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The Queen, her hand clutched to her belly, stood staring out into the area where her husband lay. That the swordsmen who had come against them was a mercy for had they survived? By her command they would have died. Alys felt sick at the sight of her husband, the horror of it even as she felt a sick fear that Maegor had fallen. There was no cry that came from her lips though they moved in silent prayer. Let him live, she begged whatever gods existed. For if he died here and now? The children of Aenys would surely seize the throne that by rights should go to the child in her belly. She would be deposed as Queen. Set aside for all the realm to mock, the Queen of a Day. The Whore Queen. Oh, she could hear the mockery already!

“Send the Maester to the King.” She snapped out and gave Tyanna an imperious gaze, “Go. You know herbs, perhaps something from Essos could be of use.” A command, not a request. Even as she looked across the scene of victory, a scene of nightmare, she spied that bastard child of her House. A slight shadow against the Dragonlord of Volantis. That was more oil to the fire of her rage. Did she think to rise above her station? To rise to stand as if she was Alys’s equal? She, a base-born bastard of some dragon seed? Gesturing to a serving woman, she leaned to the side, “Have word sent after this to Lord Balaerys that I wish to thank him for his support on this day.” It would do to nurture that relation, though she would also use it to perhaps secure the future of her kin or the lack thereof. There were better options than a servant for such a Lord.

Her brown eyes caught the body and head of her youngest brother and the Queen felt a pang of loss. Horas had been too young, but how could anyone deny him the honor? He had fought for her and her husband. She would light a candle for him even as she watched the scene of her king’s fall. “He will survive. A dragon does not die easily and not from such petty wounds.” She assured herself. Hoping she could believe it.

Tyanna erupted with a rageful growl as she watched Maegor rip a man’s face apart only to fall muttering seconds later. Men and their impetuous need for violence. She smothered the feeling and formed it into something more suited to her position, something more suited to the rumors of relationship she had encouraged to spread and smolder. She accepted Alys’s instructions, action she would have taken regardless. It wasn’t his time, not yet. She would not let him end himself this way, before she could make use of it. 

She put a hand to the queen, softly, on her shoulder, her face twisted but in what appeared as shared anguish. “You must get yourself to safety. Surround yourself with men you trust and have a room prepared for your husband. Fuck the Maesters, do not trust them. Visenya and I will see to him, return him to you and his kingdom.” 

She did not wait to see if the queen heeded instructions thrown back at her. Tyanna had had foresight enough to dress for easy movement and not for show. Already the crowd began to separate - those who wanted to flee for one reason or another, those who sought to rush the field, and those who were intent on taking advantage of the chaos. The Pentoshi woman sneered at them all, shoving men, women, and children alike out of her path. She’d one goal and it was to the killing field, to the massacre these barbarians had unleashed. 

“MOVE.” The common tongue was harsh from her mouth, rumors of her had easily spread in her short time in King’s Landing, a boon for her as few would want to touch the severe woman said to dabble in dark arts. One did not care to listen to her commands and blocked her path down a set of stairs with his ineptitude at moving his bulk out of her way. A slim knife found its way between his ribs, he sputtered, tripped, and was summarily trampled under foot by everyone else pushing behind Tyanna. She didn’t give it a second thought but to follow the flow of the crowd down and out. Where most others sought freedom out of the stands, she turned and followed a tunnel that gave way at last to the field.

It stank. Blood and torn flesh, a metallic and pungent scent that caked in the dry earth and clung to her. Knights and men-at-arms in Targaryen colors were converging on the king’s body. “CAREFUL,” her voice carried, “you fools.” If they harmed him in attempting to move him, she’d gut every last one of them before her return to Pentos. 

“VHAGAR” 

The first words the Dowager Queen spoke were both name and command, the Valyrian word casting out impossibly loud from the frame of an older woman, and met immediately by an ancient scream which almost seemed to sunder the air itself.

Then the dragon, second only to the Dread himself in scope, was perched atop the grand rim of the stone arena, masonry crackling with strain beneath her claws 

“Ȳdragon.” Visenya spoke again, and Vhagar roared once more, this time sweeping her head low over the crowd beneath her, coming nobleman and peasant alike, and ceasing the untimely riot of movement that prevented easy access down to the sands of battle itself. Then she was moving, swiftly down and through the cowed crowd, vaulting over the side of the arena with an athleticism no woman her natural age should of been able to handle. Still, the bones of her legs and knees ached when she landed, but such pain did not mar the face of Visneya, only a scowl of focus and rage.

She quietly spoke further words of Valyrian, words of power, as she closed on the already crowded form of her son. The darkest of magics stirred around her, willing the King into a form of stability, if only so that he could be moved, and even then to that she trusted only her closest guards, the men clad in plate so dark it was as to obsidian among those who had reached him.

“To the Keep.” Her voice was quieter, not entirely able to hide the strain of her use of power, as her eyes settled on Tyanna. “You as well.”

There was a relief, even a cringing one, as Visenya called in a battlefield shout for her dragon. The great beast quelled the crowds. A panic here would spread across the Realm. Alys could hear it now, ‘The King is dead, long live the new King.’ Maegor had done nothing to earn their ire, except defy their petty minds to marry her and conceive a son. A necessity in a king that they thought to deny. Turning to the servants behind her, the Queen felt her chin rise in refusal to fall to such lowly panic. To refuse to think of the terror that would await a former king and rival prince if Rhaenys’s descendants took the throne. “Prepare the Keep for the King’s arrival. Water, clean bandages, and whatever herbs might be needed. See that the way is clear for the Dowager Queen and her son.” Looking at two cringing maids in particular, she snapped her fan closed. “One of you, go to the Harroways and tell them of the Royal family’s thanks and sorrow for the death of my brother. That he fought well in defense of his King and brother-in-law. The other, the same to the Baratheons.” She could not indebt the Targaryens to such houses, but there were appearances to be maintained. Reviewing her thoughts, she stared at the frozen maids and snapped her hand out. “GO.” They fled. Her own hands gathered the hem of her gown as she moved quickly to the stairway that would lead to the field. Beckoning a few of the wenches that remained with her. Her breath came in slight gasps as she felt the impossible sun beat down on the arena. That Maegor fought in this in armor? Her King would survive through fire and this was just another test for him to overcome. There was no doubt that he would live.

He had to live.