, a sad smile on his face.