Chapter 25: Aelor's Wrath Unleashed

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

The streets of King's Landing had slowly regained their bustle, the terrors of the attempted pillage still evident in places but slowly being forgotten. That bustle slowly died again, however, when the royal party started down the street, Aelor at its head, the wagon and its boxed burden behind him. The bells of the Sept of Baelor began to ring, confirming to the citizens crowding the entire street what they'd been hearing as rumor.

The King was dead. Long live the King.

Aelor's army was setting up camp outside the city's gates, Randyll Tarly in command, the rebel forces under strict orders from the three Lord Paramounts to follow Tarly's commands as ardently as they would their own. Stark, Arryn and Tully were father back in line, bringing up the end of the somber procession as they went forward to swear fealty to King Aegon the Sixth. Rhaegar, dead now for days, had been cremated at the Trident, as was Targaryen tradition. His armor, sword and shield, however, were displayed on the wagon, along with the crown his brother had seldom worn in his short reign.

The normally loud streets were quiet, all eyes on the empty suit of armor or the Prince riding in front of it, scarred face solemn and just a touch impatient.

Aelor was ready to see Elia again. He was ready to hold Aegon and tickle Rhaenys. The Seven did he want to just gallop on ahead, but tradition demanded he escort his brother's 'remains' to the Great Sept of Baelor. He knew that was dreadful of him, to so desperately want to shrike this last duty he could perform for his brother, but Rhaegar was dead. Whatever their differences that still pained Aelor greatly, but he didn't see how escorting an empty suit of crushed armor would make any buggering difference.

Yet escort he did, Barristan, Oberyn and Alaric all riding abreast directly behind the wagon. The streets cleared before him, Warrior's massive form appearing as a stone splitting the current. Aelor's hip throbbed, the injury already beginning to heal but still buggering annoying, but even that discomfort was nothing when he thought of holding Elia.

Aelor knew there would be quite a bit of political fallout over any relationship the two might form, especially if it were to form too soon after Rhaegar's death, but the second son of Aerys couldn't find it in himself to care in the slightest. He'd killed dozens of men, lost dozens of friends and lost two brothers-one of blood and one of choice-to keep Elia and the children safe. The Seven themselves couldn't stop him now.

Only, it seemed they could.

As soon as Rhaegar's armor was to the Sept Aelor had kicked Warrior into a canter, the citizens of King's Landing diving out of the way of the thundering warhorse and his rider. Thoughts of Elia filled his head as he nigh on flew towards the Red Keep, the capitulated lords forgotten, the pain from Buckets-Theo Wull, of the northern clans Aelor had learned-axe completely forgotten. The gates to the Red Keep were barely opened in time for the Targaryen Prince to gallop through it, the second gate at the end of the drawbridge of Maegor's Holdfast the same.

Aelor had reined up, jumping off of Warrior's back with barely contained excitement from the prospect of seeing Elia and the children after more than half a year of war, when he saw Ser Manfred Darke and Donnel Buckwell approaching from the Holdfast, their faces somber.

"Manfred," The Prince called cheerily. "It's been a long time."

"Yes Your Grace." The ugly man replied, eyes downcast. That struck Aelor as odd, because Manfred never looked downcast. Barely-contained rage was much more his style.

"Bloody hell, Manfred, what's wrong? The war is over, friend, and that white cloak suits you!"

"The war is not over, Your Grace," Lord Buckwell said, his eyes also on the ground. "I fear it has only begun."

A feeling of dread chased the excitement he had felt mere seconds ago away. His smile disappeared, replaced by a concerned frown even as Oberyn, Barristan and Alaric galloped into the courtyard. "What has happened?" Aelor demanded over the clop of hooves.

"Tywin Lannister and his son have escaped, Your Grace," Manfred said. "Fucking Maester Pycelle smuggled in men dressed as our own buggering guardsmen."

"He then sent ravens to all of Lannister's bannermen remaining in the Westerlands, ordering them to rally at Casterly Rock," Buckwell cut in. "It only stands to reason he intends to fight, especially considering he doesn't know the other rebellious lords laid down their arms."

Aelor's face hardened. "He will still fight even after he finds out." Aelor cursed. "We should have killed him before we left King's Landing." Aelor shook his head, anger at the audacity of the lion and the treachery of the maester burning in his stomach, but a wave of relief was on its fringes. He had been expecting much worse from the appearance of his two loyal men. "This is a setback, but it is not the end of the world, friends. Lannister cannot possibly hold out against us, no matter his numbers."

"There is more, Aelor," Buckwell said. He opened his mouth to speak, but words seemed to catch in his throat.

Manfred delivered the news, as blunt in speech as he was in all other aspects. "Elia is dead. Lannister had her killed as he fled, and tried to have the children killed as well."

Everything went cold all at once. Aelor Targaryen heard the choked cry from behind him, knowing in some recess of his mind that it was Oberyn, but Manfred's statement was all he could think of, the words visualized in his mind's eye, staring at them for ages. Elia is dead. Manfred's stony voice rang in his ears, delivering the message again and again. Elia is dead. The entire reason he was still alive, the very thing that had given him the strength to defeat Robert Baratheon, had been ripped from his clutches at the very last. Memories sprinted through his mind, from the first time he had seen the Dornish Princess to the last, and every time in between.

Something snapped in Aelor at that moment, his fists clenching as he stood to his full height, face no longer a man's, replaced by the feral savagery of a dragon. "I'm going to burn them all." He said, voice low but clear. "I'm going to burn them all. "

The storm that shook the eastern coast of Westeros that night seemed to give tidings of what was to come.

The wind blew Barristan Selmy's cloak wildly, the thundering rain singing as it forcefully beat against his white armor. Twice he had to wrestle his horse back under control after the palfrey spooked at a loud clap of thunder, eyes white with terror, and he'd had to shout at the gate guard from less than a foot away to be heard. It was truly a shit time to be riding, but Barristan had a mission. It wasn't given to him by a member of the royal family but instead his own conscience and a fear for the man he thought of as a son.

Aelor was no longer Aelor. He hadn't done anything drastic yet, but Barristan knew the man better than anyone, and Aelor Targaryen was no longer in his right mind. Barristan knew as well as anyone the eccentrics that could come with the Targaryen name, having seen it firsthand during the reign of Aerys, but Aelor had always had his head set firmly on his shoulders, never showing the madness that so often manifested in his family. Aelor had been the brilliant side of the Targaryen coin.

Except for in his blackest rages. In those, even the Dragon of Duskendale was… unstable . His battlerages were different, those brought on by adrenaline and the need to protect his loved ones, and those didn't worry Barristan the Bold. But the other type, the type that Aelor let fester and grow until his life's goal became the destruction of whatever he had centered that rage on… those concerned the knight of the Kingsguard. He'd had that hatred for Robert Baratheon, and he had gotten his satisfaction by killing the man in the ford, but this new rage didn't seem to be focused on just Tywin Lannister. No, it seemed to be focused on the Lannister name in general.

And that terrified Barristan.

Elia's death had come at the worst possible time. While Barristan was devastated to learn of the Dornishwoman's murder and would be the same under any circumstance, the blow it dealt Aelor so soon after the death of his brother and lifelong friend could not be underestimated. The second son of Aerys had dropped into the blackest rage Barristan had seen, the very name Lannister making the Prince clench his fists and grit his teeth. The Red Viper was by no means helping, Oberyn in his own anger at his sister's murder calling for the head of every Lannister they could find, even those currently serving in the loyalist army.

Aelor had denied him so far, but Barristan knew. Barristan knew it was only a matter of time before Aelor's fury and anguish would make him buckle to the Prince of Dorne's insistence, and then even Ser Kevan, who was innocent of everything except being Tywin's brother, wouldn't be safe.

That is why Barristan was riding in the middle of the night in a raging storm. Aelor may be able to save his family from his father's damages, but he couldn't save himself from his own anger. That fell to Barristan, and the knight of the Kingsguard could only pray that Aelor would someday forgive him.

Ser Kevan's tent was in the middle of the Westermen, its flaps latched down against the raging storm but with light from candles or a lantern inside casting shadows on its walls. There were nog guards posted, what with the war thought to be over and the army merely waiting for Aelor to bid them leave to go, so Barristan reached the flap unopposed, slapping his hand against the canvas quickly.

It took several moments for Ser Kevan to untie the flaps and usher him in, moments that felt like lifetimes to Barristan. As soon as he stepped into the dry, noticing several other men seated in the large tent who could from their looks only be Lannisters, he whirled back towards Ser Kevan. "You need to go, my lord."

Kevan furled a brow. "Go?"

"Your brother and nephew escaped the black cells with the help of Pycelle. They have gone to the Westerlands to raise the remaining men there."

Kevan's face grew even more confused, trying to make sense of what Barristan was saying. "Jaime? He was wounded defending…"

Barristan cut him off, voice betraying the urgency of his words. "No he wasn't, and there isn't time to explain." Barristan reached out to place his hands on Kevan's shoulders, staring him in the face as he spoke to make sure the Lannister knight knew the implications of what he was saying. "Tywin had Elia Martell killed. He tried to do the same to King Aegon and Princess Rhaenys, but was stopped. Aelor is out of his mind with grief and anger, and Oberyn is no better. They want blood; Lannister blood."

Kevan stepped back in shock. "But we here have served faithfully-"

"I know that, and somewhere deep inside so does Aelor, or you'd be dead already. But until Tywin is brought to justice, no Lannister is safe. For the love of the Seven, Kevan, flee, return to your family and take them somewhere far away from all of this until it is over, until Aelor is himself again."

"My brother…"

"Killed an innocent woman and tried to kill her small children, one an infant. Nothing you can do will save Tywin, Kevan; he has sealed his own fate. The only thing you can do is hide your family until all of this is over. When Tywin is dead Aelor may be able to see sense again, but until then you must run. " Barristan turned to the other Lannister men, who were in varying steps of standing up. " Run, all of you. Take your families and hide. Go, now !"

To their credit they needed no more prompting, Kevan and the others scrambling to obey. Barristan watched them as they pulled on boots and grabbed swords before rushing out of the tent, horses neighing even over the massive storm as they were hastily saddled and kicked into action, riding out into the whirling winds and rain.

Barristan calmly remounted his own palfrey as soon as Ser Kevan was gone, turning it to anxiously trot back towards the city of King's Landing.

He could only hope his actions hadn't just cost him his head.