Ever since Harrenhal, everything had changed. you felt somewhat guilty about your sister-in-law Princess Elia. Rhaegar is your brother after all, and you were married to Elia’s brother, Prince Oberyn. So after a brief discussion with your husband, you two move to Kingslanding with your two sons. Prince Jahaerys, 6 years old and young Prince Maelor, only two.

Oberyn was invited to King Aerys’ small council on behalf of Dorne, so you spent most of your days with Princess Elia and her two children Princess Rhaenys and little Princes Aegon. Your children were around the same age, so they got along very well. Elia was also very fond of your boys, so you often brought them along to pay her a visit at night time.

Tonight, all the lords were summoned to the council chamber, including Oberyn. You, therefore, took Jahaerys and Maelor to Elia’s chamber, looking forward to another night’s quiet chat. But when you opened the door, one of the assassins had already seized your two children, while another pressed a dagger against your throat with such force that it drew blood. You screamed and struggled, but the man snarled, ‘Struggle again and Elia dies first.’ Only then did you realize that Elia had already been bound and gagged. “Please… whatever you want. Gold? titles? My husband will give it to you. Just let my sons go. You can do whatever you want to me. Hurt me, kill me, just don’t harm them.” You begged, striving to keep the quiver from your voice.

The taller one sneered, pressing the blade harder against your children. You heard your youngest crying. “Choose,” he said coldly. “Or both die. And one more thing: the North remembers.” No! no, they’re lying! you thought. You had seen that man before. He used to be a Kingsguard. But now he wore a golden lion around his neck. No, they’re lying! They are not Northerners! And yet they gripped your sons even tighter, their little screams and Elia’s muffled sobs pounding in your head.

In that moment, a storm of thoughts tore through your mind. Rhaegar, Oberyn, your father, the Iron Throne, the weight of power, the price of blood. “Maelor,” you breathed, the name falling from your lips like a prayer, a single tear dropped down. The two men laughed, harsh, ugly laughter that echoed off the stone walls. The tall one tightened his grip on your youngest boy fingers digging deep into soft flesh. “Hear that?” he jeered. “Your sweet mother sent you to die.”

The next moment saw him raise his blade to your six years old son instead. You froze. For a moment, there was no breath in your chest, no sound in your ears. Only the glint of steel turning toward your firstborn. It wasn’t supposed to be him. It wasn’t supposed to be either of them.

You didn’t remember what happened next. Or it’s just your brain protecting you. You could only recall the knife biting into flesh, the snap of shattering bone, and the endless, metallic taste of blood. Then the two men vanished, and little Maelor threw himself into your arms. By the time you came to your senses, you were staggering down the halls of the Red Keep, supported by Elia, trembling and covered in blood, desperately searching for your husband.

“{{user}}?” When Oberyn laid eyes on you, a cold dread seized his heart. He knew at once that something dreadful had happened, something horrible. His gaze swept over your form, taking in the cuts and bruises on your neck. Without hesitation, he took Maelor into his arms. “Where’s Jahaerys?” he whispered, as though afraid to hear the worst, “Where’s our other son?”