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Chapter Text

Barristan crept through the shadowed underbrush just below the outer walls of the keep, a length of rope coiled in his hand. He slung it over the stone battlements and tugged it tight, checking the strength of the knot before beginning his ascent. Hand over hand, he scaled the walls of the Dun Fort.

The sky above was vast and quiet, the stars glinting cold and far away, like the eyes of gods watching the desperate dance of men below. He glanced up, feeling a strange sense of distance from his own body, from the tremor of battle he had long tried to suppress. A streak of white crossed the night—a shooting star, gone as soon as he’d seen it. Perhaps it was a sign from the gods, or perhaps just another indifference in the heavens. With a final pull, Barristan reached the top of the wall, swinging himself silently over the edge and onto the battlements.

Damned Denys Darklyn. If ever a man deserved the title of fool, it was him. Defiance, they called it. Lunacy, if Barristan was honest with himself. Darklyn had dared to ask that the king himself come to Duskendale to hear his grievances and Aerys, in his unpredictable pride, had agreed, sweeping into the port town with only a meager guard, including one of Barristan’s sworn brothers—the young Ser Gwayne Gaunt.

After that, there had been nothing. No word, no message, no sign of life beyond Lord Darklyn’s own pronouncement: if the king’s men dared attack, he would kill Aerys outright. And so the Hand of the King had come with his hosts, settling around Duskendale like the jaws of a lion, squeezing tighter with each day. For half a year, Lord Tywin had held his siege, patient, calculating, waiting for Darklyn to make a mistake. But now the Hand’s patience had run its course.

Lannister had been clear: if Barristan failed tonight, there would be no more waiting, no more plans—at first light, the lion would pounce. King Aerys would be dead. And gods know how many innocents with him. The knight would have this one night, one desperate chance to slip into the heart of the keep, find the king, and spirit him away. If he failed, dawn would be a bloody reckoning for all dwelling within Duskendale.

He pulled his hood low over his face, pressing himself against the wall as he made his way toward the inner keep. He listened as he went, and the sound of footsteps reached him long before he saw their owners—a pair of guards making their rounds. He slid back into a shadowed recess as the men approached, their torches briefly illuminating their faces.

“This nonsense is starting to wear thin,” muttered one, a stocky man with bushy eyebrows and a large scar slashed across his cheek. “Ain’t had a hot supper in weeks, and my feet ache worse than my gran’s.”

“You’ll have a warm meal once this is done with,” his lankier companion replied. “Lord Darklyn will make sure of it. Never seen a lord give a damn about the likes of us, but he’s different. He’ll come through. He said so.”

“Aye, and maybe throw in a lass or two, eh?” The first guard chuckled, nudging the other.

Their voices faded as they moved on, but Barristan waited until he was certain that he couldn’t hear their footsteps anymore before slipping into the keep. His feet carried him through the darkened passages, deeper and deeper, where the air grew stale and the shadows more oppressive.

Darklyn had placed his guards well, but Barristan knew how to disappear when he had to. Soon, the dank smell of the dungeons greeted him, the air was thick with rot, damp stone and stale blood. Only one guard stood watch over the cells, a young man wearing a leather breastplate and clutching a pike. The boy barely had time to register the swing of Barristan’s blade. With a single, smooth stroke, Barristan separated his head from his shoulders. There was barely a sound beyond the dull thud of his head hitting stone.

Barristan knelt, wiping his blade quickly on the guard’s trousers before searching his belt for keys. There—he found them, a ring of cold iron keys, each one as precious as gold for the doors they might open.

He moved swiftly now, he could not fail. He was this close, he could not fail. His footsteps echoed in the corridor as he passed by rows of barred cells, each one filled with darkness and silence. His eyes searched every shadow, his heart straining with a faint hope— Ser Gwayne, where are you? For an instant, he thought he recognized the knight in a huddled form slumped in one of the farther cells. But when he drew closer, the dim light revealed only a stranger’s hollow face.

At last, he came upon a heavy iron door with a thick bar drawn across it, as though something vile was hidden within. He paused for a moment, hand on the ring and inserted the largest of the keys into the lock.

Nothing could have prepared him for what he found inside. There, chained and hanging from the ceiling, was the king. Or what remained of him.

The smell struck Barristan first, King Aerys had been left here in his own waste, and it clung to his legs and the stone beneath him as he dangled several feet off the ground. His skin was bruised and chafed raw, the bones of his wrists peeking out from under torn flesh where the iron of the shackles had bitten deep. The king’s hair fell in tangled clumps across his hollow cheeks, matted with filth. It was horrid.

Barristan’s stomach churned, but he strode forward, drawing his sword. “Your Grace,” he murmured softly, unsure if the king could even understand him. “Hold steady. I’ll have you free in a moment.”

Aerys’ head jerked up, eyes wide, but there was no sign of comprehension. He mumbled something incomprehensible, half laughter, half wheezing. Barristan struck hard at the chains with his sword. The iron snapped and Aerys fell, his frail body collapsing to the floor in a pitiful heap. “Forgive me, Your Grace,” Barristan muttered, bending down quickly. He stripped his own cloak from his shoulders and wrapped it around the king’s thin, shaking frame.

“They come… in the walls… the whispers,” mumbled Aerys. His voice was barely a whisper, a thin, rasping sound. “Darklyn… his voice in the walls, Ser Gwayne… Ser Gwayne… they killed him, Ser… he screamed and the walls… they laughed.” A shiver wracked Aerys’s body, and he slumped, his head dropping against Barristan’s chest.

Ser Gwayne, his sworn brother, the man who’d ridden here with the king in good faith, taken by Lord Darklyn and butchered before his sovereign. There will be time to mourn, Barristan told himself, clenching his teeth until he thought they might shatter. Now was not the time. He had to get the king out of this damned place.

Carefully, Barristan lifted Aerys from the floor. The king weighed so little, no more than young Prince Rhaegar had when he was a boy. Rhaegar, who would ask Barristan to play “the dragon” for him, to toss him about like a prize won in battle. But now, in this cold, reeking dungeon, he carried a broken king, cradled against his chest like a feathered thing. His every step through the corridors was swift, and he kept his ears sharp for any approaching sound. 

He reached the edge of the keep and stepped out into the night air. A sudden shout sounded from nearby. Barristan’s head whipped around and he saw two guards running toward him, swords drawn, torches casting harsh orange light across the stones.

There was no other choice for him left now. “Stay here, Your Grace,” he said, lowering Aerys carefully to the ground beside a stack of broken crates. Aerys shrank beneath the cloak, muttering incoherently.

With a breath, Barristan turned to face his attackers, sword drawn and ready. He knew the odds well; these men outnumbered him, but he was a Kingsguard, and his one reason for being was to protect the man huddled on the ground. As the first guard lunged, Barristan sidestepped, parrying him before slashing downward and cleaving through the man’s neck. The second guard let out a growl of rage before Barristan spun around to see him charge. 

Another clash, another strike, and another body fell. But a third guard joined the fray, then a fourth and a fifth. He parried one blade, felt the sharp sting of another nick his arm, but he moved, relentless, like the water down a stream, flowing and adapting, unbreakable.

Between strikes, Barristan glanced over his shoulder and his heart sank as he saw King Aerys scurry away towards the entrance of the keep again, crawling on all fours like a frightened animal.

“No—Your Grace, stay where you are!” Barristan shouted, momentarily distracted. A sword swung toward his side, catching the edge of his armor, but he twisted free, stepping back just in time to evade the killing blow.

Barristan's instincts betrayed him then—without a second thought, he turned and took two hurried steps toward the king. “Your Grace, stay!” It was all the opportunity his attackers needed. 

He felt a cold, biting pain across his shoulder as a blade slashed down. King Aerys shrieked, reeling away from Barristan's touch. “Unhand me!” he wailed. He pushed Barristan back with surprising force and staggered forward, disappearing in the shadows.

Thrown off balance, Barristan found himself on one knee, surrounded. He twisted, rolling to one side, and kicked out with his boot, catching one of the men square in the knee with a wet crack. Hissing a curse, he hurled himself to his feet, gritting his teeth as his side throbbed where another sword had grazed him. If he was to get to Aerys, he would have to cut down every last one of them first.

He steadied his breath, pushing aside the pulse of pain from his shoulder and side, gripping his sword firmly. He moved carefully, keeping his back to the wall this time, no longer giving them an opening. The three remaining guards circled him like a pack of wolves, they did not speak, but their narrow eyes told him everything he needed to know. They would have to break through him to reach Aerys. He wouldn't let them.

One of the men lunged, thrusting forward with a wild swing that Barristan sidestepped, bringing his blade up in an arc that caught the guard’s jaw. He felt the crunch of bone as the man staggered back, blood pouring from his face, and Barristan wasted no time, pressing forward to finish him. He hardly saw the next attack coming—a second guard rushing him with a dagger aimed at his armpit.

Pain exploded in his shoulder and chest as the blade bit deep, a searing heat spreading under his armor. He gasped, choking back a cry, but he did not lose his wits as he twisted, wrenching himself free of the blade’s point. The pain was almost blinding, but he forced himself to swing and the man fell with a strangled cry, clutching his side.

One remained. Barristan could feel his strength waning, his vision growing darker and his limbs heavier, yet he would not let himself fall—not here, not until the king was safe. Blood slicked his gauntlets and pooled beneath his boots as he turned to face the last guard.

They circled each other, both breathing hard, and then the man lunged. With one last burst of strength, Barristan swung his blade low. His sword met flesh, then bone, and the last of his foes crumpled to the ground. Barristan staggered back, barely managing to stay upright. Every heartbeat came with pulsing, fresh agony, but he had done it. They were all down.

He braced himself against the wall, leaving a trail of blood as he tried to push forward, searching desperately for any trace of the king. Each step felt more difficult than the last, his breaths ragged and shallow, yet he forced himself forward. I must find the king.

But his legs gave out at last, refusing to carry him any longer. He slumped against the cold stone, sliding down as his sword fell from his hand with a clatter. A Kingsguard’s duty was simple—to guard, to serve, to protect. He was a shield sworn to his king, his life forfeit before a hair on Aerys’s head came to harm. Yet here he was, bleeding out in some godsforsaken corner of Duskendale, without a soul left to defend.

A fool’s hope gripped him then. Perhaps the king had somehow found his way out, had escaped into the dawn with his cloak still clutched around him. Perhaps he would stumble into the Hand’s camp, to safety, to salvation.

Above, the stars had begun to fade, giving way to the golden rays of morning that chased away the shadows. Somewhere in the silence, he thought he could hear the distant roar of a lion.

Chapter Text

Rhaegar sat on a high branch up on a grand oak, letting his eyes drift over the sun-dappled canopy, where the light played in streaks through the leaves, setting them aglow like green glass. His harp was balanced in his lap, fingers idly plucking a tune that floated through the Kingswood like a wistful breeze. The song was lilting and soft, a love song meant to be played for a dozen maidens at once but today, the trees were his only audience. He could almost imagine them bending nearer, straining to listen.

“Arthur,” Rhaegar called down, “why don’t you join me up here? I’ll even play you a serenade.”

Standing sentinel below with his arms crossed was Ser Arthur Dayne, Kingsguard, Rhaegar’s sworn shield and, coincidentally, his best friend. “I think not, Your Grace,” he replied. “And besides, I believe we ought to be returning to the Red Keep.”

“Oh, come now,” chided Rhaegar, plucking a particularly sweet chord. “What’s there for us, mmh? Dusty tapestries? Hot, stuffy rooms? Lords who glare like they’d sooner chew on glass than listen to my songs?” He strummed again, softer this time, “no, that is no place for me. But the Kingswood… this, Arthur, this is where we ought to live. I would make my home in these trees, sing to the sky, woo the sparrows. And you’d be quite a hunter out here, I think. We’d feast on wild boar every night.”

Arthur almost smiled. “Somehow, I can’t imagine a life of hiding from boars would suit you for long, Your Grace.”

“I think I’d manage. I’d compose songs for all the animals, give them each their own ballads. See?” He struck a fanciful chord. “This would be for the owl—wise and watchful, just like you.”

“You would last precisely three days living off the Kingswood before you’d beg for the comforts of the Keep again. That I swear, Your Grace.”

Rhaegar laughed, a clear, unguarded sound, as he swung one leg over the branch and, with a slight push, dropped to the ground. “Oh Arthur, you’re no fun. The Red Keep… it stifles me. The air is heavy there, thick with things I can’t even name. Out here, I can breathe. If I were to breathe in that Keep a moment longer…”

Arthur's expression softened, and Rhaegar knew his friend understood. Lord Tywin was, at this very moment, preparing to sack Duskendale after a siege that had been going on for entirely too long, determined to make an example of the town for defying the crown. Rhaegar could see the fires already, rising like angry scars against the sky. He feared for his father but feared, too, what his father's return might bring. Being imprisoned for such a long time could change men, Rhaegar had read plenty about that in his time.

The woods held no such shadows. Here, the troubles of war and councils felt as distant as a dream. Rhaegar bit the inside of his cheek and forced himself to turn from these thoughts, from the sinking weight in his chest. “Come, Arthur. Let us leave the worries of the Red Keep far behind. Today, there are no lords, no kings—only the two of us and the Kingswood.”

Arthur’s sigh was long-suffering, but there was humor there, and Rhaegar caught it. “Very well.”

Rhaegar just grinned and took off, pushing through low-hanging branches, the snap of twigs underfoot as they ventured farther. The forest air was crisp, a breeze lifting the leaves above them and brushing his face as he ran. Soon they reached a small glade, one Rhaegar had discovered years ago, where the sunlight fell in warm patches, and a clear brook trickled through the mossy stones. It was as close to a sanctuary as any he had known, a place where he could shed the dreams and duties—a place where he could just be.

Rhaegar knelt and plucked a cluster of wildflowers, their petals coming in every color—pinks and yellows, purples and whites, and at least five different shades of blue. He held them up to Arthur, smirking. “I’ll bring these back for Viserys’s nursery. The boy’s room is ghastly dull, all naked stone and no life at all. Poor thing must think the world is painted in reds.”

“Those will last a day, maybe two,” said the knight, “before one of the maids sweeps them out. And then what? Will you brave the woods again to bring your brother a fresh handful?”

Rhaegar only laughed, twirling a white blossom between his fingers. “Certainly. In fact, I’ll bring him flowers every day if I must—every flower in the Kingswood. Even the Red Keep can’t starve the colors out of the world.” He plucked the slender white bloom and held it out to Arthur, bowing slightly. “For you, my loyal knight, in gratitude for your endless patience.”

Arthur took the flower, shaking his head but tucking it into his belt all the same. “I'm certain young Prince Viserys will appreciate your persistence, even if the maids will not.”

They stayed like this for a long while, sprawled out on the soft grass, letting moments bleed into each other until the sun dipped down low and the shadows grew longer. Rhaegar gazed up into the clouds, trying to find shapes in them, trying to delay his return just a little bit longer. One day he would take the throne—one day he would rule, perhaps even fulfill whatever destiny his dreams whispered about him. And though he said nothing, he hoped that that day was still far away, that the gods might give him a few more years before the crown settled upon his brow.

Soon, the prince and his protector were moving through the dust-packed roads of King’s Landing. Rhaegar pulled his hood low, a measure he had to take to not gain too much unwanted attention. 

The city was as loud as the forest was silent, teeming with life in its heady mix of scents, shouts, and songs. It was as if they had entered an entirely different world than the one they were inhabiting before and Rhaegar loved this world all the same. Even as a boy the city called to him with its promises of adventure and thrill. He had snuck out on more than one occasion, evading the watchful eyes of his mother and the maids who had scolded him upon his return. But even then, it was worth it—the city felt like a place of discovery, where magic might curl out of any shadowed corner, and every face that passed by bore a story he longed to know.

Lanterns cast amber pools of light along cobbled streets, illuminating vendors hawking skewered meats, haggling loudly with buyers over price. Above them, laundry lines were strung across balconies, fluttering like pale banners in the breeze.

“Come on, love,” a woman along the side of the street called out, eyeing Rhaegar. “Or you, tall one,” she added, casting her attention to Arthur. “I’ll give you both a good price for a night you won’t forget!”

Arthur, normally found clad in his white armor, shifted slightly beneath his plain brown cloak, his gaze set straight ahead, ignoring the woman. Rhaegar meanwhile gave the woman a charming smile. “You’d have a challenge, trying to make it one I’d soon forget,” he said with a wink.

Arthur cast him a reproving look. “No need to encourage them, Your Grace,” he muttered.

With a grin, he swung an arm over Arthur’s shoulders. “We’re in King’s Landing, the heart of the world—where life is meant to be lived in all its color. Tonight, let the weight of your white cloak rest, just for a few hours. Enjoy the vices of the city, my friend.”

“And what would the Crown Prince consider a vice?”

“Nothing fit for a Kingsguard’s ears.”

A reluctant smile touched the knight’s lips as they walked, ducking under a low-hanging banner. Just then, Rhaegar’s attention was caught by a small stand tucked off to the side of the street, where an old man hunched over his workbench, wood shavings gathering in wispy piles at his feet. Among the small figures on display was a dragon—a little carving with wings outstretched, frozen mid-flight as if it might at any moment lift itself from the counter and soar off. Rhaegar stopped abruptly and picked up the small wooden dragon, running his fingertips over the smooth curves of its wings.

“How much for the dragon?” asked Rhaegar.

The old man looked up slowly, his hands never pausing in their work on a half-finished carving. His eyes were sharp despite his age and he studied Rhaegar for a moment before he responded. “One copper halfgroat.”

Rhaegar reached into his pouch, his fingers finding a silver stag among the wildflowers. He drew it out and flipped it onto the counter with a smile. “Keep the change.”

The old man raised an eyebrow, pausing his carving at last to look at the silver coin. “You are most generous, my lord! May the Father bless you.” His fingers closed around the silver, and he dipped his head in respect.

“Viserys will love it,” Rhaegar said as he joined Arthur again. “A dragon should have a dragon, don’t you think?”

“A silver for a simple trinket—are you sure he’s the one who would treasure it most?” said Arthur.

Rhaegar gave him a faint, knowing smile. “Perhaps not. But I like to think there’s a purpose in even the smallest things.” He glanced down at the figure, brushing a thumb along its wings again before stashing it away in his pouch.

The streets narrowed as they ascended Aegon’s Hill, winding through quieter quarters where the commotion softened and shadows grew longer. By the time they reached the looming gates of the Red Keep, the sun had completely vanished behind the horizon. Rhaegar could feel a shadow pressing over him, a sense that something waited within those walls that might rob the city’s night of all its color.

At the gates of the Red Keep their paths diverged. While Arthur headed towards the quarters designated for the Kingsguard, Rhaegar continued on to the royal quarters located in Maegor’s Holdfast. The corridor to his chambers was even quieter than usual tonight and Rhaegar was glad when he slipped past the narrow archway that led to his own private rooms.

His bedchamber was filled with a delightful kind of chaos—books lay stacked on nearly every surface, open to pages he had not yet finished or passages he had read over and over again. Smooth stones he had collected from distant riverbeds lined the shelves while potted plants were arranged by the window, their scent mingling with the faint tang of dried herbs that hung in bundles along one wall. All manners of other trinkets—a chipped glass bottle, a cluster of seashells, an iron amulet etched with forgotten runes—filled the remaining spaces, pieces of the world he had gathered to surround himself.

His valet, a youth by the name of Darron, was tending to the fire in the hearth. He bowed deeply as Rhaegar entered. “Your Grace,” he said in his usual soft, steady tone, “would you like supper brought up to you tonight?”

Rhaegar set his harp down in its place on a wooden stand, then reached into his pouch, pulling out the wildflowers he had picked and the small dragon figurine. He handed the flowers to Darron. “Take these to Viserys’s nursery, put them in water. They’ll brighten the place up a bit.”

“And supper, Your Grace?”

“I’d like to dine with my mother tonight,” Rhaegar replied. “See that she is told, would you? Perhaps she’ll indulge my company.” He looked over the flowers one last time before letting them go.

Darron bowed and accepted the flowers before turning to carry out his orders. When the door closed behind him, Rhaegar walked over to his bed, laying back on the mattress with a long sigh. 

Above him, the ceiling held his own handiwork: three dragons painted in flight, two black and one red, soaring over a frozen landscape. In the center of the vast expanse stood a solitary, frost-covered tree. It was an image that came back to him often, buried within one of the dozens of dreams that found him each night. Most dreams would disappear as soon as his eyes opened, but some left behind fragments that clung to him, like this one. He pressed a hand to his face. He had painted the vision as vividly as he could, hoping to understand, but it had only deepened the mystery. How many times had he seen it now? 

A knock at the door broke through his thoughts. He expected it to be Darron, returning with word from his mother or perhaps a tray for supper. “Come in,” he called.

But it was not Darron who entered. No, standing in the doorway was Ser Gerold Hightower, the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard. The man’s expression was solemn, filled with a quiet intensity that made Rhaegar sit up at once. Whatever news the old knight bore, it was no small matter.

“Your Grace,” Ser Gerold said. “Forgive the intrusion, but I must ask you to come with me at once. Your presence is required in the council chambers.”

Quickly Rhaegar got up from the bed and followed the aged knight through the corridors. He felt that familiar pang of dread, the same feeling that crept up on him any time he saw his father and mother wander the corridors together, the same feeling that found him at Summerhall, the same feeling he got when he dreamt of the three dragons again—it was the kind that wandered under one’s skin and made a home there, pulling at every heartbeat. As Ser Gerold pushed the doors to the small council’s chambers open, the faces awaiting Rhaegar stole whatever light that still clung to him from the Kingswood away.

Standing at the chamber’s center were three men, each with a face etched in varying degrees of unease. Lord Symond Staunton, the master of laws, was the first to draw Rhaegar’s eye. Staunton was a stout man, wrapped in robes of fine, black Myrish silk. His cheeks were flushed, and his fingers worked incessantly at a golden ring wrapped around one of them. Beside him stood Lord Qarlton Chelsted, the master of coin. Chelsted was a slight figure, dwarfed by Staunton, with a thin, black mustache and matching hair. There was something in his stance that always reminded Rhaegar of a frightened gray mouse.

Then there was Grandmaester Pycelle, as familiar to Rhaegar as the stones of the Red Keep itself. The maester seemed more a relic of the keep than a man, a weathered pillar in the ever-changing halls of power. Sparse strands of white hair ringed his bald, freckled head, and his long beard reached down to his belly. Rhaegar remembered Pycelle as the kind old man who had tended to him during childhood fevers.

The three men turned their gazes to Rhaegar, looking at him as if he were a ghost. “Your Grace,” the old maester greeted, voice trembling, “please… would you sit?”

But Rhaegar did not sit. “I would prefer to stand. What is the meaning of this?”

Silence followed his question, thick and uncomfortable, until the master of ships, Lord Lucerys Velaryon, spoke. “Who is to give the news?” He did not direct his words to Rhaegar—instead, he cast his gaze across the room, seemingly addressing the very walls.

Rhaegar’s attention went to Velaryon—Driftmark’s lord was the only one still sitting at the council’s table, as if in an audience of some performance. The man’s long silver hair resembled Rhaegar's own, though his eyes, blue like the summer sea, betrayed his roots as a Velaryon rather than a Targaryen. 

Before anyone could respond, a soft voice echoed from one of the corners. “I will tell him.”

Rhaegar turned, his gaze falling upon the figure by the window. And there she was—his mother, standing by the window. She must have been there from the start, a quiet presence cloaked in shadows, watching the waters of Blackwater Bay, lost in the vastness beyond the keep. Her face was as familiar to him as his own reflection, yet something in her expression felt foreign. It was...neutral, smooth as untouched snow, without the faintest hint of the worry or affection she might usually have shown him. He found himself at a loss, searching her face for a sign, a hint of what might come. But she betrayed nothing.

She moved to him, her hand reaching out and capturing one of his. Her fingers were so cold they seemed to leech the warmth from his own. Her hand felt thin, too thin—just bones beneath skin, like the frail grip of a ghost. Slowly she caressed the back of palm with her thumb, careful not to meet his gaze. When he spoke, his voice was low, questioning.

“What is the meaning of this, Mother?”

At last, she met his eyes, and he saw a tension there, something sharp and barely restrained within the set of her jaw, the taut lines around her mouth. She held his gaze, but her voice came halting, as though each word cost her. “A messenger arrived, my son. One of Lord Lannister’s own.” Her grip on his hand tightened, a slight but sudden press of her fingers, as if to brace him. “The town of Duskendale… it has been sacked by the Lannister forces. And the king… he…” She closed her eyes for a brief moment, gathering herself, then opened them again.

Rhaegar’s breath hitched. All these months, he had fought against knowing which way he’d feel if his father returned—or if he didn’t. He had always dreaded that he might prefer his father to remain absent, that the constant tensions between them would pull him apart. And yet, in this moment, he knew, beyond doubt: he wanted his father alive. If not for himself, then for Viserys.

Rhaegar would seize this as an opportunity to change things, to repair the years of neglect and distance between them. He would learn from his father, work to understand him, and perhaps even guide him. And if there was truly a way forward, then surely he could find it in the days to come.

A clear vision began to form in his mind’s eye—a vision of what his life could be, what his family’s life could be. His mother, no longer confined within the keep like a pale, wilting flower, would have more freedom. And young Viserys would grow up with more than just the stone walls and shadows of the Red Keep as his playmates. Perhaps he could even play in the gardens, chase after butterflies, hear birdsong instead of the cold scrape of armor and the echoes of solemn whispers.

Yes, they would make things better. His father would see the wisdom in Rhaegar’s counsel and in turn Rhaegar would learn how to be a king from him. They could heal their broken family, mend the cracks that ran through the foundations of their House.

He allowed himself the hint of a relieved smile at the thought, but it faltered when his mother reached up, her fingers brushing the edge of his cheek. “The king is dead”

Chapter Text

Tywin rode through the streets of King’s Landing with his retinue of Lannister men, and beside him, Ser Barristan Selmy held steady on his reins, armor still bearing dents and stains from the siege of Duskendale. He had fought valiantly, even foolishly, as Tywin had expected. Such was the duty of the Kingsguard, and perhaps its curse. They had pulled Selmy from the heart of that nightmare, bloodied and surrounded by five dead foes. Selmy’s sworn brother, Ser Gwayne Gaunt, had not been so fortunate—one of many casualties in that bloody debacle, yet another name to replace, another fool to find for that vaunted guard.

But it was not Ser Gwayne’s death that lingered on Tywin’s mind, nor that of any of his men who had died at Duskendale. No, the greater, more distressing loss was that of Aerys himself. The king’s demise was no great tragedy for the realm, nor for Tywin himself for that matter—Aerys had long been a man Tywin could neither trust nor predict, a creature of erratic moods and petty cruelties. He had not been a king for a long time, more emblematic of a rabid cur than a monarch. 

The preparations for next week’s coronation were already set in motion—it seemed as if the entire city was filled with a feverish sort of giddy, an anticipation for their new young king. Tywin had never cared much for Aerys’s son, finding the prince far too detached, lost in songs and stories as if the world of men was merely a distant echo to his own thoughts. The name still sat strangely in his mind, King Rhaegar. If it were up to Tywin, Rhaegar should have been molded early, ironed out of his whims to become something sharper and more formidable than his father. But now, here they were, with the city tolling its bells for one foolish king’s funeral and another foolish king’s birth.

The streets seemed to fill up as they approached the Red Keep—from merchant stalls to tavern steps, people buzzed with talk of the new king. The city swelled with arrivals from across Westeros, lords and ladies eager to pay homage, to win favor, and Tywin’s eyes noted the sudden burst of pennants from places he hadn’t seen in years.

At the gates, a thick-bodied man with a wine-stained tunic waited. “My Lord Hand!” Symond Staunton called out with a beaming smile that looked misplaced in this season of mourning. “A pleasure, my lord. It’s good fortune that you’ve arrived; everything is, ah, as ready as we could manage!”

“Lord Staunton.” Tywin dismounted, handing the reins of his chestnut stallion to a stable boy. He then turned to see Selmy, wounded as he was, needing the help of several men to dismount. “Get Ser Barristan to a maester,” he ordered his men, “The man’s not yet a ghost to be paraded about the city.”

The command was met with prompt obedience, leaving Tywin to focus on Staunton, who fussed and stumbled over the castle’s stone walkways beside him. “I do hope you found your return without mishap, my lord,” continued Staunton. “A fine day in the capital, if we ignore all the mourning, yes? The preparations, my lord, such work’s gone into the coronation and the tourney—there will be singers, mummers, the finest in the realm! And all at the king’s personal request. I daresay he’s making quite the impression in the capital already. Oh, and you wouldn’t believe the wine casks, my lord! The finest reds from the Arbor, and rare vintages from the Free Cities! His Grace wanted it to be a celebration fitting for all of Westeros, he said. Live peacocks have been imported from the Summer Isles! Quite a sight, I’m told.”

“Good,” replied Tywin, nodding with feigned interest, knowing the nature of these festivities well enough. “Excess always makes for good pageantry.”

“Oh, precisely, my lord, precisely! Such a celebration it shall be, my lord, that no one will be able to speak of anything else for years!”

“Though, all of this must weigh heavily on the coffers, I imagine.” It wasn’t his own gold that they lavished on such frivolities, and yet, indirectly, it was, for House Lannister’s reputation would be tied to the new king’s competence, or lack thereof.

Lord Staunton seemed to falter for a moment, his eager grin flickering like a candle by an open window. “Ah, yes, well, of course, the, uh, master of coin has looked into every necessary expense, my lord. There’s…there’s little need for alarm. The council was in agreement that everything should be as grand as possible. New reign and all that,” he added with a weak attempt at confidence.

“I trust Lord Chelsted to keep the crown solvent,” said Tywin, though he thought of the master of coin’s nervous, twitching hands and the pinched pallor of the man’s face. Chelsted was a small, fretful man, no doubt cowering under the towering sum needed for the coronation and tourney. Tywin suspected that the expenses were bringing him close to madness, if not death.

And Lord Chelsted was not the only weak link among the councilmen. Pycelle, with his oily deference, was bumbling and posturing, though Tywin knew him well enough to sense the cunning behind the facade. Lord Velaryon, haughty as he was, liked to hold himself as though the sea flowed in his veins rather than blood, a man of pretensions greater than his actual achievements. And Staunton himself, for all his eager chatter, was little more than a lickspittle. Perhaps it was time for change.

They walked in silence for the last few yards, until they reached the entrance to the Tower of the Hand. Tywin stopped at the threshold, his fingers brushing over the iron latch. Staunton moved to follow, but Tywin stilled him in the door frame.

“That will be all, Lord Staunton,” Tywin said, voice steady as steel. “Arrange for a council meeting with the king by nightfall. There is much to discuss.”

Staunton blinked, clearly surprised by this dismissal. But the Hand’s gaze allowed no room for argument. “Of course, my lord, I’ll see to it personally.”

“Excellent.” Tywin inclined his head before closing the door firmly behind him. His desk lay untouched, a layer of fine dust had gathered while he was away. Good, he thought, no one other than him had business being here. He traced a finger along the grain, tapping on the armrest of his chair as if to reassure himself of its solidness. 

A new age was upon them. The bells had tolled for Aerys, and in their ringing he could hear the first strains of the tune that would soon be sung for Rhaegar, whether it be a dirge or a song of triumph. Whatever the boy king wanted for his reign, Tywin intended to make certain that he would not become another Aerys—young Rhaegar could still be reasoned with. Tywin had seen a spark of intelligence in the prince’s eyes in their brief encounters, a depth of thought that could be molded, given the proper guidance. Yes, he would begin tonight by putting some sense into the boy, turning him into something useful. Great kings, after all, were never forged through idle musings but through action and shrewd counsel.

And there was still a matter of marriage to settle. No king should go unmarried, not when alliances could be brokered and bloodlines strengthened. Rhaegar would need a queen, and Tywin knew no better candidate than his daughter. He might think himself impervious to such considerations, but Tywin would make him understand. Jaime and Cersei were on their way to King’s Landing, and soon the prince would see the value of the match. The wrongs against House Lannister would be rectified—he would see to it personally.

Settling into his chair, he took his quill and pressed ink to paper, drafting tonight’s agenda for the council. The first matter of business: the crown’s coffers. They would require a stable base of revenue if Rhaegar was to begin his rule on anything close to solid ground. Tywin wrote ‘matters of coin’ at the top of the parchment, then paused, tapping his quill against his chin. There would be other topics—reinforcement of the alliances the late king had weakened, the thinning of petty sycophants from court and, of course, the matter of putting the realm at large back on track after Duskendale.

By nightfall, Tywin sat at the council table in the Great Hall, the Iron Throne looming above them in all its brutal glory. He had always preferred this setting to the Small Council’s usual chambers, with its stifling tapestries and stale air. The sight of the throne was a reminder of what they all served, what power truly entailed.

He watched the cupbearer—a chinless, sallow-skinned boy, one of Chelsted’s younger sons, though Tywin couldn’t be bothered to remember his name as he scurried about, pouring watered wine for each council member in turn. There sat four of his fellow councilmen: Lord Chelsted seemed incapable of sitting still, incessantly fidgeting with the edge of his cloak. Lord Velaryon sat straight-backed, blue eyes rolling with obvious impatience. There was also Lord Staunton, who gave a halfhearted smile whenever Tywin’s gaze flicked his way—and Grandmaester Pycelle, who was mumbling something half-audible to himself, perhaps trying to summon the image of an old sage.

Ser Gerold Hightower stood nearby, vigilant though aged. Even now, he was determined to uphold his duties—for that Tywin allowed himself a measure of respect for the man. And yet, they weren’t complete, because the seat of jagged swords looming above all of them, reserved for the most important among them, lay conspicuously empty.

Tywin felt his jaw tighten. This, then, was the sort of king he would be advising—a petulant, absent child. The young prince clearly had not yet grasped what was expected of him, what he now represented. A king’s presence, his very bearing, set the tone for his rule. Rhaegar’s absence was an ill omen.

Lord Velaryon’s patience was the first one to snap, apparently. The man shifted with a huff, his gaze flicking toward the empty seat before he spoke. “Shall we begin, or are we to wait on His Grace’s pleasure?” 

“If it pleases you, my lords, I could fetch His Grace,” said Ser Gerold.

But Tywin raised a hand. “No need, Ser Gerold. His Grace, it appears, has more pressing matters. We shall proceed as planned.” He cleared his throat and shuffled his notes in front of him. “We have many concerns to address in the coming days. These celebrations, though important, must not eclipse the priorities of the realm. Lord Chelsted, you will provide a thorough account of the crown’s coffers tonight. The king’s reign is young, but we cannot afford extravagance while the crown is in debt.”

Chelsted nodded, though the pallor in his face had deepened. Tywin turned his gaze to Velaryon, continuing. “The stability of our alliances must be assessed, as well. We will discuss further trade agreements with the Free Cities and the state of our naval defenses.” He allowed himself the faintest of smiles as Velaryon’s face tightened—he had missed this.

Hours later, the meeting concluded with Tywin issuing his final orders. As the councilmen rose, Tywin inclined his head, formal and composed, bidding them a brief, “Thank you, my lords.”

He was halfway down the corridor back to the Hand’s Tower when he heard the clumsy shuffle of footsteps. Tywin exhaled, schooling his expression into one of restrained patience, but a flash of annoyance lingered just beneath his placid exterior as he turned to see Lord Staunton lumbering toward him, his face red and shiny.

“My lord! My lord Hand!” Staunton called, struggling to catch his breath. When he finally managed to stop in front of Tywin, he bent over, clutching his knees as he gasped, then straightened with a strained smile.

“Yes, Lord Staunton? What is it?”

“It is, ah, most unfortunate that His Grace could not attend tonight,” he began, a touch too loudly. “You see, my lord, I personally asked him to join us. A direct invitation! But he’s—well, he’s being fitted into his ceremonial cloak, my lord. Surely you understand the importance of the garments.”

Tywin felt his jaw clench. “Ah, yes. It is only fitting, after all, that His Grace should prioritize the cut of his cloak over the matters of his kingdom.”

Staunton hesitated, blinking at the remark as though unsure whether to agree or to be offended. Finally, he seemed to choose agreement. “Yes, my lord, of course. I quite understand. But, you see, if there are matters you would still like to discuss with His Grace, I believe he can still be found in his chambers. I—I’m quite sure he’s still there, standing in for the fitting,” he added, nodding as if his own words needed his approval.

Tywin’s eyes narrowed slightly, appraising Staunton, who continued to look up at him with a hopeful, sycophantic smile. The man has all the subtlety of a wild boar, Tywin thought grimly, though he might have a point. The sooner he got his hands on young Rhaegar the better, perhaps a less formal approach was needed.

"Yes, well,” replied Tywin. “Let us waste no further time.”

Staunton gave a satisfied nod, leading the way through the corridors toward the royal chambers. As they reached the grand doors leading to the king’s chambers, Tywin did not wait for an invitation. He pushed them open, striding in and surveying the scene before him. Prince— King —Rhaegar had wasted no time making the chambers his own. Colorful tapestries hung where there had once been naked walls, flowers arranged in high vases, the faint scent of myrrh lingered in the air. Tywin noted the attendants milling about, dressed in rich silks, along with the various faces surrounding the young king.

Ser Lewyn Martell of the Kingsguard stood vigilant nearby, watching as a short, balding tailor with thick spectacles measured the prince’s shoulders with all the solemnity of a holy ritual. Beside him was Ser Arthur Dayne, always close as Rhaegar’s sworn shield, though Tywin noticed how his eyes followed his sister, the young Lady Ashara, who was holding a small child on her lap—a boy, babbling happily and gnawing on a wooden dragon toy. Prince Viserys, Tywin presumed, though the boy had grown considerably since the last time he had seen him.

The young knight Ser Oswell Whent was lounging on a set of cushions, even Rhaegar’s young squires, Myles Mooton and Richard Lonmouth, hovered nearby with a red-haired youth Tywin did not recognize—a friend of Rhaegar’s, most likely, as drawn to the prince as the others. Yes, there was something about Rhaegar Targaryen that lured people, like moths to a flame. Or lambs to the slaughter.

Rhaegar turned from his fitting, a bright smile cutting across his face as he saw the two men enter. The smile was perhaps a touch too easy, noted Tywin, but the Hand inclined his head in a graceful bow all the same. “Your Grace.”

“Lord Tywin, Lord Staunton!” Rhaegar greeted them, gesturing to the servant girl nearby to fetch wine. “We have Arbor Red and Gold, as well as some sweet apricot wine from Pentos, if that would be more to your tastes.”

“Arbor Red will do just fine. Thank you, Your Grace,” Tywin replied.

Lord Staunton, of course, wasn’t one to reject something as fanciful as foreign wine. “Sweet apricot wine, Your Grace. Nothing quite like it."

As the serving girl departed to fetch their wine, Rhaegar gestured for them to take seats, indicating a row of chairs arranged near a polished walnut table set with crystal bowls of fruit and a few untouched rolls of bread. Tywin nodded his thanks and sat, glancing at Lady Ashara, who still held young Viserys in her lap. The babe babbled on, drooling and blissfully oblivious to everything around him.

Soon, he was handed his goblet of wine—Tywin took a measured sip, his face carefully neutral as the sweetness of the wine filled his mouth, while Staunton took a much larger swig, smacking his lips loudly. “Ah, excellent, Your Grace,” Staunton praised, swirling the wine. “An exquisite find indeed. Just like the celebration you’re planning. I hear the best knights are coming from all across the realm to participate in the tourney.”

“Yes, there should be spectacle and music enough to chase away even the memory of darker days,” Rhaegar replied lightly, lifting his own goblet in a slight toast.

“A grand thought, Your Grace.” Staunton was clearly pleased to be so openly welcomed into the new king’s confidences. The sight of such unchecked eagerness was distasteful for Tywin, it reeked of desperation. Staunton went on about the plans for the coronation: the musicians from Oldtown, the rare spices from Qarth, the oranges from Dorne. As Staunton droned on, Tywin’s mind wandered. It was a habit he permitted only when surrounded by fools. His thoughts drifted to the matters they had yet to discuss, the stability of the crown, the realm’s neglected alliances. But just as he began to consider how to steer the conversation back toward useful topics, Rhaegar’s voice broke through.

“I am glad we had this chance to speak, Lord Hand.” The prince’s words were measured, well-selected. “I am sure you must be weary from the road. I appreciate your visit.”

Tywin offered a faint, controlled smile. “That is the duty of the Hand, Your Grace. To serve, however wearisome the path.”

Rhaegar nodded slowly, taking a sip of his apricot wine. “Remind me, how long have you served my father?”

“Five-and-ten years, Your Grace. Since the day your late father took the throne.”

The prince inclined his head, seemingly deep in thought. “You have served him well, my lord. And by extension, you have served the realm well. The realm owes you its… stability.” He paused, eyes narrowing slightly. “You looked after his rule, ensured its foundations. Few could manage such a feat.”

Tywin felt his jaw tense slightly. Where is he going with this? he thought, but outwardly his expression was measured, as always. “I serve, Your Grace,” he said.

A slight smirk tugged at the corner of Rhaegar’s mouth, one that faded almost as quickly as it had appeared. “Yes, you serve… and I trust you will continue to do so.”

The words were innocuous enough, but things like this were never this simple. For all the prince’s courtesy, his carefully chosen words held an undertone that Tywin recognized— something subtly testing, a challenge that he could not yet place.

Rhaegar stood abruptly, his crimson cloak billowing behind him as he turned back to the tailor, who had been waiting at the fringes of the room. He addressed the two men without so much as a glance back. “My lords, do get comfortable or leave as you see fit.”

The tailor resumed his work as if Tywin and Staunton were no longer present. Staunton looked both flustered and reluctant to leave, his eyes darting between the prince and the door. Tywin, however, merely looked down at his goblet of wine, the amber liquid swirling in it suddenly unappealing as he set it back on the table.

The silence was pierced by a wail—Prince Viserys began to fuss. Tywin cast a sidelong glance at the boy and then rose to leave, if Rhaegar wished to play the game in his own quiet, inscrutable way, Tywin would be ready. The prince was clever, yes, but too young to know fully what he gambled with—a boy who had inherited the crown but had not yet felt the iron of it. Rhaegar was green, green as spring but even he knew he needed Tywin. For all his songs and frivolity, Rhaegar knew enough to recognize the hand that held this kingdom steady.

He reached the doorway, casting one last glance at the young king wrapped in his ceremonial finery. He might yet try to make himself into the hero of some grand tale, some legacy of dragons and valiance, but Tywin’s patience, he knew, was long. And when Rhaegar finally saw through the illusions of his songs, Tywin would be waiting.

Because this time, the song would be his.

Chapter Text

It was a splendid day—the sky was impossibly blue, and the sun was warm on Cersei’s shoulders after weeks of dull, dragging rain. Their journey to the capital in the damp, creaking wheelhouse had been tedious, long hours bouncing over rocky roads with only Septa Saranella’s pinched face for scenery and Jaime’s endless chatter to drive her mad. But here, at last, there was brightness and life.

Septa Saranella trailed behind her and Jaime, her hands clasped together in a constant posture of prayer. Cersei could see how the corners of her mouth twisted downward whenever Jaime laughed too loud, or whenever Cersei dared to ask why they had to learn prayers by heart—did the gods not know them already? Cersei often found her gaze drifting to the septa's bun, pulled so tightly back that it looked like it might hurt. 

Beside Septa Saranella lumbered Ser Oswyck, one of her father’s household guards. His face was rough, his nose bent from some long-forgotten battle, yet he wore a kindly expression, one that turned even softer whenever he looked at Jaime. His red cloak bore the lion of their house, and his sword hung at his side, fingers ever-ready on the pommel. Jaime chattered away at him as if he were the grandest audience in the realm.

“Look, Ser Oswyck, the sun and spear—that’s House Martell! They say Prince Oberyn is undefeated in single combat!” Jaime said breathlessly, barely looking where he was going as he pointed and stared at each banner in turn. “And over there, that’s House Baratheon’s stag—did you know Lord Steffon has never once fallen from his horse?”

Cersei rolled her eyes. “We all know the Baratheons can stay on their horses. Maybe you should clap for them when they don’t fall off.” She flicked a stray bit of grass off her skirt. Jaime was always so quick to admire everyone else, never seemed to see that he was the only one who cared for these dull facts.

Jaime glared at her, his cheeks reddening. “Well, at least I know something about them. You don’t know anything.”

“I know more than you do,” she replied, lifting her chin. “I just don’t need to point at every banner like a silly little boy.”

Jaime’s face went fully red. “I’m not a little boy!” He started to say more, but Septa Saranella cut in.

“Settle yourselves, both of you,” she said in a low, firm voice. “We are to conduct ourselves with dignity today. Do not shame your house before the future king and all the realm.” Her gaze lingered on Cersei in particular, as if dignity was something she lacked.

Jaime sulked, his mouth pressed in a tight line, but Ser Oswyck chuckled and nudged him with an elbow. “Don’t listen to her, lad. I’d wager you’d know the names of every knight out there if we let you.”

Jaime’s face brightened, and he launched into yet another tale about a knight from the Stormlands and his victories. Cersei tuned them out, focusing instead on looking as regal as possible as they reached the stands.

To her dismay, their seats were not nearly as grand as she had hoped. They were close enough to the front, but Cersei had imagined herself sitting so near the royal box that she might exchange glances with Prince Rhaegar, feel the awe of the crowd in their shadows. Instead, she had to crane her neck to catch a glimpse of the royal box. But even from here, she could make out her father in his crimson cloak, his head bent slightly as he spoke to a man with long silver hair. For a moment, her heart gave a strange leap. Is that… the prince?

But as she looked more closely, she realized it was not Rhaegar, after all. This man was older, his face lined, lacking the otherworldly beauty that she remembered from seeing the prince at Lannisport last year. How could anyone think this man was the Silver Prince? Rhaegar had been handsome and regal, with eyes that seemed to gaze into her soul, making her feel as if he’d seen the very dreams in her heart. Cersei frowned, disappointed, leaning back in her seat with a huff.

“What’s the matter?” Jaime asked, noticing her expression.

“Nothing,” she replied, wholly unwilling to explain. The truth was, she was jealous that her father was up there, so close to the royal family, while she and Jaime were stuck here in the dust with the less important crowd. It felt like he had left them behind. She glanced back at the royal box, wishing she could be up there, wishing she could draw their eyes, make them notice her.

They sat, waiting, the moments stretching on longer than Cersei liked. Prince Rhaegar was still nowhere to be seen, and the excitement that had briefly sparked in her began to simmer down. This tourney had been arranged in his honor, after all—a full week of celebrations leading up to his coronation. And yet, here he is, making us all wait, she thought, her fingers drumming impatiently on her upper thigh.  She had hoped she might speak with Rhaegar today, her father had promised as much last night, had whispered about it to her in his rare tender tones, the kind he usually reserved for Jaime. But he couldn’t make good on that promise if he didn’t even appear.

The royal box had only gained a few new occupants. Among them was a rotund, sweating man with the richest, blackest robes she had ever seen. Beside him sat the queen, slim and pale, with her youngest son in her arms, swaddled in cloth of gold, too young to do much more than squirm against her. Cersei watched her for a moment, wondering how it would feel to hold a future king like that in her arms.

Jaime fidgeted beside her, his gaze also fixed on the royal box. “Septa Saranella,” he asked. “Do Targaryens lay with their mothers too, or just with their sisters?”

Cersei stifled a laugh as Septa Saranella went rigid beside her, her mouth pinching into a thin line. “Young Lord Jaime!” she hissed, clearly scandalized. “That is no fit question for decent ears! The Targaryens may take their sisters to wed, but even they would not defile the sanctity of the mother’s role. Where have you heard such wickedness?”

Jaime slouched back in his seat, his mouth twisting into a pout, while Cersei smirked behind her hand. Before the septa could chastise him further, a shadow fell over them, and she looked up to see three figures standing before them, brilliant against the sun.

“Lord Jaime, Lady Cersei—it’s been so long!” The woman who spoke wore a gown of rich orange silk that seemed to shimmer as she moved, the silks bright and lively against her dark hair and skin. Trailing behind her were two others with the same raven-black hair and dark eyes—a woman, thinner and younger, with sharp cheekbones, and a tall man that looked upon them with an air of arrogance.

Cersei blinked up at them as Septa Saranella sprang to her feet, nudging Cersei sharply with her knobby elbow to do the same. Begrudgingly, Cersei rose too, bobbing a little curtsy, though she resented having to make any show of respect for these strangers.

“Princess Loreza,” Saranella said, almost breathless, “what an honor! And Prince Oberyn, Princess Elia! My, I wouldn’t have recognized you!”

Right. The Dornish. Cersei looked from one to the next, but her gaze lingered on the young woman she assumed to be Elia, with her waifish frame, thin as a reed, and face so gaunt it looked carved from stone. She had barely a figure at all, her chest flat beneath the draped fabric. This girl was older than her, yes, but she would be the real beauty in any room, not some bony princess from Dorne.

Jaime, however, was less interested in Elia and had his gaze fixed upon Prince Oberyn, the famed warrior and undefeated swordsman. “Is it true you defeated a Khal in single combat, my lord?” Jaime asked, his voice a little breathless.

Oberyn grinned. “It is. The Dothraki’s skill was impressive, though he fought with more honor than he should have. There’s no time for honor when your life is on the line, young lion. Perhaps one day you’ll learn that yourself.”

Cersei could tell the man was lying.

Jaime, as always, did not notice. His eyes lit up, and he barely held back a delighted squeal, clearly eager to ask Oberyn a dozen more questions. Meanwhile, Princess Loreza’s gaze had drifted to Cersei, and her smile was knowing. “I am uncertain if you remember, but your mother and I were dear friends, Lady Cersei,” she said, her tone almost tender. “And you look just like her. The same lovely hair, the same eyes. She would be so pleased to see what a beautiful young lady you’ve grown into.”

Her mother. Cersei swallowed, her chest tightening. It wasn’t a compliment she wanted. The memory of her felt tangled up with all the resentments she had since collected. Every mention of her now felt like a reminder of the injustice she had endured. Of the burden she had to carry in her place—and of the hideous dwarf who had replaced her. 

“Thank you, Princess,”  Cersei forced herself to smile, hoping it would pass for something polite—she would not be pitied by this Dornishwoman.

Loreza’s eyes softened, but she did not press. Instead, a fanfare of trumpets rang out and Cersei’s gaze shot toward the entrance of the tourney grounds, where several riders approached. Prince Oberyn turned his head towards the entrance too, smiling. “It seems that’s my cue. May the gods favor me, young lions,” the Dornishman said, striding off.

“And ours as well,” added Princess Loreza, glancing back at Cersei with a smile as she prepared to follow. “We’ll return to our seats—but I look forward to speaking with you again, my dear.”

Cersei sat back down, feeling the ache of something she couldn’t name in her chest. She forced herself to push it aside and concentrate on the riders who had entered the lists. The first rider bore the crowned stag of House Baratheon astride a massive warhorse. Lord Steffon Baratheon inclined his head slightly to the cheers that broke out around him. 

Then another set of riders trotted into view—three of them, all clad in gleaming white. Kingsguards. Ser Arthur Dayne held his helmet under one arm, the lavender star of House Dayne engraved upon his breastplate. Ser Lewyn Martell followed his sworn brother. Unlike Arthur, he kept his helm on, the faint slant of his eyes visible through the visor, watching the crowd. Cersei noted the cheers from the Dornish in the stands and rolled her eyes slightly.

Trailing just behind was Ser Gerold Hightower, the Lord Commander. His white cloak was clasped around him like a shroud, his armor more functional than showy. Septa Saranella sucked in a gasp at the sight of him. “The Lord Commander? How old is he now? Why, it’s near elderly abuse having him compete!” she whispered, her gaze darting around as if someone might overhear.

But the entrances continued, the field filling with even more knights. Prince Oberyn was there, as well as other noble lords and several lesser knights, men whose crests were unfamiliar to Cersei, although Jaime prattled on about each of them as if he knew their life stories. One bore a banner of gray and green, another a dull brown sigil she could barely make out, and yet another with colors so faded they seemed almost invisible against the sun’s glare.

Then, to the crowd’s amazement, a mystery knight rode into the lists. Clad in armor that shone a near-blinding silver, this knight bore no sigil, only a single blue-and-white chevron across his shield. Murmurs spread through the crowd, the name “Knight of the Silver Grove” whispered here and there. 

“Oh, look at him!” Jaime whispered to Ser Oswyck. “The mystery knight—he looks as if he’s straight out of a song, doesn’t he?”

“Aye, lad,” Ser Oswyck replied, eyes twinkling. “And often the ones out of songs prove to be the fiercest.”

The horn blew, signaling the start of the matches, and the field was alive with action. Lord Steffon took his first tilt, sending his opponent—some hedge knight Cersei did not much care for—crashing into the dirt on the third pass. The crowd erupted into cheers as he wheeled his horse around, giving a slight wave. Jaime cheered so loudly that Cersei winced.

Meanwhile, Ser Arthur Dayne was proving his reputation true, his lance splintering against Prince Oberyn’s shield, sending him flying face-down into the mud. The crowd gasped and Cersei could hear Ser Oswyck murmur something to Jaime about the honor and skill that made Dayne so beloved. But her mind wandered, her gaze sliding back up to the royal box, to the empty seat.

Another round passed, and the mystery knight took to the field. With one strike, he unhorsed his first opponent, Lord Alaric Dutton, drawing gasps from the crowd. Jaime’s mouth hung open in admiration. “He’s incredible,” he breathed with a sparkle in his eyes.

“Maybe,” Cersei said, glancing away dismissively. She had no care for some nameless knight, even if he was “straight out of a song.” The greatest knight, the one who mattered, was missing. She cared nothing for the joust, her interest utterly consumed by what she had yet to see. How dare he make her wait?

The jousts went on and soon the sun was only a glowing ember low on the horizon, casting its last light across the grounds. Cersei’s stomach growled; she longed for supper and her own bed. She wondered if this endless display of broken lances and clanging armor had been worth leaving her chambers for at all. She could hear Septa Saranella muttering under her breath, complaining about the evening chill settling in, meanwhile Jaime remained wholly engrossed.

Mercifully, the field had been narrowed down to two final contenders. Lord Steffon Baratheon, fresh from a stunning victory against Ser Arthur Dayne, had managed to edge his way into the final tilt, as had the Knight of the Silver Grove, who had unhorsed none other than Ser Gerold Hightower. A stroke of luck, Cersei thought. She’d watched the mystery knight win his way into the finale against lords well past their prime or foreigners unsteady in their saddles.

As the herald announced the final tilt, Ser Oswyck leaned in. “Who do you favor, my lady? Lord Baratheon’s strength or the skill of the mystery knight?”

Cersei shrugged. “Lord Baratheon will win, certainly. Only a fool would think otherwise.”

Jaime disagreed. “I think the Knight of the Silver Grove has a real chance! Did you see the way he unhorsed Ser Gerold?”

“Gerold Hightower is an old man,” said Cersei.

A trumpet’s call sounded, and Cersei’s gaze drifted back to the field as both knights took their places. Lord Steffon’s stallion stamped impatiently, kicking up clouds while the mystery knight’s chestnut mare stood ready.

The crowd hushed. Then, with a blast of the horn, the two riders lowered their lances and urged their horses into a gallop. They collided and Lord Baratheon’s lance struck true, splintering against the mystery knight’s breastplate. To the crowd's amazement, the knight held his ground, clinging to his saddle even as the impact echoed across the field. Gasps rippled through the stands, and Jaime’s eyes were as wide as plates.

Quickly, Lord Steffon was handed another lance, but this time luck was on the side of the Knight of the Silver Grove, whose lance met the Stormlander’s shoulder and sent the man flying from his saddle with a resounding crash. Beside her, Jaime leapt to his feet, shouting so loudly that Cersei clapped a hand to her ear, grimacing. The crowd went crazy as flowers, ribbons, and, strangely, turnips rained onto the field. 

Then, out from the throngs, a young page walked onto the field, clutching a crown woven from dark red flowers. Dragon’s breath. She recognized the blossoms from the gardens of Casterly Rock—smelling unpleasantly sharp and tangy.

She shifted in her seat as the knight began his victory lap, his attention set on the stands, the victor’s crown held high. Cersei straightened slightly. He is looking for a Queen of Love and Beauty, she thought. She didn’t care for the mystery knight’s opinion of course, nor did she much fancy the title, but she was still a lady of a noble house, worthy of such a token. She tilted her head, prepared to receive his favor, yet he rode past without as much as a glance.

Instead, the knight stopped before the Dornish stands, his visor fixed on the frail Princess Elia, whose dark eyes went wide. But after a long moment, he continued on, leaving Princess Elia’s face flushed as he made for the royal box. He halted in front of it and held out his lance towards the queen, offering her the flower crown. 

The crowd erupted yet again, clapping and shouting, and voices calling out for him to reveal himself, to remove his helm. And he did.

Cersei felt like her heart might burst as the knight reached up and lifted his helmet, revealing a mane of long silver hair. The crowd’s applause turned even louder, a thousand voices merging into a single cry as Rhaegar Targaryen raised a hand to calm them. 

“Forgive me, good people,” he said. “But I could not resist one last chance to ride in the lists. Soon I shall no longer have such a freedom as it is unseemly for a king to enter the field.” He bowed to the queen, then turned back to the crowd. “Now, let us end this day properly!”

Septa Saranella beside Cersei squealed in delight, hands clasped, while Jaime was shaking at Ser Oswyck’s arm with excitement. But Cersei sat still, her expression frozen in place, though something fierce and hot coiled inside her. Rhaegar had been here all along, in the lists with the rest of them, and yet he’d spared no glance for her, not even a single moment of his attention. He hadn’t noticed her, hadn’t cared that she’d sat waiting, hoping.

Tears burned in Cersei’s eyes and she struggled to maintain her poise, forcing her hands to remain calmly folded in her lap. A Lannister shows no weakness, her father would always say, and she wouldn’t start now. Her gaze wandered up to the royal box, to her father, who sat stone-faced meeting her gaze. Did he see her disappointment, or would he dismiss it as some girlish vanity? She was his daughter, yet she could not tell. Tywin Lannister’s face told her nothing—absolutely nothing.

Chapter Text

The wine was deep and dark, like crushed velvet on Jon’s tongue, and he drained his cup quickly. It must’ve been his fourth—or was it fifth?—of the night. All around him, the Red Keep was alive with color and light, musicians singing out over the din, their voices mixing with the chatter and laughter of noble guests. Acrobats twisted and tumbled on a wooden stage, their limbs moving in ways that made even the dullest lord chuckle. Jon clapped along with the music, half-drunken laughter bubbling up from his chest as he watched the lords and ladies of the realm dance in front of him. 

His gaze was set on the heart of the throng of dancers, where his silver prince moved through the crowd as if born of music itself, his steps nimble, graceful. In his arms was a child, his little brother Viserys, who clung to his older brother’s neck as they spun. Rhaegar threw his head back and laughed along with the child—clear as a bell, ringing above the din. Jon’s heart quickened, warmth creeping through him as he watched him. How could he describe Rhaegar’s laughter? It was sweeter than any song, like the world grew softer in its presence, brighter, for a single, fleeting instant.

A sharp clap on his shoulder broke through his daydream. Jon jolted and looked to his right, where Ser Oswell Whent had seated himself on a free seat. “Seven hells, Connington,” chuckled Oswell, “why aren’t you up and dancing? There's enough fair maidens here to put the Maiden herself to shame.”

Jon scoffed, taking another swig of wine. “Not with these feet,” he replied, his words slurring just slightly. “I’d trample her skirts, ruin the night for her.”

Oswell snorted and leaned back in his chair. “Then maybe you ought to try with someone who’d forgive a stumble or two. Ashara Dayne, perhaps? Arthur’s sister—look, she’s over there,” he gestured with his goblet to one of the long tables, where a dark-haired lady in lavender silk sat, deep in conversation with a woman clad in vivid orange.

Jon hiccuped, his gaze lingering on her only for a moment before turning back to Rhaegar. Oswell’s grin only widened as he leaned closer, nudging Jon with an elbow. “Princess Elia’s a beauty too, isn’t she? Sharp as a blade, though. I doubt you’ll get close to that one. But you’d best take your chances tonight, my friend. Who knows when you’ll have another one?”

Jon squinted at him. “What’s the rush, Whent?”

Oswell’s smile faded as he reached for the wine pitcher. “You know, I ought not to say it just yet, but… Rhaegar offered me a place in his Kingsguard.”

Jon’s eyes widened, the surprise sobering him just enough to understand. “Kingsguard? You, Ser Oswell?” A wide, toothy smile split his face. “Seven hells! That’s…well, that’s bloody incredible! Rhaegar chose well. Congratulations, truly.”

“Aye, I’m pleased for it. But—ah, I’ll miss the women. Every one of them.” Oswell chuckled, lifting his cup and downing the wine in a single gulp.

Jon watched as a shadow crossed Oswell's face, his usual light dimmed. Kingsguard—an honor few could dream of, yes, but the price was steep. No land, no family, no sons to carry his name. The memory of friends and nights like these would be his only legacy. Oswell’s smile was back, if weaker, but Jon’s heart twisted slightly at it.

He filled and drained his own cup in one quick swoop, feeling the fire spread through him, and suddenly, an idea struck. Rising unsteadily, he offered a hand to Oswell. “Come on, Whent. Stand up,” he commanded.

“For what?” asked Oswell.

“To enjoy your last night as a free man, of course.” Jon’s grin was wild, his face flushed. “Come, let us ask Princess Elia and Lady Ashara for a dance. If you’re to take vows tomorrow, tonight we celebrate.”

Oswell’s eyes lit up, and a smile broke across his face. “Aye, Connington, you’ve the right of it!” he laughed, pushing himself to his feet too. Together, the two young men weaved through the crowd toward the long table where the two noblewomen sat absorbed in conversation. Lady Ashara was laughing loudly at something Princess Elia had said when they arrived., 

“Lady Ashara, Princess Elia,” Oswell began, his tone somewhere between formal and teasing, “might I trouble you both for a dance? My friend here,” he gestured at Jon, “has two left feet but a spirit of merriment he simply cannot contain.”

Jon decided to play along with the jest. “It’s true. I’m a hopeless cause. But if you’d be so forgiving, Lady Ashara, I’d be honored to tread upon your toes.”

Ashara’s laugh was warm and bright, and she raised a brow at him. “Is that so, Ser Hopeless? I like a challenge,” she replied as she took his hand and rose from her seat.

Princess Elia seemed a little more hesitant, her gaze flickering briefly to Oswell, who extended his hand with a smile. “And you, Princess? Up for a dance with a simple second son of Harrenhal?”

A small, almost shy smile crept onto Elia’s face, and she placed her hand in his, allowing him to lead her onto the floor. Soon, Jon found himself moving in a circle with the others, laughter ringing in his ears as he stumbled a bit with Ashara, who took it all in stride, smiling and guiding him through each step kindly.

They moved, spun, and laughed, as if the world had narrowed to just the four of them and the sound of the music they danced to. And then, suddenly Rhaegar stepped into their neat little sickle circle, his face still alight with joy, his brother now gone from his arms. Jon felt his own smile widen as he caught the prince’s eye.

“Is everyone enjoying the festivities?” Rhaegar asked, his gaze flicking to each of them in turn.

Princess Elia dipped her head and Jon noticed the blush creeping onto her cheeks. “Immensely, Your Grace,” she murmured.

Jon raised his voice so that Rhaegar would hear him above the music and cheering. “There will be tales woven of King Rhaegar, First of His Name, singer of songs and master of revels,” he proclaimed. “What a celebration!”

Rhaegar chuckled, shaking his head. “You flatter me, Jon. All this praise will turn my head.” His eyes were warm as he looked over each of them. Then his smile deepened, turning slightly conspiratorial. “But tell me, are you up for a little adventure?”

Ashara’s hand shot up with an eager grin. “I am!” she declared.

Oswell grinned and clapped his hands together, clearly ready for whatever mischief Rhaegar had in mind. Jon, of course, didn’t hesitate—he’d follow Rhaegar to the edge of the world and back, if that was where the prince wanted to go.

Princess Elia looked a touch more hesitant, her expression a mix of shyness and curiosity as he offered her a hand. She hesitated for a brief moment, glancing between Rhaegar and the others, her face half-hidden in shadow, but then she reached out and took his hand. He gave her fingers a gentle squeeze. “Do not worry, Princess,” he said, his voice warm. “It’s just a quiet spot, with a view worth seeing.”

Together, the five of them moved away from the noise and light of the hall, leaving behind the swirls of dancers and the laughter. Rhaegar led them through a small corridor off the main hall, where the flickering torchlight gave the shadows an almost playful cast. Jon stumbled as they made their way deeper into the winding halls, the evening’s wine hitting him in full force. He chuckled, though his legs wobbled more than he’d like to admit. Oswell caught him by the arm, steadying him with a laugh.

“If I’d known you were this far gone, I’d have brought a cart to carry you,” teased Oswell, patting him on the back.

Jon tried to muster a retort, but his words came out in a half-laugh, half-hiccup. Rhaegar glanced back at them, grinning as he led the way, Elia and Ashara on either side of him. The prince was speaking softly to them, recounting memories of his childhood in the Red Keep.

“I used to chase cats through these corridors,” said Rhaegar. “They say that, two centuries ago, a Hand of the King released over a hundred cats into the keep. I swear, half of them are still lurking in the shadows.”

Ashara turned to him, her eyes wide. “A hundred cats? Truly?”

“Oh yes,” Rhaegar nodded. “When a ratcatcher shortage grew dire in the capital. He brought them from all corners of the city, let them loose here, and they multiplied into a small empire of their own.”

The two noblewomen seemed glued to the prince’s every word, and how couldn’t they? Rhaegar was unlike any other man he’d ever met—a prince, but never too proud; noble, yet as full of warmth as a hearth’s kindle fire. Even here, in the shadows of the Red Keep, he radiated a light that pulled them all closer.

At last, they stopped beside an ordinary section of wall, a simple stretch of stone amidst a dozen others. Ashara frowned. “Is this it?” she asked.

“Not quite,” Rhaegar said, and raised his hand, running his fingertips along the stone. “Maegor the Cruel had secret passages built into the keep. None were never mapped; they’re known only to a few… and to those lucky enough to stumble across them.” He looked back at them with a twinkle in his eyes. “I found this one while chasing cats.”

And then, to Jon’s amazement, Rhaegar pressed against a loose brick, and with a quiet, grating sound, a narrow passage opened in the wall. Rhaegar clapped Jon on the shoulder with a grin. “You lead, my friend.”

And so, he took the first step into the hidden corridor, which turned into a tight and steep stairwell that wound upward. As the entrance closed behind them with a low groan, the world outside vanished, leaving them in a cloistered silence, broken only by the scuff of footsteps and Oswell’s muttered curses about cobwebs.

“Damned cobwebs,” Oswell grumbled as he brushed away a particularly thick one, earning a laugh from Ashara.

“Don’t tell me a knight of the realm fears a few cobwebs,” she taunted, her voice light and teasing.

“Not afraid, my lady,” Oswell shot back. “Just mindful of ruining my hair.”

They climbed higher and higher until, finally, they emerged into an open space. Jon blinked, feeling the cool air of the night on his skin as he stepped out onto a tower with no walls—only the open sky above and a breathtaking view before him. He felt as though he were suspended between the stars and the world below.

The city of King’s Landing sprawled out beneath them, a mass of rooftops and winding streets that often seemed to lead nowhere. Beyond lay the dark expanse of the Kingswood, and to the east, Blackwater Bay stretched like an endless black mirror, catching the faint reflection of the stars and the moon. Jon took it all in, his heart pounding in his chest not just from the climb, but from the sheer beauty of it, the way it felt to stand so close to the stars with the world at his feet.

Beside him, Rhaegar was watching the view as well. “When I was younger, I would come here often,” he said, his voice quiet, a secret shared between the two of them. “Sometimes I’d bring my harp and I’d play to the stars. It’s peaceful.”

Jon’s gaze flicked to Rhaegar. He could almost see it—the silver prince alone under the vast sky, pouring his heart into the strings, the heavens his only audience.

Ashara, caught up in the moment, stepped forward to the edge, spreading her arms out wide. “It’s like standing at the edge of the world!” she said with a smile. “Thank you for sharing this with us, Your Grace.”

Oswell sidled up beside Jon. “Quite the view, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” Jon nodded, watching as Rhaegar lifted his face to the wind. “It is.”

The five of them sat scattered around the rooftop, each taking in the beauty of the night. Jon leaned back against a cool stone pillar, his eyes on the waters of the bay. It shimmered like dark silk beneath the night sky, stars twinkling above and below, both sky and sea drawn together in some secret conversation only they understood.

And then, Rhaegar began to sing.

His voice came soft and clear, barely more than a murmur at first, but it grew, weaving itself through the quiet. It was a song Jon had never heard before, he felt like he would remember it for the rest of his life.

“Long ago, before the flame,
There lived a star without a name.
Through endless skies it drifted lone,
And dreamed of worlds it’d never known.

It fell to earth, in tears and ash,
In birth’s embrace and death’s last clash.
And where it touched, the earth would bloom,
Yet yearn once more for star’s cold gloom.”

As Rhaegar sang, Oswell pulled Ashara up to dance, his arms wrapped loosely around her frame. Ashara’s laughter rang out, bright as the stars, while Oswell’s face seemed stuck in a perpetual grin. They swayed and stumbled, their voices catching in the spaces between Rhaegar’s verses. And still, the prince sang on.

“Its light grew faint, its fire dim,
Yet still it dreamed, and dreamed of him—
A sun to cast its shadowed fall,
A warmth to cradle through it all.”

Princess Elia did not laugh or move. She sat cross-legged on the stone floor, her gaze fixed on Rhaegar. Jon watched her for a long moment, noting the tears that had gathered in her eyes, the way her hands lay in her lap, the way she smiled at him. It reminded him of himself.

“It rose, it set, it broke, it yearned,
But never found the flame it burned.
So there it lay, in dark unknown,
A star to sleep, forever lone.

For suns may set, and stars may fall,
Yet dawn renews its ancient call.
And what was lost returns in worth,
To light the heavens and warm the earth.”

The final verse trailed off, lingering in the air for a moment before giving way to the low hum of the city below. Jon blinked and realized that tears were now rolling down his own cheeks. Bloody Arbor Red, turning me into such a mess . He wiped them away with a brush of his sleeve, hiding them—from the others, from himself.

The wine still clung to Jon’s senses the next morning, a slight heaviness in his head, a warmth lingering in his chest. It softened the edges of everything around him, blurring the thousand faces pressed into Baelor’s Great Sept. He sat among them, surrounded by the low murmur of voices and the rustling of heavy gowns.

Baelor’s Sept rose around him, towering pillars and high archways stretching into the heavens above, where light streamed from stained-glass windows, bleeding reds, blues, and greens over the packed hall. Jon craned his neck, catching a glimpse of Queen Rhaella seated at the front. She was draped in deep black, her hair neatly hidden beneath a long, dark veil. Her face was turned downward, her hands tightly clasped together. 

But Jon’s attention drifted from her soon enough. Every house of importance from the Crownlands had come, and the nobles from the Stormlands, Riverlands and Reach had come in contingents that filled entire sections with their sigils in greens and blues, willows and roses, stags and stallions. Even here, deep in the south, Jon glimpsed northern banners he knew well: a grey direwolf in a field of white, a black axe on silver or a merman on a base of blue-green.

The noise in the hall stilled abruptly as the High Septon approached the front. He was an ancient man, hunched beneath the weight of his robes, his every breath came with a faint wheeze and his fingers trembled as he finally reached the front and raised his voice to the crowd. Jon wondered if the man’s faith was all that kept him standing.

“Today a king will be crowned.” The High Septon drew in a labored breath, “let us pray.”

The sept filled with whispers as the names of the Seven were invoked, voices wove together and Jon murmured along. The Mother’s mercy, the Warrior’s strength, the Father’s justice—these were words he’d learned to recite, the words he’d say when his mother would force him to visit the sept in the early morning hours, the words he’d whisper deep in the night to forget the thoughts that haunted his sleep, the words that never made it better.

A ripple of movement disrupted the prayer, and Jon turned his head with the rest as the doors opened wide. Into the quiet hush walked Rhaegar, flanked by his Kingsguard, all seven of them. Ser Gerold, Ser Lewyn, and Ser Barristan walked ahead, then came Ser Arthur and Rhaegar himself. The remaining three knights walked behind their prince, there was something almost ghostly about the three. Ser Jonothor Darry walked with his hands clasped tightly behind his back. A plain man, weathered by years of service, his eyes were sharp and searching, though he avoided meeting anyone's gaze for long. Ser Harlan Grandison, older still, had a thinness to him, a kind of frailty that no polished white armor could conceal.

And, of course, Ser Oswell, freshly anointed to the Kingsguard. He bore none of his sworn brothers’ grim solemnity. His face was young, unlined, and betraying a nervous energy he struggled to mask. When his dark eyes met Jon's, he smiled—a quick, boyish thing that seemed almost out of place in the heavy sanctity of the moment. He was not yet made of the stone that a knight of the Kingsguard was expected to be, but there was steel in him still, even if it had not yet cooled.

Jon returned the faint smile with the barest nod, though his eyes were already drawn back to the prince. The king, he thought, not without bitterness. He held every gaze in the sept captive, not with a raised voice or grand gesture, but with that majesty that seemed innate to him. When Rhaegar reached the altar, he knelt, his long frame folding gracefully to the floor, his forehead pressed to the stone in a gesture Jon could only describe as reverent.

“Face me, my child,” the High Septon intoned and Rhaegar raised his head slowly.

An attendant, a boy of perhaps ten, approached with the sacred oil, shaking ever so slightly under the scrutiny of so many. His robes of white seemed almost golden in the light. With trembling hands, he handed the bowl to the High Septon, who held it up high before dipping his fingers within.

Seven lines traced along Rhaegar’s brow, seven oils for the seven faces of god. Another moment passed, and the boy returned, this time with a crimson cushion upon which rested the crown. It was a simple thing, just a golden circlet that bore no gems, no ostentation. It had been the fifth Aegon’s crown, the same king who perished in the flames that brought forth Rhaegar. Born in grief, born in sorrow. The dragon’s song had ended in screams and smoke that day, both a pyre and a cradle for the last of their hope. Rhaegar had spoken of his birth only once to him. They’d been younger then, he remembered the prince’s distant gaze, the slight furrow of his brow as he’d talked about the day Summerhall burned.

No one told me much, Rhaegar had said, his voice quiet, almost apologetic. Only that I was born amidst the flames, and my mother wept when she held me. They called me their last hope, but how can a babe bear such a weight?

The High Septon’s hands trembled as he lifted the circlet. It seemed to weigh far more than it should, but he managed to lower it gently onto Rhaegar’s head. The circlet had other wearers before the fifth, it had been the crown worn by the second Viserys, and before him by the Dragonbane. “I name you King Rhaegar of House Targaryen, First of His Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm.”

The septon bowed low, his robes pooling around him as Rhaegar rose. The crown did not wobble—it seemed to belong there, perched on Rhaegar’s brow, as if he had worn it all his life. He was the fourth king to wear it. He turned to face the crowd, and the hall erupted in cheers, but Jon could only stare.

Chapter Text

The flagon was weighty in Tywin’s hands, cool pewter against his calloused fingers. He let the deep red of the Arbor vintage slosh into the two goblets with not a drop wasted. No servants were needed here, they would only fuss, intrude, or—worse—linger. The solitude of the Hand’s study was his ally, and Tywin guarded it fiercely.

The goblets filled, he slid one across the polished desk to Ser Barristan Selmy, who accepted it with a nod and a quiet “Thank you, my lord.” Tywin seated himself in the high-backed chair opposite the knight, fixing his piercing gaze upon the man. Selmy’s armor and white cloak were immaculate once again. Duskendale was in the past. 

“I thought it fitting to offer hospitality before asking you to recount unpleasantness, Ser. You need not fear—this is no interrogation. I merely seek clarity on the events of Duskendale. You may speak freely.”

Selmy inclined his head, a knight like him did not flinch from the truth, no matter how grim. Tywin appreciated that quality, though he also found it somewhat predictable. The knight took a sip of the wine before setting the goblet down with care.

The tale unfolded in Selmy’s even, grave voice. He spoke of shadows in the Dun Fort, the reek of old stone and fresh blood. Aerys, gaunt and ragged, had been found suspended from the dungeon ceiling. Selmy had fought his way to the king, carving through Lord Darklyn’s guards. “He raved,” Selmy said, his eyes seemed distant, haunted by shadows long past. “His words were scattered, my lord, though the meaning was plain. He had endured horrible things there… Lord Darklyn was a sick man.”

Tywin inclined his head slightly, his golden brows drawing together almost imperceptibly at Selmy's words. “Indeed,” he said at last. He had seen the king’s body himself—horribly emaciated, his skin stretched tight over sharp bones, the stench of piss and shit clinging to him like a foul shroud. Lord Denys Darklyn had been dealt with swiftly for his treason, as had his Myrish serpent of a wife. They could no longer speak of what had transpired. “And when you had the king in your hands, what then?”

“I carried him out, my lord. He was frail, barely able to stand on his own. There was no retreating the way I came—not with the king in tow. So scaling the walls back down was out of the question, I could not see him attempting it in his state. I thought to reach the stables and take a horse, make for the gates before the alarm could be raised.”

“And yet, the alarm was raised.” Tywin leaned back in his chair, his fingers steepled before him.

“Aye,” Selmy admitted, a trace of frustration entering his otherwise measured tone. “As soon as we stepped outside the keep, guards descended upon us. They were waiting, perhaps one of Darklyn’s spies had alerted them. The king panicked at the sight of blood and steel and he scurried off like a frightened rabbit. I tried to reach him, to call him back, but I was barraged on all sides. By the time I could turn to him, he had disappeared back into the keep’s corridors and I was too injured to follow.”

Indeed, his men had found the king deep in the bowels of the Dun Fort with his throat slashed. He had drowned in his own blood, his final moments filled with animalistic panic as he gasped and flailed far from any water. A fitting end for such a man. Very fitting. Rats had quickly begun their feast, nibbling at the waxy flesh of Aerys Targaryen’s face.

It was no fault of Selmy’s, of course—the knight had done all he could. No man alive could say otherwise and still claim honor. But Aerys had been Aerys, and his doom had been inescapable. “You did all you could, Ser Barristan. The realm owes you thanks, as do I.”

Selmy inclined his head again. “You are gracious, my lord. I did only what my oaths demanded.”

A sharp mind would know to leave it there, and Selmy was nothing if not sharp. He rose, bowed, and strode to the door. Tywin watched him go and waited for the sound of retreating footsteps to fade into silence before turning toward the tall, narrow window that overlooked the yard below. 

The morning sun had climbed high, bathing the castle grounds in pale, cool light. Below, boys and squires clashed wooden swords, their shouts rising faintly to meet the stillness of his chamber. Jaime was among them, sparring with Ser Oswyck, their blades ringing in with each clash. Tywin’s eyes followed his son’s every movement. There was power in those hands, precision in every stroke—a glimpse of the great warrior and lord the boy was destined to become.

Tywin swirled the wine around in his goblet, his lip curling faintly, wine before breakfast. A poor habit for lesser men. He placed the goblet aside.

The table in the Hand’s solar was laden with simple but rich fare—eggs, freshly baked bread, a slab of roasted ham, and honeyed fruit. Tywin took a bite of egg, still hot, its center running golden, before moving to slice a bit of pear from the silver platter before him. A Lannister did not indulge, but neither did he rush; breakfast, like every other part of the day, was a ritual to be managed with care.

Across from him, his twins were engaged in their own version of breakfast—Jaime barely touched his bread, eyes darting between Tywin and the door, already fidgeting with his cup, while Cersei sat rigid, prodding her food as though it had insulted her personally.

“I hate it here,” the girl muttered, scrunching up her nose. “It’s hot, it stinks of dung. I can hardly breathe sometimes.” She crossed her arms, a look of pure displeasure twisting her small features.

Tywin set his fork down without looking at her and picked up a piece of bread spread with soft cheese. “You’re here to learn the ways of court, not to scowl your way through the capital, Cersei. Do you think the king is pleased to see a sour face on his Hand’s daughter every time he looks about his court?”

“The King does not care for me!” Cersei cried, ever petulant. “The air at Casterly Rock is cleaner, and there aren’t half as many flies. Here, they buzz everywhere, like gnats. And the people—”

“You would do well to hold your tongue,” Tywin interrupted her. “A woman with ambition must learn the art of restraint.”

Cersei pursed her lips but straightened herself at once, biting back whatever reply was brewing on her tongue. Across the table, Jaime had cleaned his plate and drained a cup of watered wine. “Father, may I leave? Ser Oswyck said I could spar with some of the squires, maybe even the master-at-arms if I’m lucky.”

Tywin gave a faint inclination of his head as he took a sip from his own goblet—no doubt Jaime would be badgering the master-at-arms before the morning was over. The boy was as eager to prove himself as any son would be, but his children were here for a reason. He wiped his fingers clean with a linen napkin, folded it, and set it beside his plate. Jaime was already half out of his chair, but his father’s voice stopped the boy in his tracks. “Fighting squires must become dull. You’re more skilled than their lot. You should train with men who can best you.”

They were here in King’s Landing for one reason, and one reason only: to strenghten House Lannister's ties with the Iron Throne. And Cersei was the most straightforward means to that end. The young king had been courteous but there was little sign of the interest Tywin had hoped for when he had called for her to come to court. His courtesy was a shield, and Cersei’s forwardness had only strengthened his guard. Tywin recalled how the girl had come to him during a feast, her face red and blotchy as she wailed about how she had embarrassed herself before the king. She had meant well, Tywin supposed, advertising her mother’s fertility and promising half a dozen royal heirs as if her unripe womb were the answer to all of Rhaegar’s woes. The king had cringed, treating her words with the same polite detachment he would show a child boasting of her imaginary feats.

A child. That was the problem. Eleven namedays and she carried herself like a queen in her own mind, but Rhaegar clearly saw her for what she was: a girl playing dress-up. Tywin would rather dispense with the pretense altogether—march into the council chamber, confront the boy king, and tell him outright what was expected. Rhaegar needed a queen, and Cersei was the logical choice. She was beautiful, young, and came with the wealth and power of Casterly Rock. There was no better match, not in all the Seven Kingdoms.

But such bluntness would be folly. The king’s reaction to even the mildest mention of marriage during council had been telling. His eyes had darkened, his mouth twisting as he shifted the conversation elsewhere. The boy did not wish to be told what he must do, least of all by his Hand. So Tywin had tried to tread carefully, planting seeds, speaking of alliances, steering the subject with as much subtlety as he could.

Subtlety, well, that was certainly over by now. Rhaegar knew. Of that, Tywin had no doubt. The king knew of Cersei’s wishes, knew his Hand desired it as well. If Rhaegar had any sense in him, he’d see that this match was the only sound one, but sense had never been the ruling force in matters such as these. Men were fools where women were concerned, and kings were often the greatest fools of all.

He glanced back at Cersei, her arms crossed, her lips pressed thin in petulance. A child playing dress-up, indeed, but she was also a Lannister, and Tywin would see her wear the crown she so desperately desired. A different approach would perhaps be required. If Cersei could not yet command the king’s interest, there was another piece on the board that might catch his eye.

“Jaime, would you want me to arrange you to squire for one of the knights of the Kingsguard?”

Jaime’s face brightened at once, his earlier restlessness vanishing in an instant. “The Kingsguard?” he repeated, barely able to keep the excitement from his voice.

“It would be an honor, but more importantly, it would be an opportunity. The men of the Kingsguard are the finest knights in the realm. To serve under them, to learn from them, would be invaluable to your training.”

Jaime’s cheeks flushed with excitement, and for a moment, he was nothing more than a boy enthralled by the idea of glory. “Which knight?” he asked eagerly. “Ser Barristan? Ser Lewyn? Ser—”

“Ser Arthur Dayne,” Tywin interrupted. The name had the effect he expected: Jaime practically squealed in delight, his grin splitting his face as he all but leaped from his chair.

“Ser Arthur? The Sword of the Morning?” Jaime’s voice cracked slightly with the intensity of his enthusiasm. “He’s the greatest knight alive! His sword, Father, it’s said to be like no other blade in the world! It’s not steel, it’s... it’s—”

“Forged from the heart of a fallen star,” Tywin said dryly, finishing the familiar tale for him. He had heard Jaime’s rhapsodizing about House Dayne’s ancestral weapon enough to recite it himself by now. “Yes, I am aware.”

Jaime’s excitement was infectious in its way, though Tywin did not let it show. He reached for his goblet, sipping calmly as his son’s imagination no doubt ran wild. Ser Arthur Dayne was not only one of the finest knights of the realm, he was also the king's sworn shield, and one of his closest confidants. If Jaime managed to get close to the knight, he'd grow closer with the king too. Maybe this was the opening they needed.

“Do not squander this chance,” Tywin said once the boy had quieted down somewhat. “You will train harder, listen more closely, and comport yourself with the dignity befitting a Lannister. Understood?”

“Yes, Father,” Jaime said eagerly. “I won’t let you down.”

As Jaime’s excitement bubbled over once more, Tywin turned his gaze to Cersei again. The girl’s sulk had deepened during the exchange. She was a mirror of her mother in moments like these—restless, dissatisfied. But Joanna, for all her fire, had known when to wield charm and when to hold her tongue. Cersei had not yet learned that distinction. “Do not think this has no bearing on you. Your brother’s success will reflect on this family. And so will yours. See to it that you don’t waste your opportunities either, Cersei.”

But the duties of the Hand were many, and the hour for indulgence was over. Tywin rose from his chair, leaving his children to their thoughts—the small council was awaiting him. When he entered the throne room, a few of the councilmen were already seated around the great table. Lord Chelsted was fussing over a stack of ledgers, Lord Staunton idly picked at the embroidery on his doublet and Lord Velaryon sat there with his head in his hands. “Good morrow,” he said and the men murmured their usual, dull replies.

Moments later, King Rhaegar arrived with Ser Gerold and Ser Arthur in tow. Grandmaester Pycelle shuffled in last, murmuring his apologies.

Once all were assembled, Tywin cleared his throat and with the day’s proceedings. The first matter was a border skirmish in the Riverlands. The Blackwoods and Brackens were at it again, reports indicating a few dozen dead on either side, though it remains unclear who struck first. Tywin laid out the options to the king—either the Crown would send men to impose the king’s peace or allow House Tully to put the quarreling lords down. Rhaegar, ever the idealist, insisted they attempt diplomacy once more and thus the council prepared for mediators to be sent out to both Raventree Hall and Stone Hedge. A waste of time, but he’d indulge the king, he would learn soon enough that such matters could only be settled with steel.

The discussion continued, moving next to the taxation upon the Rose Road. Tywin outlined the growing complaints from merchants, who balked at the increased levies. Lord Chelsted muttered something about grain shortages and silver reserves, prompting Maester Pycelle to launch into one of his infamous tangents. “The signs are clear, Your Grace,” Pycelle wheezed, his hands trembling as he gestured vaguely toward the heavens. “Summer is drawing to a close. The stars thankfully portend a long autumn. But still, we must prepare for winter accordingly.”

“Fascinating,” Tywin remarked dryly, earning a faint chuckle from Velaryon and a sharp look from Pycelle. The king, however, merely smiled, his fingers steepled beneath his chin as he continued listening to the old maester. The boy was skilled in the art of courtly manners, Tywin admitted.

The meeting adjourned at last, the scrape of chairs and the shuffling of papers filling the hall as the lords rose to take their leave. Tywin remained seated and allowed himself a brief moment of satisfaction at the morning’s work, though there was still much to do. As the last of the council departed, he turned his attention to the young king.

“Your Grace,” he began, his tone measured, “might I have a moment of your time?”

Rhaegar paused mid-step, as did Ser Arthur Dayne, the king’s ever-present shadow. Sometimes, Tywin wondered if the two were conjoined at the hip. “Of course, Lord Hand,” Rhaegar said, tilting his head. “What is on your mind?”

Tywin stepped closer, folding his hands behind his back. “I trust you find yourself well, Your Grace.”

“Well enough,” Rhaegar replied, his lips curving into the faintest of smiles. “And you, my lord? The burdens of the Hand weigh heavy, I imagine.”

“They are necessary burdens,” Tywin said simply. “But I wished to speak of other matters—my children.”

Rhaegar’s expression softened, though there was a glint of something amused in his violet eyes. “Ah yes, your twins. How are they finding King’s Landing?”

“Cersei enjoys the splendor of court immensely,” Tywin lied. He had learned long ago that the truth was not always useful in such exchanges.

To his irritation, Rhaegar’s lips quivered, almost imperceptibly so. A slight, Tywin realized, though he let none of his displeasure show. He just offered the faintest nod of acknowledgement, as if the king’s amusement were beneath his notice.

“She is a spirited girl,” said Rhaegar, but no more than that.

“She is,” Tywin replied. “And my son, Jaime, shows equal promise.”

At this, Rhaegar tilted his head, some interest flickering in his eyes. “Your son trains in the yard often, does he not?”

“Daily,” Tywin confirmed. “He defeats squires five years his senior with ease and is already a match for knights. His instructors speak highly of him.”

“He will become a great knight. It is good to see such dedication in one so young.”

That was the opening he needed and Tywin seized it. “Any great knight begins as a great squire, Your Grace.”

Rhaegar nodded. “True enough.”

“Jaime’s greatest wish,” Tywin continued, his voice carefully even, “is to squire for a knight of the Kingsguard.”

At this, Ser Arthur Dayne stirred slightly, his calm lilac eyes sharpening. Tywin did not miss the faint lift of Rhaegar’s brows, nor the smile—this time entirely genuine—that graced his lips. “A worthy ambition,” Rhaegar said warmly. “Does he have a particular knight in mind?”

“He does,” Tywin replied, inclining his head toward Ser Arthur. “He admires the Sword of the Morning above all others. There is no greater honor in his eyes than to serve under you, Ser Arthur.”

The knight blinked, clearly surprised. “I am... flattered,” he said, his voice smooth and measured, though there was an unmistakable pride in his tone.

“He speaks of you often,” Tywin pressed, he would see this done. “He knows every tale of your deeds and every detail of your famed sword. The boy dreams of nothing else.”

Rhaegar laughed softly, turning to his sworn shield. “You’re a wanted man, Arthur. First the Reach sends their sons clamoring for you, and now the Westerlands.”

Arthur inclined his head, his smile growing. “If it pleases His Grace, I would feel honored to take Jaime as my squire.”

Rhaegar’s response was immediate, a bright, approving nod that only deepened Tywin’s satisfaction. “Then let it be so,” the king said. “I trust your son will flourish under Ser Arthur’s guidance, Lord Tywin.”

Tywin dipped his head. “He will not disappoint.”

The king and his sworn sword departed the throne room then. The doors boomed shut behind them, leaving Tywin alone in the cavernous hall. He felt the dragons’ empty eye sockets on him and he turned his gaze up to the Iron Throne, towering over the chamber like a dark god of jagged steel.

Slowly, Tywin approached it, his steps ever steady. Many whispered that it was cursed, that it devoured those who sat upon it, but Tywin saw no curse in its silhouette. He saw only power, saw the will that had forged the Seven Kingdoms into one. 

When he reached the base of the throne, he began to ascend. His eyes swept over the interlocking blades, the twisted hilts and rusted points. They had cut kings before, it was said, and Tywin had no intention of sharing that fate.  The conqueror had been wise if he truly said, A king shall never sit easy. It was fitting wisdom, the sort that only a man who understood power could speak.

Tywin Lannister understood power. And today, he was one step closer to it.

But the Iron Throne was not yet his, not yet his to shape and wield. There were other matters to resolve, pieces to move, rivals to remove. Tonight, letters would be written, letters that would weave the next threads in the tapestry of his design. In the quiet of his chambers, Tywin would sit beneath the lion of Lannister and set his quill to parchment. There were battles to be fought, but not all battles were waged with steel. Some were fought with ink and paper and Tywin did not intend to lose.

Chapter Text

The Water Gardens were a splendid place, where the air was sweet and salty all at once, where the warm breeze carried the scent of blood oranges and the sound of children’s laughter. Ashara’s dark, damp hair flowed loose down her shoulders as Elia and she weaved through the shaded colonnades.

Though they had been back in Dorne for three months now, Ashara’s mind was still in the capital, the Red Keep ever looming in her thoughts. “Do you think he misses you?” At Elia’s questioning look, she added, “Oh, don’t be coy. You know who I mean. I swear, I’ve never seen a man look at anyone the way he looked at you.” She imagined the scene all over again—the orange sunset, the tourney grounds, the king facing Elia through his visor, his eyes lingering just a heartbeat longer than propriety allowed.

Elia’s cheeks flushed a soft, rosy hue as she glanced away, and though she wore that same gentle, thoughtful smile she always wore when Ashara brought up Rhaegar. She knew her friend’s heart well, and she felt a spark of joy and excitement rise within her. After all, Elia’s joy was hers, too.

“He is smitten, I’m sure of it,” said Ashara, seizing her friend’s arm and spinning her around. “Can’t you picture it? You, Queen Elia, the Flower of Dorne—oh, imagine! The realm’s most splendid crown atop your lovely head, and King Rhaegar beside you, silver-haired princelings and princesses all around.” She spun Elia faster, her laughter mixing with the rush of water and the cries of playing children. “And I, your lady-in-waiting, always beside you, reminding you to sit straighter and smile for the lords and ladies.”

The two girls spun around the orange trees and Elia’s blush deepened. Elia was fond of Rhaegar, Ashara could see it. Maybe it wasn’t so obvious as in the sighs and starry-eyed glances of other ladies, but it was there in the way her friend turned thoughtful at the mention of his name, in the faint softening of her expression. Ashara teased her, of course, but in her heart, she truly hoped it might happen. Who better to love a dragon king than her dearest Elia?

Caught up in her daydreams, Ashara suddenly spun Elia too hard, and they lost their footing together, stumbling forward. She gasped, almost laughing, just as they tumbled into one of the smaller pools with a grand splash. They surfaced, drenched, hair clinging to their cheeks, and Ashara broke into delighted laughter, the cold water a refreshing balm on the hot autumn day. She glanced over at Elia, whose usual composure had all but vanished, leaving her grinning through the wet strands of hair that fell over her face.

“See?” Ashara teased, flicking a playful splash of water at her friend. “You’re already a queen—commanding the water, making waves.”

Elia laughed and shook her head, brushing the damp hair from her cheeks. “Ashara, you cannot be serious,” she said, still smiling but with uncertainty in her voice. “It’s one thing to jest, but to speak of queens and courts…” She glanced around at the laughing children, the gardens she so loved. "And besides, I’m home now."

“We’ll go back! To King’s Landing, I mean.” offered Ashara. “We can find a place there—why not? Princess Loreza was a lady-in-waiting for the Queen Mother and there’s no reason why you shouldn’t be as well. Imagine what a comfort you’d be to her!” She grinned, adding, “Half the ladies at court seemed as dull as dry sand.”

“I… I wouldn’t want to ask my mother for that,” Elia began, casting a look toward the palace, “to go to King’s Landing when—”

A shadow fell across them, and Ashara looked up to see Prince Oberyn standing over the pool’s edge, his arms crossed, a knowing smile gracing his mouth. “You two look as though you’ve mistaken yourselves for ducks. You’d better get out before the children start tossing breadcrumbs at you.” The prince stepped down to help Elia up, his hands firm and sure as he lifted her from the pool. Ashara followed, rising and squeezing the water from her skirts with a grin.

Elia was thinner than most, with a certain frailness to her, the kind that made Ashara’s heart ache sometimes. She had been born too small to survive, yet survive she did, despite every hardship. It was a tale Princess Loreza liked to tell, but Ashara knew Elia never enjoyed hearing it. Elia had grown to be as strong as any of them, in her own way, though Oberyn’s gaze betrayed his worry as he steadied her on her feet. “Mother wishes to speak with you,” he said, his voice gentle.

Ashara saw the surprise in Elia’s face and felt a small thrill herself—what could it mean? Perhaps they’d be going to King’s Landing sooner than she’d ever hoped to dream. She took Elia’s hand as they began to walk toward the palace, the pink marble feeling warm beneath their bare, wet feet, Oberyn followed.

The Water Gardens were a sweet fruit born out of pure love—a place of living history and beauty. Prince Maron Martell had built them for Princess Daenerys Targaryen generations ago, a mark of peace between Dorne and the Crown, a symbol of what Dorne was, what it could be when a dragon and the sun joined together. As they walked, she looked over at Elia, no other maiden in all the lands could lay claim to as much blood of the dragon as her. It was only fitting.

“Oberyn, what do you think of the king?” Ashara asked, looking back at the young man. He might have been a fearsome sight for any other, with his dark shark eyes of his and perpetual grim expression, but for Ashara he had become a dear and kind friend.

Oberyn chuckled, glancing sidelong at his sister before answering. “The king…” he began slowly, his smile sharpening. “Rhaegar is…what every king ought to be, or so they say. Thoughtful, pious, an excellent harpist. Though I wonder if he is not too grave by half for the likes of our dear Elia.”

Elia’s reaction was swift. “Oberyn!” she shrieked, her voice high, indignant and tinged with embarrassment. Her fingers tightened on Ashara’s hand, seeking comfort or restraint—or perhaps both. “You speak as though we’re gossiping washerwomen! What will the servants think if they hear such talk?”

Ashara stifled a laugh. “Grave is good! The realm needs a king with gravity,” she caught Elia’s eye, her grin widening. “He has a strong, gentle heart. I’m sure of it.”

Elia did not respond, but her grip softened. Oberyn, however, only rolled his eyes as they passed beneath an arch of carved sandstone that made up the entrance to the palace.  As they passed into the shaded halls, the scent of jasmine and citrus blossoms filled Ashara’s nostrils. The air was cooler here, the polished marble floors whispering with each of their steps.

The hallways were wide, lined with tapestries that depicted Dorne’s storied past—Nymeria’s ten thousand ships, the first Martell princes, and the blazing sun-and-spear of their house. Ashara’s fingers brushed the smooth stone of the walls as they ascended a set of stairs, the faint clink of Oberyn’s belt dagger breaking the silence.

They found Princess Loreza on the balcony, reclined among a collection of silk cushions. A book lay open on her lap, though she closed it gently as they approached. Ashara took a long look at Princess Loreza—she had grown much thinner in recent months, though neither Elia nor Oberyn had spoken of it aloud.

“Come,” the princess said, gesturing for them to sit. “The walk from the pools is no small trek in this heat.” She gave them a smile, though it wavered at its edges.

When they had settled themselves, Loreza set the book aside and reached for a letter lying on the low table between them. The seal was broken, the wax a deep crimson. “A raven arrived from King’s Landing,” Loreza said.

Ashara’s breath caught. Surely… surely it cannot be…

“It is from the Hand of the King, Lord Tywin Lannister,” Loreza said, her voice soft but clear. “He has written to express interest in a match between Elia and his eldest son and heir, young Jaime Lannister.”

Ashara’s heart plummeted, the name of a lion when she’d hoped for a dragon’s. She looked over at Elia, whose face remained carefully neutral, her eyes fixed on her mother. A thousand bright hopes had bloomed and withered in Ashara’s chest in mere moments, leaving her hollow.

Oberyn was the first to break the silence. “Mother, you cannot be serious. Tywin Lannister disrespected us at every turn. Do you not remember Casterly Rock? How he refused Elia as a bride for Jaime then? Are we so desperate now that we will go begging to the Rock for scraps?”

“I do not see myself as desperate, Oberyn,” her words carried a sharpness that made Ashara bristle. “Nor do I think it wise to let pride blind us. Jaime Lannister is young, but he is handsome, skilled, and kind. Elia would want for nothing as Lady of Casterly Rock. It is her decision.” Her gaze shifted to Elia, her tone gentling. “What do you think, child? This is not an offer to dismiss lightly.”

Elia hesitated, her slender fingers curling in her lap. “I… He is kind, you say?”

Loreza nodded. “I believe so.”

Before Elia could say more, Ashara found herself speaking. “Forgive me, Princess, for speaking without permission,” she said quickly, her cheeks warming. the words spilling out before she could stop them. “But Jaime Lannister is but a boy. Elia is of an age to marry now. She should not have to wait for years still. Surely King Rhaegar would—”

“Surely what , Lady Dayne?” Princess Loreza’s voice cut through Ashara’s stammering. Her dark eyes swept across the three young faces before her, lingering on each in turn. “Do you think I do not see what sits unspoken between you all? You sit here with your heads full of songs and stories, imagining yourselves as players in some grand romance but the matters of marriages are not playthings.” 

Before anyone could respond, a fit of coughing seized the princess. It was a sound that hollowed the air—a deep, wrenching noise that made Ashara’s heart lurch. Loreza pressed a handkerchief to her lips, Ashara saw the crimson bloom of blood on the white linen.

“Mother!” Oberyn was by his mother’s side in an instant. “Calm yourself,” he urged, his hands hovering as though he was afraid to touch her. Turning to the attendants at the edge of the terrace, he barked, “Water! Now!”

The attendants scrambled, one bringing a silver goblet to the princess. Loreza took it with trembling hands, sipping slowly as her coughs subsided. Ashara could only watch, frozen, as the princess closed her eyes and exhaled, her face drawn but composed once more.

“Enough,” Loreza said hoarsely, waving a hand. “Leave me now. I have enough worries as it is without the three of you adding to them.”

Oberyn hesitated, his jaw tightening, but he stood nonetheless. Ashara followed in silence, her gaze falling to the floor as they departed. The mosaic beneath her feet was a masterpiece of Dornish craftsmanship: a sun blazing across a field of blue, encircled by the coiling shapes of serpents. The tiles were worn smooth by decades of steps, their colors muted in places where time had brushed them with its hand. It felt easier to study the floor than to face the reality of the situation at hand.

When they reached the archway they had entered through, Oberyn stormed off without a word, making for the stables while Ashara and Elia lingered. Ashara’s hand found Elia’s and she squeezed it tightly. “I’m sorry. I spoke out of turn. I shouldn’t have—”

Elia shook her head. “You only said what you thought. And…” Her voice softened, a trace of vulnerability slipping through her calmness. “I do not want to wed the Lannister boy.” She turned to Ashara, her dark eyes filled with something raw and unguarded. “It is King Rhaegar whom I love.”

Ashara didn’t hesitate. She pulled Elia into a tight embrace, her arms wrapping around her friend’s slender frame as if to shield her from the world. “We’ll speak to your mother again,” Ashara murmured, her lips brushing against Elia’s hair. “She will not force you into something you do not wish. Not while I breathe.”

Ashara couldn’t have imagined how soon her words would be tested. That night, as she braided Elia’s hair in her chambers, a knock came at the door. A handmaid entered, bowing low. “Princess Elia, Princess Loreza requests your presence in her chambers.”

Together they walked to Loreza’s chambers, a space dominated by silken tapestries and rich colors. The princess sat on a high-backed armchair, and nodded faintly as the two girls came through the door.

“I would like to speak with you alone, Elia,” she said, her tone gentle but firm. Her eyes flicked to Ashara. “Without your lady.”

Elia took a shaky breath and squared her shoulders, Ashara could see the quiet determination in her stance. “Ashara stays.”

For a moment, Loreza regarded her with a long, appraising look, then let out a dry chuckle, pinching the bridge of her nose. “So, you’ve found your rebellious streak at last,” she murmured. “Very well. Lady Ashara may stay. I have penned a response to the Hand of the King.” Loreza shifted, reaching for a letter on a nearby table. “I thanked him for his offer but refused the match.”

Ashara’s heart soared and she could barely stifle a squeal of delight. Beside her, Elia let out a breath. “Thank you, Mother,” she began, but Loreza raised a hand.

“I have also penned another letter,” the princess continued. “To my dear friend, Queen Mother Rhaella. I asked if she has need of two more ladies-in-waiting at court.”

The words sent a thrill through Ashara’s chest, and she turned to Elia, who looked as though she might cry from happiness. The Dragon was not out of reach after all.

Chapter Text

Rhaegar’s cheek throbbed where his father’s hand had struck him, the sting blooming hot, and wetness oozed between his small fingers. He was shaking, gasping little breaths, hiccuping between sobs he tried to quiet. But they slipped out, thin and frightened, making his father’s shadow seem even bigger, darker. The king was yelling, throwing books to the floor— crash, crash, one after another. The thick, heavy tomes his mother had given him, the ones with soft leather covers and golden edges, the ones he kept so carefully, like little treasures.

“You did this!” His father threw another book to the floor, and it landed with a heavy thud, splayed open like a crushed bird. “You’ve cursed her! You’re her punishment, a blight on her womb, a greedy, selfish curse!” The words didn’t make sense, not really. Rhaegar didn’t know what they meant, but he knew they were bad things, wrong things. Cursed her, his father had said, as if he would ever hurt his mother. The thought made his chest hurt, made his breaths go quick and shallow. Why would he ever want to hurt her? Mother was kind, soft like the sound of water trickling, always smelling of lilac and white roses. Rhaegar had only wanted a little brother, or maybe a sister—a small person who might fill the empty rooms, someone to sit beside him as he played the harp. Why would he ever want her to…to lose…?

A vase flew across the room, and he ducked as it hit the wall behind him and shattered into a hundred pieces beside his bed. The king was little more than a beast now, looming by the shelves, hands clawing at anything his fingers touched. And Rhaegar didn’t dare move, didn’t dare speak, couldn’t even bring himself to touch his cheek again where the gash still burned hot.

“Wicked boy. I know what you want,” his father snarled, turning back to him, eyes blazing. “You want to be the only one! Only you, only you!” He was coming closer now, closer, his hand lifting, reaching out again.

Rhaegar squeezed his eyes shut. Just make it stop, he thought. Just let it end. He conjured the image of his mother, the way she would touch his hair so gently and hum soft songs from far-off days. She would never think such things about him. She would never believe he’d done anything to make her suffer. Not him. Not her boy.

The blow came, sharp against his ear, and Rhaegar cried out, curling in on himself. Everything was cold now, and he was shivering, his small body trembling with the effort of staying quiet. His room lay in shambles around him—his books scattered, his toys in pieces, like they were nothing, like they didn’t matter. He kept his eyes shut, waiting, hoping his father would leave, hoping he would be small enough, still enough to disappear.

But then… then he opened his eyes.

The room was dark, quiet. No books thrown, no broken toys or bleeding cheek. He was in his bed, his own wide, silken bed, not the small bed he’d had as a child. The walls weren’t the pale ones from his youth but red, familiar. He reached a hand to his face, half-expecting to find blood there, to feel the sting of the wound. But his cheek was dry, smooth.

A dream. It was a dream. His chest felt hollow, empty of breath, but he sucked in the cool air slowly, letting it fill him up. His heart was still beating hard, as quick as a sparrow’s wing. He could hear it thudding in the silence. His bedclothes were damp with sweat, cold and sticky, clinging to his skin uncomfortably.

He is dead, he reminded himself, forcing the words into his mind, forcing himself to breathe. He cannot hurt you anymore. And yet the echo of his father’s voice lingered, a ghost he could not banish, not even now. He lay there in the dark, staring up into the shadows, waiting for the morning to come.

By the time the sun’s first light crept into the chamber, Rhaegar was already up and moving about. The dream still sat heavy in his chest, but the dawn had come, and with it the duties of the day. His attendants dressed him slowly, smoothing out each fold of his robes, meanwhile Rhaegar tried to press down the lingering tremors in his hands. Today, Tywin had called for a council meeting not until later in the afternoon, which left Rhaegar some blessed hours before his presence was demanded. He knew exactly how he wished to spend them.

He entered the nursery, pausing at the door to take in the scene: Viserys sat in a bright square of sunlight, gnawing on the small wooden dragon Rhaegar had brought him as a gift. The boy was a few months away from his second nameday, all light curls and wide, curious eyes.

The boy’s nursemaid, caught by surprise, hurried to her feet and curtsied deeply, flustered by the king’s presence. “Your Grace,” she murmured, a bit breathless, her eyes cast down.

Rhaegar smiled softly, gesturing for her to rise. “At ease, I’ve no need of formalities this early. You’re doing fine work with him—thank you.” His eyes returned to Viserys. “Might I take my brother for a walk in the godswood?”

The nursemaid beamed, clearly proud, and curtsied once more. “Of course, Your Grace. He loves the outdoors.”

Outside, the air was crisp and fresh, the morning light soft over the godswood, casting a gentle warmth over the trees and the neatly tended paths. Rhaegar held Viserys close, feeling the small weight of him, the way his tiny fingers clung to the fabric of Rhaegar’s doublet. Seventeen years separated them—a lifetime. He had been nearly a man grown when Viserys was born, but the boy had claimed his heart all the same. In so many ways, Viserys felt like his own, though it was a painful thought, too—Rhaegar knew the love of a father only in fragments, memories of harsh words and harsher hands.

He made his way to a quiet patch of grass, laying Viserys down beside him. The boy babbled happily, fingers reaching up to swipe at the passing shadows cast by the wings of bees hovering over the nearby flowers. Rhaegar watched him with a smile, allowing himself to be swept into his brother’s small world, where there was nothing more than sunlight, the hum of bees, and the bright colors of the plantlife.

“Dra… draggon,” Viserys murmured, holding up the wooden toy in his small hand, his wide eyes fixated on Rhaegar. He had been saying the word more often lately, fascinated by the stories he heard at bedtime, the tales that belonged to him, to his blood.

“Yes, a dragon,” Rhaegar answered, reaching over to smooth a lock of hair from Viserys’s forehead. “You’ll learn all about them one day. They’re a part of you, little brother.”

Viserys’s attention then went to a patch of flowers, where a few butterflies had gathered, clapping his hands with joy. Perhaps it’s for the best, he thought, tracing his fingers over the wooden dragon. Perhaps he’ll be better off never knowing our father. Viserys would never feel the sting of those words, the weight of those hands, nor would he carry the shadows of the past. Rhaegar would ensure that.

A soft voice pulled him from his thoughts. “Ray?” called Viserys.

“Yes, little one?”

Viserys gave a toothy smile and pointed at Rhaegar. “Father!”

The word startled Rhaegar, and he swallowed, feeling a pang deep in his chest. He did not know who had taught Viserys to say it, but the meaning behind it weighed on him. “No, Viserys. Brother. I’m your brother. ”

Viserys stared at him with those wide eyes, thoughtful for a moment before attempting, “Bruh-der.” The word was mangled, but Rhaegar chuckled, clapping his hands.

“Yes, brother, ” he said, “but I’ll look after you as if I were your father, I swear it.”

Viserys squirmed closer, laying his head against Rhaegar’s shoulder, his eyes drooping, and Rhaegar lay back as well, watching the sky. His thoughts drifted to his father again, he remembered the joy he had shown when Viserys was born. He wondered if he would feel proud now, if he could see his boys lying here beneath the open sky. Something told him he wouldn’t.

Viserys stirred, a wordless murmur escaping his lips, and Rhaegar turned his head, stroking his brother’s hair as he settled once more. Rhaegar did not know how long the two brothers lay there, only the birds and the bees as their company. He felt content, happy even, with the child’s small breaths warm against his neck. But this peace was not to last.

A shadow fell across him, and he opened his eyes to find Lord Staunton standing over him. The man was already dabbing at his brow with a lace-edged handkerchief, his face flushed and glistening. “Your Grace. Forgive the intrusion. I saw you were unoccupied and thought to seize the moment.” The man straightened and attempted a smile, though it came off as more of a grimace. “A rare opportunity to converse with the crown, so to speak.”

“Lord Staunton. What brings you here at this hour?”

Staunton launched into a small talk about the state of the weather and the beauty of the roses, though his words were as lifeless as a vase of wilted flowers. His true purpose lingered just beneath the surface, and Rhaegar could see the nervous flutter of his fingers as they toyed with the hem of his sleeve. Eventually, the man cleared his throat. “Your Grace, I…well, I trust you’ve received the letters regarding my daughter. A delicate matter, of course.”

He had indeed received them—one penned by the Master of Laws himself and a second, lighter in tone but no less ambitious, from Lady Flyta Staunton. A maiden of six and ten, Lady Flyta was described in such glowing terms that Rhaegar had half-expected her virtues to leap from the page and serenade him. She was “chaste as a summer’s dawn” and “delicate as a snowdrop,” with “eyes that shone like fresh honey.” A talent for embroidery had been mentioned no less than thrice, and, of course, she played the harp. Naturally, she played the harp. Rhaegar imagined a girl somewhere in the Crownlands diligently plucking out sour notes, fingers fumbling over strings as her tutor coached her to claim this kinship with the king.

The girl was probably sweet, her words polite and earnest. In her letter, Lady Flyta had offered him a poem—rhyme-heavy, brimming with ardor and metaphors. She had compared his hair to the light of the moon and his eyes to violets kissed by rain. Rhaegar appreciated poetry, but the piece had left him struggling between amusement and embarrassment.

The question of marriage was not new. For years, the whispers had been there, growing much louder after his coronation. A king must have heirs; a king must secure alliances. Every lord seemed to have a daughter of extraordinary virtue, beauty, and talent, and every one of them was certain that their girl would make a perfect queen. He imagined himself as a dragon atop a pile of eligible maidens, sifting through their virtues like a hoard of gold.

His mind returned to the conversation at hand, where the master of laws was going on about his daughter. “Flyta is a devoted young woman. She has studied the histories and is familiar with the customs of the realm. She possesses a temperament most agreeable for—”

“I’m certain Lady Flyta is as magnificent as your letters describe,” said Rhaegar as he rose to his feet, Viserys fussing softly at the disturbance, his tiny hands grasping at Rhaegar’s collar. “But I fear I cannot do justice to the topic of Lady Flyta’s merits today. I have other matters that demand my attention.”

Staunton blinked, momentarily at a loss, before hastily bowing. “Of course, Your Grace. I meant no imposition.”

“None taken. I look forward to talking to you on another occasion, my lord.” The words, though polite, were a clear dismissal. Rhaegar inclined his head briefly to Lord Staunton before turning away, cradling Viserys closer as he made his way back inside the halls again, towards the nursery. The boy, clearly displeased with being jostled, let out a few grumbling murmurs, his scrunched face pressing into Rhaegar’s chest, protesting the interruption of his nap.

“It’s all right,” Rhaegar murmured, his voice soft. “Just a little longer.”

Viserys settled, lulled by the rhythm of his brother’s steps. The boy was lonely and Rhaegar could not ignore it, no matter how much he wished to. Their father had been too quick to see enemies where there were none, too ready to lock Viserys away like some fragile relic rather than let him live as a boy should. It had gotten better, he reminded himself. Viserys had more freedom. He could run down the halls without a shout pulling him back, could play wherever he saw fit, feel the sunlight on his face, and smell the flowers without Aerys’s fears poisoning every moment. And yet, the boy spent his days only with his nursemaids as company. Rhaella… she kept a distance from Viserys. Perhaps it was grief, perhaps exhaustion, but she rarely lingered in the nursery. Rhaegar saw the soft lines of sadness in her face when she passed Viserys, the way her hands fidgeted when his laughter rang through the halls. She loved him, Rhaegar was sure of it—but she seemed haunted, weighed down by something unseen.

He, too, had so little time. Between the small council, the affairs of the realm, and the ever-growing expectations placed upon him, his moments with Viserys were fleeting, snatched in corners of the day like this one. Too fleeting, he thought. His mother had lamented it often—the stillness of the Red Keep, the way life seemed to drain from its walls. These halls feel like a tomb, she had said once, cradling her swollen belly when Rhaegar was but a little boy. She hadn’t been pregnant with Viserys then,he had come later, much later. No, that pregnancy belonged to one of the many brothers and sisters that had left the world before Rhaegar had even gotten the opportunity to meet them. How is a child supposed to grow here? To thrive? Rhaegar had no answer then, and he had none now. She was right. The Keep was grand, but it was hollow.

He thought again of the dream. A young man with silver hair standing in a great hall, his features agitated, the madness in his eyes unsettlingly familiar. Rhaegar had known, with the strange certainty that only dreams could bring, that this was Viserys. His little brother, grown and fierce, all the softness from childhood gone. In the dream, Viserys’s sword was drawn, the blade shimmering as though coated with oil. He had been shouting, but the words were unclear, distorted by the echoes of the vast chamber. Behind him stood a figure, broad and dark, with a presence that commanded the room. This man—this looming giant—held a crown in his hands,  a crude, heavy, golden thing. He placed it upon Viserys’s head and the moment it touched him, Viserys screamed.

It was a cry that tore through Rhaegar’s heart, raw and agonized. His brother’s face twisted, his body convulsing as though the crown burned him, searing his very flesh. Rhaegar had wanted to run to him, to rip the crown from his head, to pull him away from whatever torment had been inflicted upon him. But he couldn’t move. He had stood there, frozen, helpless, watching as Viserys collapsed to his knees, his screams echoing into nothingness. He hadn’t dreamed of it since his father’s death, but its shadow still lingered, etched into his memory. He had no answers for its meaning—if it had meaning at all—but it unsettled him deeply.

The nursery door creaked softly as Rhaegar pushed it open. The nursemaid, who had been arranging the toys on a low shelf, turned and quickly curtsied. “Your Grace.”

“He fell asleep. Will you see him tucked in?”

“Of course, Your Grace.” She stepped forward and gently took Viserys from his arms. The boy murmured sleepily, his cheek pressing against her shoulder as she carried him to the crib that awaited him. Rhaegar stayed by the door, watching as she laid Viserys down and smoothed a light blanket over his tiny body. The boy murmured in his sleep, shifting slightly, his tiny fists curling into the fabric of the blanket.

The nursemaid stepped back, handing Viserys a plush toy before turning to Rhaegar. “Will there be anything else, Your Grace?”

“No,” Rhaegar said, his voice low. “Thank you.” He stayed a moment longer, his eyes on Viserys, then turned and closed the door softly behind him. 

He stood in the hallway now, leaning his back against the cool stone wall. The day was still young, with sunlight streaming through the high windows, but already he felt weary. He needed to get away, to breathe air untainted by memories and expectations.

Perhaps he would take his harp or his bow. Perhaps he would find a quiet corner of the Kingswood where no one would call him Your Grace or remind him of the duties he had yet to fulfill.

Yes, he needed to get away, even if just for a little while.

“Gods Jon, have you seen the girl?” Rhaegar loosed another arrow, watching as it flew wide, slicing through air and landing far from its target. He lowered his bow with a low, frustrated sigh.

A soft snort echoed behind him, and Rhaegar’s jaw tightened. Jon was standing there, clad in his usual white and red, a grin twisting his mouth. He reached down, grabbed another arrow from the quiver, and nocked it, muttering under his breath. “A child, Jon. A child. She can barely reach my chest, and already her father has visions of his grandchildren on the Iron Throne.” He tried to steady his breathing, but the thought of Tywin made his fingers shake just slightly. The arrow went wide again.

“Well, the Lannisters are known for their aspirations, are they not?” said Jon as he went to collect the arrows from Rhaegar’s many unsuccessful attempts. Archery had always been something that calmed Rhaegar, now it served to only infuriate him further.

Despite himself, Rhaegar huffed. “As long as the crown rests on his bloodline, Tywin would marry me to a babe in swaddling clothes.” He shook his head, taking another arrow, forcing himself to breathe, to focus. “And then there’s Lord Staunton, writing letters about his own daughter—a girl I haven’t even seen, Jon.”

The arrow struck the target this time, but off-center. He let the bow fall to the grass, it suddenly felt as heavy as lead in his hands. Frustration coiled in his stomach, but he did not curse. It wasn’t in his nature. Instead, he lowered himself to the ground, lying back in the cool embrace of the Kingswood’s greenery. Jon followed without a word, sitting cross-legged beside him. After a moment, he sighed. “What do you want, Rhaegar?”

It should’ve been a simple question, but Rhaegar found himself at loss. The sky above seemed almost too bright, mocking him in its brilliance. What do I want? He’d been asked that before, but had he ever given a true answer? Could he?

Perhaps… perhaps he wanted his match. A quiet woman that shared the simple joy he found in his harp, that would read with him on rainy afternoons. Or maybe he longed for her opposite—a wild woman with a toothy grin and laughter like thunder. Someone larger than life, with an inner fire that could melt his ice.

But those were fanciful thoughts, and they did not come easily to his lips. After a long silence, he said instead, “My mother believes my best match isn’t here in Westeros. She thinks my future bride lies across the Narrow Sea, a daughter of Old Valyria. My father sent men to search before his death—though none returned with brides, only with whispers. Tyrosh. Volantis. Lys.”

Jon shifted beside him, plucking at a blade of grass. His teeth caught his lower lip. “And is that what you wish? A girl with dragon’s blood?”

Rhaegar closed his eyes for a moment, the sun painting the world red behind his lids. “I suppose it must be so. A dragon weds a dragon. It’s the way of our house—a tale as old as time.”

Jon nodded slowly, twisting the blade of grass between his fingers until it frayed. “Then I’ll go.”

Rhaegar turned his head to look at him, startled. “Go where?”

“To Essos,” Jon replied simply. “I’ll find her for you, your dragon bride. Someone who suits you better than Lannister’s schemes or Staunton’s scribbles.”

Rhaegar studied him, the corners of his mouth twitching upward despite himself. Jon’s earnestness and loyalty were infuriating at times. “And what makes you think you’d succeed where my father’s men have failed?”

Jon shrugged, flashing a crooked smile. “Well, I’m prettier than most of them, for one. That counts for something in Lys, I hear.”

“Gods, Jon,” Rhaegar laughed, “you sound like a knight from one of those songs. A quest for the king’s bride?”

“I’ve always held a great love for songs.” Jon grinned at first, but his gaze turned serious as he leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “In truth, though, if this is what you need, I’ll do it. Whatever it takes.”

The birdsong drifted around them, lilting chirps and warbling trills weaving through the air. He liked to listen to their singing, but he could never make sense of them, as much as he could not make sense of the world around him. Life often spoke in riddles.

Jon, however, was simpler. He was solid and steady, the way a mountain endures the wind.  A part of Rhaegar envied him—Jon’s clarity, his straightforwardness. Loyalty and truth radiated from him like sunlight. Rhaegar turned his head to regard his friend, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “If you are to be a knight from song,” he said quietly, “then you ought to be a knight in earnest.”

“What are you talking about?” Jon asked. 

Rhaegar stood, brushing stray blades of grass from his tunic. The sun was behind him now, casting a long shadow over his friend. “Do you have your sword with you?”

“I... yes,” Jon said slowly, gesturing toward the base of a wide oak where his scabbard lay propped against the trunk. “Why?”

“Fetch it.”

Jon hesitated for only a moment before rising to retrieve the blade. The blade was steel, polished to a mirror shine, with a crossguard shaped like a pair of wings in flight. It was a knight’s sword, well cared for but bearing the faint nicks and scars of use.

Jon turned back to him, holding the blade. “What are you planning?”

“Kneel,” Rhaegar said, his voice quiet but firm.

Jon eyed him with increasing realization before sinking to one knee, his head bowed. The wind rustled the leaves above them, and the birdsong seemed to quiet. Rhaegar took the sword from his friend’s hands, testing its weight briefly before stepping forward.

“Jon of House Connington,” Rhaegar began placing the flat of the blade against Jon’s right shoulder. “In the name of the Warrior, I charge you to be brave.” He moved the blade gently to Jon’s left shoulder, repeating the movement with each of the seven faces. “In the name of the Father, I charge you to be just. In the name of the Mother, I charge you to defend the young and the innocent. In the name of the Maiden, I charge you to protect all women. In the name of the Smith, I charge you to create and to repair. In the name of the Crone, I charge you to share wisdom. And in the name of the Stranger, I charge you to face death with courage.”

Rhaegar lowered the sword and stepped back. “Rise, Ser Jon of House Connington. A knight of the Seven Kingdoms.”

Jon looked up at him, his blue-gray eyes wide. For a moment, he seemed at a loss for words, but then he took Rhaegar’s hand and rose to his feet. “You didn’t have to do this,” he murmured.

“No,” Rhaegar said, a faint smile playing on his lips. “But I wanted to. You have proven to be a loyal and just man, as well as one of my dearest friends. Now the world will know it too.”

Jon stared at him, his grip still firm on Rhaegar’s hand. Then, slowly, a grin broke across his face. “A knight, then. Gods help me.”

The birds resumed their song and for a brief, glorious moment Rhaegar felt as though he understood its meaning.

Chapter Text

When Ashara had first imagined herself in service to the queen mother, she had pictured a life resplendent with courtly glamor: music and merriment, silks and sapphires, and the sweet hum of intrigue carried on perfumed air. Yet, she had come to learn that life as one of Queen Rhaella’s ladies was often far removed from such dreams. The queen mother was a melancholic figure, unhappy and often found sleeping. Near nine months had passed since King Aerys’s passing, yet Queen Rhaella remained veiled in black.

The queen’s solar smelled faintly of cedarwood and lavender, a heady warmth radiating from the steaming tub in its center. Ashara poured a stream of rose oil into it, watching the pale gold liquid swirl and vanish in curling ribbons. She tested the water with a fingertip and flinched at the heat. It was scalding, far too hot for her taste, but she preferred it that way, a bath that seemed to burn as much as it cleansed.

The queen mother stood nearby, silent and still as Elia and Lady Annora Chelsted worked deftly to unlace her black gown. Annora was a buxom woman with a freckled face and a sharp tongue, good-sister to the master of coin, though the queen seemed to appreciate her more for her cleverness than her kin.

Ashara gathered the empty vial and turned away, feeling a flush rise to her cheeks as the queen stood nude. Though she was there to serve, it did not feel her place to look upon her so exposed. Instead, she busied herself arranging other vials on a nearby shelf. Behind her, she heard Elia’s gentle murmur as she steadied the queen by the elbow, guiding her toward the tub. Lady Annora, ever jovial, added a remark about the water being “fit for a dragon,” earning a faint chuckle from the queen.

Two other ladies entered the chamber, carrying candles and linens. Lady Yael of House Bar Emmon strode with her deep blue gown clinging to her willowy frame. Ashara thought her to be particularly beautiful, though sometimes she could be somewhat arrogant. Lady Ashwyn, by contrast, was shorter and plainer, her red-gold hair tied neatly in a braid, with a crooked smile and mismatched eyes—one blue, the other brown. Ashwyn was a daughter of House Musgood, a house so small Ashara had never heard of it, but the noblewoman had married well, joining her life to Lord Edward Dondarrion of Blackhaven. She had borne him a son, young Beric, just days before Queen Rhaella had given birth to Prince Viserys. That shared experience had forged a bond between the two women, and it was plain to see that the queen mother favored Ashwyn above the others.

The steaming water rippled as the queen sank slowly into the bath, her breath releasing in a low sigh that was half relief, half weariness. Her pale shoulders were framed by silver hair that fell in damp waves. “How is Beric?” Rhaella asked, breaking the silence of the solar. 

Ashwyn’s crooked smile widened. “Lively, Your Grace. My lord husband keeps me well informed through letters. The boy has taken to chasing after the hounds lately, though I’m told it’s the hounds that chase him more often than not.”

A flicker of warmth touched the queen’s lips, a rare smile. “A boy after his father’s heart, it seems. He should come to King’s Landing. Viserys would love a companion of his age.”

Ashwyn bowed her head. “If it pleases Your Grace, I will write to Lord Edward. I’m certain he would be glad to send Beric.”

“Good,” Rhaella said simply, sinking deeper into the water until her chin brushed the surface. “Viserys has too few friends here.”

Lady Yael was the next to speak, a sly grin on her face as she leaned against a carved chair. “Speaking of companions, have you heard? Lady Rhonda Rowan is said to have caught the eye of Ser Baelor Hightower. They were seen walking the gardens together at Highgarden during the harvest feast.”

Ashara perked up immediately. “Oh, truly? I thought Lady Rhonda was destined to wed one of the Fossoways. Red or green, I forget which.”

“Green,” Annora Chelsted chimed in, the freckles on her face seemed to dance with her smile. “But the Greens are poorer than they let on. Ser Baelor would be a better match. Can you imagine what treasures lie within the Hightower?”

Joining the queen’s ladies had thrust Ashara into a world of older, more experienced women. She was the youngest by several years, having celebrated her sixteenth nameday on the journey to King’s Landing, but Ashara had always been chatty and quick to adapt, even if some of their conversations veered into territory she found unfamiliar. Meanwhile Elia would mostly listen while the ladies gossipped. Even now she just watched them, her hands folded neatly in her lap. If Elia was to make an impression in the capital, she would have to get out of her shell eventually and Ashara decided to help her. 

“Princess Elia,” Ashara said warmly, nudging her with a conspiratorial smile. “Didn’t you travel to Oldtown years ago? You have met Ser Baelor Hightower, have you not?”

Elia looked down at her hands and Ashara felt a quick pang of concern, already fearing her friend might falter under the attention. But then, thank the gods, Elia’s lips curved into a faint smile, and she spoke in her usual soft, measured tone. “My brother Oberyn and I traveled to Oldtown when I was scarcely more than a girl. My mother had some business in the Reach and Westerlands, and we went along, as we often did in those days, eager to see the world beyond Sunspear. Ser Baelor was kind, always proper. He showed us the library at the Citadel, the view from the top of the Hightower, and the gardens at the Starry Sept. But for all his gallantry, I found it impossible to take him seriously after one particular evening.”

She paused, the corners of her mouth twitching as if she were suppressing a laugh. Of course Ashara knew the story by heart now, but she bit her lip to keep from smiling too broadly.

“Oberyn and I were seated at dinner with the Hightowers. The meal was lavish, course after course of the finest dishes Oldtown could offer. I think Ser Baelor was trying to impress us. But as he leaned forward to offer me a serving of honeyed almonds, he, well,” Elia paused for effect, glancing around the gathered. “He let out a most unfortunate sound—a great, unrepentant fart.”

The chamber erupted into laughter, even Queen Rhaella covered her mouth as her shoulders shook. Ashara laughed the loudest, tears pricking her eyes.

“Oberyn,” continued Elia, “looked him dead in the eye and said, ‘Well, Baelor, it seems you’ve earned a new name tonight: Baelor Breakwind.’”

The laughter grew, and Lady Annora slapped her knee. “Oh, I must remember that the next time I see the good ser! Baelor Breakwind, indeed!”

“Your brother has a gift for nicknames,” Lady Ashwyn added as she dabbed at the corners of her eyes. “Perhaps he should compose them for all the Seven Kingdoms.”

Ashara grinned at Elia. “Could you ever look at him the same way after that?”

“Not once. Every time he spoke of duty or honor, all I could think of was Oberyn’s nickname. He knew it too, though he bore it with quiet dignity.”

The ladies dissolved into laughter again, though it soon ebbed as the queen’s expression grew somber. “My son worries me,” said Rhaella.

Lady Yael tilted her head, curious. “Prince Viserys? What troubles you about him, Your Grace?”

Rhaella shook her head slowly, the water rippling around her. “Not Viserys. It is Rhaegar who weighs on my heart.”

Ashwyn’s crooked smile faded. “The king?”

Rhaella’s hands rested on the edge of the tub, her fingers tightening around the polished stone. “He does not wish to marry. We fight over it, day after day. He insists that Viserys is all the heir he needs for now, but that is not right.” Her voice wavered and she closed her eyes briefly, as if summoning strength. “I was a wife at his age, near six years married.”

Ashara stole a glance at Elia, whose face was carefully composed, though her hands fidgeted in her lap. Ashara knew what her friend was thinking. If Rhaegar did not want to wed, what hope was there for Elia to catch his eye?

Lady Annora, ever direct, ventured, “Perhaps he has someone in mind, Your Grace? A match of his own choosing?”

“If he does, he will not speak of it.” The queen’s lips pressed into a thin line. “His father had plans. He spoke of Volantis, Lys, even a Blackfyre girl, imagine that! A Blackfyre in the Red Keep! His plans never came to fruition, of course. And… I saw how he looked at me, how he judged me, as though my womb alone bore the weight of his every failure.” She sobbed suddenly, a ragged, heart-wrenching sound. “My Rhaegar... my poor boy…”

Ashwyn rose and took a tentative step toward the tub. “Your Grace,” she said softly, reaching out to console her.

“Stay away!” Rhaella snapped, her glare froze Ashwyn in place, and the woman stepped back, her face falling into something stricken and uncertain. The queen’s shoulders trembled as she spoke again, staring into the water. “I regret… I failed him. I failed Rhaegar. I was supposed to give him a sister to wed. A proper match. A Targaryen king without a sister-wife is a travesty! I wept when Viserys was born… I must’ve been the only mother to have grieved the birth of a healthy son over a daughter. It was my one duty, and I failed. I have doomed him. Doomed our house.”

Targaryen customs… it was one thing to hear of them in the abstract, but here, to see the queen mother lamenting the absence of a daughter to wed to her son… it felt too real.  She imagined herself and Arthur, her steadfast, honorable brother, standing in a sept together as man and wife. The thought turned her stomach, and she fought the urge to retch.

The other ladies exchanged hesitant glances, none dared speak—even Lady Annora, so often quick with a jest or barb, seemed cowed. Ashara suddenly wished to be as far away from the queen’s apartments as possible.

To her surprise, it was Elia who broke the silence. She rose gracefully from her chair and moved to the queen’s side, settling on the edge of the tub. Her friend reached out, placing a delicate hand on the queen’s trembling shoulder. “Your Grace,” Elia began, “you have not failed.”

The queen turned her head slightly, her face was streaked with tears and her brows furrowed.

“A proper Targaryen king does not need a sister-wife to rule wisely or well. Daeron the Good had a happy, prosperous reign. His marriage to Queen Myriah of Dorne brought peace to the realm and secured the loyalty of the seventh kingdom. He was no less a king for taking a wife outside his bloodline. His Grace is your son. Your blood. He has the strength and wisdom of House Targaryen, and I am certain he will prove as great a king as Daeron was—if not greater.”

The queen stared at Elia for a long, quiet moment, her lips parted slightly as though she might speak. Then her head dipped forward, and her tears fell silently into the steaming water. “You are kind, Princess Elia,” said Rhaella at last, her voice hoarse and low. “Kind and romantic, like my son. You see the world not as it is, but as you wish it to be. That is your weakness, dear. Daeron the Good, he was the exception, not the rule. For every story like Daeron’s, there are a dozen like Daemon Blackfyre or Maegor the Cruel. This is not a story from the songs, child. Life is no knight in shining armor come to sweep you away from care to a far-off tower of roses and dreams. No. Life is a struggle—a fight for a knife in the mud, a series of betrayals and sorrows that never ends.”

Elia’s cheeks flushed and to Ashara’s surprise, she spoke yet again. “Dreams are no weakness, Your Grace,” she said softly. “Nor is hope.”

To that Rhaella sighed deeply and rose from the bath, water cascading down her thin, pale frame. Lady Ashwyn stepped forward quickly, wrapping the queen in a heavy robe. “Enough,” she said, her voice suddenly weary. “I grow tired of these conversations—and these thoughts. Leave me, all but Lady Ashwyn. I have no need for so many hands tonight. Go, spend the evening as you will.”

The ladies exchanged quick curtsies and murmured their farewells, filing out one by one. Elia was the last to follow, her head bowed low. Ashara caught her gaze as they stepped into the corridor, her cheeks still flushed with embarrassment. Once the heavy door to the queen’s chambers shut behind them, the silence in the corridor was broken by Lady Yael. Her hand came to rest lightly on Elia’s shoulder, her smile warm. “Pay her no mind, Princess. I, for one, enjoyed your tale of Daeron. And you’re right—the king has no need for a sister to wed. He’ll make his own way, as all men must.”

Lady Annora snorted. “Besides, we should thank the gods that the king remains an eligible bachelor. I, for one, find him quite comely.” she said with a smirk, “I’d not mind losing the fight for the knife so long as my loss came with him in the bargain. What a gift he’d make of a husband.”

Her jest brought a ripple of laughter, even from Elia, though her cheeks turned a shade redder. Ashara laughed too, stepping closer to wrap her arms around her friend. “You spoke well.” said Ashara. “You were brave.”

Elia shook her head, a small, grateful smile gracing her lips. “Thank you,” she murmured. “All of you.”

Lady Yael stretched her arms languidly. “I think I shall retire to my chambers. All this talk of mud and knives has made me long for my bed.”

“As will I,” said Annora, brushing a lock of auburn hair from her face. “Good night, ladies.”

Ashara turned to Elia, catching her arm gently. “Shall we walk the godswood? The air will do us good.”

“Yes. I think I would like that.”

Together, the two girls walked down the quiet corridors, their footsteps soft against the stone. The air was cooler outside and the world seemed quiet. Above them, the sky was clear, stars scattered like shards of crystal against the deep black. Soon they reached the gateway to the walled godswood, where Ashara led the way to a bench beneath a tall elm tree, its thin branches twisting against the dark sky. She sat and patted the space beside her, waiting until Elia joined her. “You’ve grown, you know,” she said. “The Elia I met in Sunspear years ago would never have spoken to the queen like that.”

Elia shook her head, staring down at her lap. “I do not know if it was bravery or foolishness. She is right about me, in a way. I do have my head in the clouds.”

Ashara chuckled, tucking her legs beneath her on the bench and leaning closer to Elia. The scent of the godswood was rich and earthy, tinged with the faint sweetness of distant flowers. “What’s wrong with having your head in the clouds? Clouds are soft, and the view is better from above. Down here, all you get is dirt and dust.”

“And dragons in the sky, I suppose?” murmured Elia.

“Exactly! Dragons, stars, dreams—much more interesting than the dirt.”

Elia sighed, her gaze shifting upward to the scattered constellations. “Do you think she truly believes what she said? About life being a struggle, a knife in the mud?”

Ashara considered before speaking. “I think she has seen more of that kind of life than we have. She has lost much. Children, her husband, Summerhall… I cannot begin to imagine. It is hard to blame her for the way she thinks.”

“It’s a sad way to see the world.”

“Sad, but not untrue,” admitted Ashara, though she smiled a little. “Still, if hope is weakness, then call me weak. I’d rather dream of a tower made out of roses and a knight to spirit me away than sit waiting for the turn for the knife.”

“You would, wouldn’t you? You always did prefer the tales with happy endings.”

“And you don’t?”

Elia did not answer, instead she seemed wholly lost in the endless expanse of stars above them. After a long moment she spoke again. “I wonder if King Rhaegar dreams of knights on horseback. Or if he only sees mud and knives, as his mother does.”

Ashara tilted her head, studying her friend’s profile in the moonlight. Elia’s expression was wistful. “If he does dream, he keeps it locked away,” Ashara said. “He’s a mystery, your Rhaegar. Somber as the Stormlands and just as brooding.”

Elia flushed, shaking her head. “He is not mine.”

Ashara grinned. “Not yet.”

“Ashara!” Elia’s blush deepened, her hands flying to cover her face. “You should not say such things.”

“And why shouldn’t you want him to be yours? He’s tall and handsome, a fine poet and an even finer harpist. Honestly, if he weren’t the king, I might chase him myself.”

Elia giggled despite herself, lowering her hands. “You are terrible.”

“I am truthful. If you ask me, the queen mother is blind not to see what a match you’d make.”

“I doubt he feels the same. He has barely said two sentences to me since we’ve returned to court.”

“He is the king,” said Ashara with a shrug. “He might be busy, perhaps he’s shy. Or he’s just waiting for the right moment. Men can be slow like that.”

“Do you ever think about it?” Elia asked softly. “What your future might look like? What you hope for?”

Ashara hesitated, surprised by the depth of the question. She realized she had never really thought about it. “Not really,” she said at last. “I think I just want a life where I can be free to choose. A husband who doesn’t see me as a duty or a prize. Children to love. And peace. Gods, peace would be enough.”

Elia nodded. “I think I want the same. A life where I can be happy.”

Ashara reached out, taking Elia’s hand in hers. “You’ll find it,” she said firmly. “If anyone deserves it, it’s you.”

“And you, Ashara. You deserve all the happiness in the world.” Elia smiled, squeezing her hand gently.

Chapter Text

Dawn had just begun streaking pale pink across the sky over King’s Landing when Jaime stood in the narrow bedchamber he called his own, clutching the leather straps of his small sword belt and biting his lip. He looked around frantically. His mail shirt hung over a chair, hastily polished to a dull shine, but where was the whetstone? And the rag?

“Jaime,” his father's voice called from the doorway, as cool as ever. Tywin Lannister's golden locks were brushed and bound, his crimson doublet without so much as a wrinkle. “Be respectful. Dedicated. Speak only when spoken to. Do not shame House Lannister.”

“I won't, Father,” promised Jaime, his mind more on where he had left his cloak than on his father’s words.

“You will treat Ser Arthur with the respect due his station, follow his orders to the letter, and learn. As for your sister—"

Jaime brightened. "Cersei will be proud of me. She said so—"

“You will speak of her only in terms that reflect her dignity,” Tywin cut him off. “She is your elder by a matter of moments, and she is to be queen. Remember that.”

Jaime nodded, the thought of her being queen one day was a strange one. Somehow he couldn’t imagine her and the king together. In his mind, he only ever pictured her back in Casterly Rock, golden curls catching the sunlight, her green eyes lighting up as he recounted his first day as a squire. Surely Cersei would admire him now. Surely she would stop teasing him about being small, stop saying he was more kitten than lion.

Tywin departed, leaving behind an empty space that seemed to fill the room. Jaime grabbed his things: the mail shirt, his sword, the scabbard he’d oiled the night before. He was sure he had everything when he darted out the door, only to realize halfway down the stairs that he had forgotten his gloves. They were back on the chair. “Seven hells,” Jaime muttered, spinning around and charging back up. By the time he had retrieved them, the sun had climbed a sliver higher. His heart thumped as he sprinted down the steps again. At the base of the tower, he nearly collided with a maid carrying a basket of laundry.  She let out a startled yelp, followed by a curse sharp enough to turn his ears red.

“Sorry!” Jaime called over his shoulder, skidding to a stop long enough to see her shaking her head as she picked up the dropped garments, muttering something about gold-haired devils.

As sorry as he was, he could not stop to help. If he were to be late on his first day, Ser Arthur would think him unworthy. Worse, Tywin would hear of it. He bounded past a gaggle of servants, a red-cheeked boy in golden lion-emblazoned livery, and burst into the sunlight of the courtyard.

The stables smelled of hay and horses, warm and earthy. King Rhaegar sat astride a pale gray courser, speaking softly to a stablehand. Beside him stood four men, among them three of his sworn guard—Ser Oswell Whent, Ser Jonothor Darry, and Ser Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning. The fourth man was Ser Jon Connington, who watched him with a sour look on his face. Something told Jaime the redhead did not particularly like him.

In contrast, a bright smile graced Ser Arthur’s mouth. “Ah, the cub has arrived,” Arthur said with a wink and Jaime’s cheeks burned brighter.

“I—apologies, Ser,” Jaime stammered, clutching the hilt of his sword. He straightened his spine, remembering his father’s words about protocol. “I was delayed.”

“Indeed you were,” Dayne replied, his voice warm. The other knights chuckled softly, and Jaime forced himself to stand taller. “Come, Jaime. Mount up,” continued Ser Arthur, turning around to get to his own horse. “Today, the king rides for a noble purpose.”

Jaime nodded, barely trusting himself to speak. He turned to a stable hand, who had readied his palfrey, and swung himself into the saddle. 

He had dreamed of this moment—riding alongside the Kingsguard, clad in his mail and bearing his sword, all the eyes of the city upon him. There were indeed many eyes upon them, but most if not all of them were on the king. Worse still, the stench of the streets seemed more overwhelming than usual.

People lined the narrow lanes, pressing against one another to get closer to the procession, their hands reaching out toward the king as if he could bestow salvation with a single touch. King Rhaegar rode at the head, serene and gracious, a living embodiment of every tale of noble kings Jaime had ever heard. The king smiled, inclined his head, even lifted a hand now and then to acknowledge the desperate cries of his people. A woman held up a squalling infant, pleading for the king’s blessing. Rhaegar paused just long enough to murmur something to her, a kindness that made the woman weep.

Jaime kept his gaze forward, his jaw tight. The crush of bodies and the sea of voices made his head swim. The king’s graciousness was humbling, but Jaime couldn’t help but wonder—did it ever tire him, this endless need for goodness? Could a man give so much of himself and remain whole?

Ahead, the street widened, the chaotic sprawl giving way to the cleaner, quieter lanes near the Street of Sisters. They were nearing their destination: one of the faith’s orphanages, nestled among the more respectable buildings of this part of the city. He could already see the iron gates rising, framed by tall stone walls softened by climbing ivy.

Beside him, Ser Arthur Dayne sat tall in his saddle. “You’re quiet, cub,” the knight said.

Jaime flushed. “I was just… thinking, Ser.”

“Good knights think before they act,” Arthur said. “Better knights think while they act. In time, you’ll learn the balance.”

Jaime nodded, unsure how to respond. He glanced at the king again, his silver head like a beacon among the crowd. “Does the king… always do this?” he asked.

“Always,” Arthur replied. “The people are his charge. He carries their hopes, their fears, their sorrows. It’s no light burden, Jaime, but it’s the burden of a king. It is a privilege to serve. To protect the weak, to answer when the realm calls. Never forget that.”

They reached the gates of the orphanage, where three septas stood waiting in pale gray robes. At least a dozen children hovered near them, their faces scrubbed clean but their clothes still threadbare. They clung to each other and peered out at the approaching riders with wide, curious eyes.

The king dismounted first, his movements fluid and deliberate. Jaime followed suit, sliding down from his palfrey and landing lightly on the cobblestones. His knees trembled, though he hoped no one noticed. Ser Arthur dismounted beside him, as did the other men.

The septas curtsied deeply as the king approached. “Your Grace,” the eldest of them said, a hunched woman with a wrinkled face. “We are honored by your presence.”

“The honor is mine, good sister.” The king turned to the children then, his smile softening. “And who are these fine lads and lasses?”

The children shuffled closer, encouraged by the gentle prodding of the septas. Jaime stood back, watching as Rhaegar knelt to speak with a boy who could not have been older than six. 

The septas opened the iron gates with a creak, the children swarming forward as the group entered. The orphanage’s courtyard was a modest but well-tended space, with cobblestones interspersed by small patches of greenery. A garden stretched along behind one wall, where vegetables struggled to thrive in the pale sunlight. 

Inside the orphanage, the air was warmer, faintly smelling of soap and old wood. The walls were painted a soft cream, though streaked with smudges from countless small hands. Simple tapestries hung in a few places, depicting seven-pointed stars and scenes of piety. The floors were worn smooth by countless feet, yet each corner seemed cared for.

The children soon swarmed in and darted forward to surround the white-cloaked figures, their wide eyes darting from Ser Arthur’s blade to the bat gracing Ser Oswell’s breastplate. Jaime hung back, unsure of what to do until a girl with gaps between her teeth reached out to touch his silken cloak. Her eyes widened as she rubbed the fabric between her fingers. “It’s so soft,” she whispered, and suddenly a cluster of other children crowded in, their grubby hands petting the crimson lion embroidered there. Jaime stiffened, caught between pride and embarrassment.

“Careful,” he said. “You’ll wrinkle it.” But the children only giggled.

The septas soon directed the king toward the gardens. Ser Jonothor Darry and Ser Oswell Whent followed, leaving Jaime behind with Ser Arthur and Ser Jon, tasked with entertaining the children.

Arthur took a seat on a low bench near the hearth, his hand resting on the pommel of dawn. He began recounting the tale of Ser Duncan the Tall—a common hedge knight turned Lord Commander of the Kingsguard. It was a story Jaime knew well, but he found himself as drawn to the tale as the children. “And so,” Arthur said, gesturing with a hand as if he held a blade aloft, “Ser Duncan faced the foes, outnumbered, bleeding and with a sword barely sharp enough to cut through grass. But his heart—ah, his heart was unyielding, as all knights’ hearts must be…”

Just as Ser Arthur reached the most exciting part of the tale, Jaime felt a firm hand fall on his shoulder. It startled him, and he turned sharply to see Ser Jon standing behind him. The knight’s pale eyes fixed on Jaime in a way that made the boy’s stomach tighten. “Come along,” said Jon.

Jaime swallowed hard. “But Ser Arthur—”

“He can finish the story without you,” Jon interrupted, already pulling Jaime by the arm, moving away from the laughter and chatter of the children, towards one of the corridors leading away from the hall. They stopped near a narrow window where the light fell in pale streaks across the floor. Jon turned to face him, crossing his arms. 

“Your father is a clever man,” he began. “But he is a fool to think that the king doesn’t see right through his schemes.”

Jaime’s throat tightened. “I—I don’t know what you mean, Ser.”

“You do. Tywin Lannister does nothing without purpose, and he’s sent you here for a reason. Maybe he thinks you’re clever enough to impress the king. Maybe he thinks you’ll spy for him… it doesn’t matter. Know this: nothing escapes notice in King’s Landing. Not from the king, and certainly not from me.”

The words landed like blows, and Jaime felt tears sting in his eyes. This wasn’t fair, he had no ill intentions, neither had his father. “I’m here to serve,” he said, his voice tight. “Just as you are.”

Before Jon could respond, a voice called from the hall. “Jon, must you frighten the cub so?” Ser Arthur strode toward them, his white cloak trailing behind him. His tone was light, but Jaime caught the edge of warning beneath it.

“I’m just sharing some wisdom, Arthur,” Jon’s lips twitched into what might have been a smile, though it never reached his eyes. “Isn’t that right, boy?”

Jaime forced a laugh, though it came out too high, too sharp. “Yes, Ser. Knightly wisdom.”

Ser Arthur raised a brow, but let it pass. “Come, Jaime. I’ve a tale to finish, and the children will not forgive me if I leave them waiting.” As he guided him back to the hall, Arthur clapped Jaime on the shoulder “Don’t mind him,” he said softly. “Jon’s heart is in the right place, even if his words have thorns.”

Jaime nodded, though the knot in his stomach hadn’t entirely loosened. “He doesn’t like me.”

Arthur chuckled. “Jon doesn’t like many people. But he holds great love for the king and cares for his well-being. He’s just being protective, don’t let it weigh on you.”

Jaime tried to muster a smile, but it felt thin and brittle. He spent the remainder of the day trying not to stumble over his own feet or his words, keeping close to Ser Arthur, offering small smiles to the children who darted near. He swung a wooden sword against a round-faced boy his age with no real sense of balance or form. Jaime tried to keep the bout honorable, feinting just wide enough to let his opponent imagine victory was within reach before delivering the soft tap that ended their match. He was aware that Ser Arthur was watching and when the boy offered Jaime a grudging handshake, Arthur smiled in approval.

When the time came to leave, the king bade the septas farewell. Jaime had been careful not to stand too close, not to make any noise that might disturb them. “We are grateful for the work you do here. The realm owes you a debt of thanks.” The eldest septa bowed deeply, murmuring blessings in return, and soon, the group mounted their horses once more.

They rode out into the late afternoon sun, the sky beginning its descent into a crimson farewell. He glanced back at the orphanage where the children waved from the courtyard, their voices calling out thanks and goodbyes to the king. 

“Eyes forward, cub,” Ser Arthur said beside him. Jaime obeyed, gripping his reins tighter.

The ride back to the Red Keep should have been straightforward, but when the party reached a fork in the road, King Rhaegar turned his horse down a narrower path, one leading straight to the bay. “Ser Jonothor, Ser Jon, Ser Oswell—you will ride with me.” The king’s violet eyes turned to Ser Arthur. “You and the boy may return to the Keep.”

Arthur inclined his head. “As you wish, Your Grace.”

Jaime blinked, momentarily hesitating. He longed to ask where they were going, longed to follow them, but knew better. He was no fool—Ser Arthur’s approval was not easily earned, and the knight had seemed pleased enough with him today. Jaime wasn’t about to squander that. So he kept his mouth shut and urged his palfrey forward, leaving the King and his three companions to their task.

Wordlessly they rode on, the hoofbeats of their mounts the only sounds shared between them for so long Jaime thought the knight was cross with him.

Ser Arthur finally broke the quiet. “You did well today,” he said, his tone easy.

Jaime straightened, a pleased warmth spreading through him. “Thank you, Ser.”

“You showed restraint,” Arthur continued. “Even when sparring with that boy. It would’ve been easy to humiliate him, but you didn’t. He’ll remember how you treated him. It matters, you know.”

“He wasn’t very good.”

Arthur chuckled. “No, he wasn’t. But you gave him dignity in defeat. That’s the mark of a true knight. Not just skill, but grace and mercy.”

Jaime nodded, his chest puffing a little with pride. “I’ll remember that, Ser.”

Arthur glanced at him, his violet eyes thoughtful. “Good. Remember this too: the path of a knight isn’t just battles and glory. It’s service. To your lord, to the realm, and to those who cannot protect themselves.”

Jaime wanted to say something profound, something to prove he understood, but the words tangled in his mind. Instead, he said simply, “Yes, Ser.”

By the time they reached the gates of the Red Keep, the sun had dipped below the horizon, leaving the sky awash in deep reds and purples. The moat surrounding the outer walls reflected the colors like molten gold. They dismounted, and stablehands hurried forward to take their horses. Arthur handed off his reins with a quiet, “Thank you.”

Jaime blinked. He had never seen his father thank anyone—not a servant, not a guard, not even his bannermen.

“Bed for you,” said Arthur, his voice breaking Jaime’s thoughts. “I’ll expect you on the training grounds by sunrise. No excuses, cub.”

“I’ll be there, Ser,” Jaime promised. He hesitated, then added, “Thank you… for today.”

Arthur’s smile was faint but kind. “Good night, Jaime.”

Jaime bowed his head and made his way toward the Hand’s Tower, his thoughts buzzing with all that had happened. He climbed the stairs two at a time, the soles of his boots echoing faintly in the enclosed space. When he reached the solar, the scent of roasted meats and spiced wine greeted him. Tywin and Cersei were seated at the long table, supper served in front of them. Tywin looked up first, his gaze sharp and assessing. Cersei’s face lit up when she saw him.

“You’re late, brother,” she said as she stabbed a piece of roasted pheasant with her knife.

Jaime slid into a chair, flashing her a grin he hoped would disarm her. “The king had very important business.”

Tywin leaned over the table, silent for a moment as he reached for a platter and selected an assortment of meat and vegetables, placing them on Jaime’s empty plate. There were no serving girls or valets in attendance. His father’s habit of dismissing servants during important discussions was another peculiarity of his—a means of control, Jaime supposed. No loose tongues. No witnesses.

“Tell me,” said Tywin at last, “did anything of note occur?”

Jaime hesitated, carefully chewing a bite of pheasant. Images flitted through his mind: the king’s serene face as he blessed that woman’s child, Ser Jon’s sharp accusations, the mysterious ride to the bay. I am good. I have no ill intentions.

“Nothing of importance,” Jaime lied, swallowing the knot in his throat.

Tywin’s pale green eyes lingered on him for a moment too long, as if weighing the truth of his words. But then he leaned back, seemingly satisfied—or at least unwilling to press the matter further. “Well, I hope you at least learnt something today,” he said, back to cutting into his meat. “See that you don’t embarrass me.”

Jaime nodded, his heart thudding in his chest. “Yes, Father.”

The rest of the meal passed in silence, his father’s presence overshadowing any and all desire for chatter. When Jaime finally excused himself and returned to his chamber, he felt the weight of the day settle over him. He removed his mail shirt and sword belt, placing them by his bedside before laying down, not bothering to slip into his nightshirt.

As he lay down, he stared at the low ceiling, replaying the events of the day. Each moment crowded his thoughts, each more vivid than the last. His jaw tightened as he turned onto his side, clutching the pillow close. “I am good,” Jaime whispered into the stillness, though the words felt less like a truth and more like a plea. His fingers curled into the coarse linen and his eyes drifted shut.

Sleep claimed him soon after, and in his dreams, golden lions danced alongside swords of shining dawn.

Chapter Text

Tyrosh sprawled ahead over the landscape, a shimmering mosaic of pale blue and cream, its domes and spires kissed by the morning sun. The city might have looked beautiful to another man, but to Jon, it was an affront to his sensibilities. The air stank of brine, mingled with the sickly sweetness of perfume. Sweat pooled beneath his woolen tunic and he cursed himself for not stripping it off when the Black Heron had docked. The ship had been a wretched thing: a tub of creaking timbers and stained sails, her captain an oily Volantene with a voice like sandpaper. And the voyage—seven gods, the voyage.

The crossing from King’s Landing to Tyrosh had been cursed. Near the Stepstones, they’d been chased by pirates: three lean galleys with black sails and rams. They would have been sunk or enslaved if not for the quick thinking of the Volantene captain and the sudden storm that lashed the sea into a frenzy. Even then, escape had been a near thing. Jon could still hear the screech of the crossbow bolt as it splintered the wood a handspan from his ear.

“Bet you were praying to the Seven then,” said Oswell, descending the gangplank beside him. His white cloak was long gone, replaced by a dark blue traveler’s cloak. “Or maybe just to the Stranger. He seems to have taken a liking to us.”

Jon did not deign to answer, his jaw only tightening as he took a look at the harbor. The whole place was crowded with sailors and porters, shouting in tongues Jon barely recognized. The Tyroshi accent was cousin to High Valyrian, but its long syllables and strange accentuations turned it into something alien, almost seductive. Jon disliked it.

The streets of Tyrosh were scarcely better—each corner of this city seemed narrow and crooked, the walls of the buildings plastered in faded pastels. Gardens spilled over terraces and windowsills, jasmine, orchids, lemon trees. The people were no less colorful—Tyroshi women walked around clad in silken dresses that left little to the imagination. Men lounged in doorways, wearing robes that gleamed like fish scales, their hair dyed and perfumed. 

The sweat had fully soaked through Jon’s tunic by the time they found an inn tucked between two leaning buildings, the sign over the door depicting a faded merman tucked in a bed. The innkeeper was a stout woman with skin the color of old parchment. When Jon addressed her in the Common Tongue, she frowned deeply and said something unintelligible in Tyroshi.

Jon frowned. “We need two rooms. Separate,” he added, glancing at Oswell, who only smirked.

The innkeeper's expression did not change. She spoke again and Jon caught only fragments—words that might have been “coin” or “payment.” His High Valyrian, drilled into him as a boy by Griffin’s Roost’s Maester, Ernald, was wholly ill-suited for these dialects.

“I think she just insulted our ancestors,” remarked Oswell.

“Gods, will she give us a room or not?” Jon growled.

“Let’s find out.” Oswell held up two fingers and then mimicked sleep with his hands. That did the trick last at last, the woman fetched two small iron keys from a hook behind the bar, muttering under her breath as she handed them over.

Jon accepted his with a nod, ignoring the snort Oswell gave as they climbed the creaking stairs to their chambers. The room was small and smelled faintly of mildew, with a single narrow bed and a window that overlooked a noisome alley. He shut the shutters and sank onto the bed, scrubbing a hand through his sweat-dampened hair.

The evening made the heat more bearable, though the humidity still clung to Jon’s skin like a fever. He could not sleep. The air in the room was stifling, and his thoughts churned too fiercely to allow rest. Rhaegar’s bride. The very words sat in his chest like a stone. He rose, buckled his sword belt over his tunic, and slipped out into the night. Oswell would surely make some jest about Jon’s brooding if he didn’t return before morning, but Jon could endure that. It was easier than enduring the silence of his room.

The streets were still full of color and confusion, with merchants still haggling in makeshift markets lit by the soft glow of hanging lanterns. He walked aimlessly, his boots striking the cobblestones with a steady, quick rhythm. Don’t think. Don’t. He needed movement, distraction, anything to still the raging storm inside him.

Eventually, the press of the markets and crowds drove him to a quieter street. Here, a small tavern spilled its patrons onto the cobblestones outside. Men sat on rough-hewn benches, clinking tankards and laughing. A young Tyroshi minstrel strummed a lute, playing some lilting and strange melody. Jon hesitated for just a moment before stepping inside. The tavern’s interior was dim, lit by a few sputtering candles and a hearth that emitted more smoke than heat. He slipped into a far booth, shadowed and apart.

A serving girl approached, her hair wrapped in a scarf of deep purple, her skirts jingling with tiny bronze bells. He fumbled for words but eventually managed to point to a man’s drink at a nearby table and hold up a few coins. She nodded, taking the silver with a quick hand before vanishing toward the bar.

Jon leaned back and sighed deeply. He and Oswell were hopelessly out of their depth here. Jon had dismissed the need for a translator when Ser Jonothor suggested it. “We’ll manage,” he’d said at the time. Fewer men meant faster travel and greater discretion but now, sitting in this foreign tavern, he felt the sting of his own hubris. The languages of the Free Cities were as varied as their coins, and Tyrosh was only the beginning. Volantis. Lys. Perhaps even beyond.

He needed a translator, a guide—someone who could help them navigate not only the twisted streets of these cities but also their customs and politics. Someone who could bridge the gulf of language before it swallowed them whole. Rhaegar was counting on him. He had not said it outright, Rhaegar rarely said anything outright. But Jon had seen it in his eyes when they bid their farewells in King’s Landing, heard it in the quiet of his voice. “You’ll do what must be done,” the king had said.

Jon would sooner see Rhaegar wed to a fisher girl than let a lioness sit beside him. The Hand’s ambitions were a specter that loomed large in King’s Landing, and though Jon might not love Rhaegar as others did, he would not see him bound to the daughter of Tywin Lannister. No, better to bring him someone else. Someone Jon had chosen, someone with a noble heart, a graceful bearing. 

The serving girl returned with his order, a wooden tankard filled with a pale, frothy ale. The girl was moving to return to the bar when he raised a hand to stop her. She paused, her head cocked to the side. “Do you know…” he began, searching for simple words. “A guide? Someone who can… help. Speak for me.”

Her head tilted, the jingling of her bells faint over the hum of the tavern. “Guide?” she repeated in the common tongue.

Jon nodded, relieved. “To translate. To lead me through Free Cities.”

“You need someone… Essosi or no?”

“No matter,” Jon said, though he winced inwardly. A local might be best, but he was in no position to be particular.

The girl frowned, considering. “Tomorrow. I bring you someone. Here. Noon.”

“Good,” said Jon. He handed her a few more coins, more than he knew was reasonable, but she smiled at the overpayment and left him in peace. At last he took a sip of his drink—the ale was strange, sweet and tangy with a faintly spiced aftertaste, but it wasn’t entirely unpleasant.

As he drank, his gaze wandered. This tavern was full of life, its patrons a riot of color and he found a strange comfort of just watching. He had always been a watcher. As a boy he would sit on the worn stone steps of the great hall and watch the knights at their drills, the maids gossiping as they beat the dust from rugs, the stable boys chasing each other with wooden swords. Always watching, never joining. He told himself it was his nature—a lord’s son should observe, should learn. But deep down, he had known it was fear that kept him apart. Fear of rejection, of failure, of not knowing the steps to the dance.

Even now, so many years later, he was still on the sidelines. Watching.

His gaze fell on a booth not far from his own, where two men leaned close together, their faces flushed with wine and something warmer. One of them laughed, the sound light and loving, before pressing a kiss to the other’s mouth. Jon stiffened and his grip on the tankard tightened. He looked away quickly, but could not stop the flush in his cheeks from forming.

It wasn’t the first time he’d seen men loving men. The world was wide, and Tyrosh was renowned for its boldness. But here, there was no shame, no hiding. His mother’s voice echoed in his ears, as clear as the toll of a sept’s bell. Pray, Jon. Pray for your soul. Pray for courage. Pray for forgiveness. His mother had been a devout woman, a pious woman, who had spent her days in prayer beneath the domed ceiling of the small sept of Griffin’s Roost. The gods took care of her now. 

He had often prayed with her in his youth, had knelt beside her and recited the words, the right words, the true words. Strength, my sweet Jon. Strength against the temptations of the flesh. The words would ring hollow in his mind, no matter how often he repeated them. The gods might care for his mother, but they had long since turned their backs on him. What he recited were lies, and he knew it. His guilt was a black pit that had only deepened over the years.

He remembered the stable hand at Griffin’s Roost. The boy with the blue eyes and freckles scattered like stars across his skin, the smell of hay clinging to him. Jon had been barely more than a boy himself, but even now, he could recall the heat of it, the way their hands had fumbled and their lips had pressed together, desperate and unsure. It had been clumsy and fleeting, but it had marked him. His mother had found him later, kneeling in the sept, and told him she was proud of his piety. She had stroked his hair as he whispered his prayers for forgiveness.

But it had not ended there. The sins had compounded, one upon the other, until they became a chain too heavy to bear. Each one came to him now, unwelcome, their details sharp and vivid as if the years had done nothing to dull their edges. A knight sworn to House Estermont, his hair like tarnished gold. The dark-haired singer, the whispered promises that neither had truly believed. Oh and the merchant’s son in Oldtown—a summer spent stealing kisses and running through alleys. When Jon left, the boy’s tear-streaked face had haunted him for weeks.

It had all been beautiful. It had all been damning.

What came next was no memory, but a wish. A yearning that ached in him like an old wound reopened. Jon could see him now, clear as a mirror’s reflection. His face twisted in pleasure, his silver hair damp against his brow, as he lay back on his wide bed. Jon over him, his hands trembling, his breath caught in his throat, knowing he had crossed a line that could never be uncrossed. Oh, what he’d do to the king. What he’d already done, if only in his dreams. What he wanted to do in earnest.

The thought was too much, too sharp, too dangerous. Jon shook his head as if to physically dislodge the image, though the heat of it lingered. He tipped his tankard back and swallowed the last of the ale in one long, desperate gulp. He stood abruptly, his sudden movements drawing glances from a nearby table. He ignored them, forcing his expression into something neutral as he strode toward the door. The serving girl caught his eye as he passed and he gave her a faint smile, one that was meant to be polite, almost perfunctory. A flicker of acknowledgment that he would return tomorrow.

By the time he reached the inn, he was too exhausted to do more than strip off his boots and collapse onto the hard mattress, his sword belt still buckled around his waist. When he awoke the sun already hung high in the sky. For once, his dreams had been mercifully blank.

Once dressed, he descended the creaking stairs and Ser Oswell was waiting, lounging in the common room. His companion looked up, flashing a crooked grin. “Thought you’d sleep the whole day away,” Oswell said, standing and slinging his sword belt over his shoulder. 

“I’ve made arrangements,” he said in an even voice, bypassing the remark. “We are to meet a potential guide at a tavern I went to last night.”

Oswell raised an eyebrow. “Efficient of you. Perhaps you’re warming to this city after all.”

“I wouldn’t count on that,” Jon muttered, striding toward the door.

The tavern was different in the light of day. The smoke that had given it a shadowed intimacy the night before now hung in pale wisps beneath the rafters. The warmth of bodies and laughter had been replaced with a quieter air, the patrons fewer and subdued. Even the minstrel had vanished.

The serving girl noticed them almost immediately and approached with two tankards in hand. “He will come soon,” she said, setting the tankards on the table before them. Her smile was unguarded, warm in a way that made Jon feel vaguely uncomfortable.

He watched her go, then turned his eyes to the entrance. “Drink,” Oswell urged, gesturing to the tankard before Jon. “It’ll help with the nerves.”

Jon shook his head. “I’ll drink when we have a guide worth the name.”

Oswell sighed, muttering something under his breath about stubborn men, but didn’t press further. And so they waited. The minutes stretched, the tuneless tapping of Oswell’s fingers against the table filling the silence between them. 

Though the place was far from full, patrons came and went in an ever steady stream. Merchants taking a break from the markets, dockhands slipping away for a quick ale, travellers sharing hushed words over a corner table. None lingered long, and none paid much attention to either Jon or Oswell. That, Jon thought, suited him just fine.

He kept his eyes firmly on the entrance, the door creaking faintly each time it swung open. Every newcomer caught his eye, though none could hold his attention for long. A stout man wearing salt-stained garments, a woman with hair dyed a vivid green, a gangly boy barely old enough to be allowed to walk the streets unsupervised—each was dismissed as quickly as they arrived. 

Then the door creaked once more and the man who strode in was unmistakably Westerosi. He was of average height, his frame lean but wiry, with pale blonde hair trimmed short at the sides. His eyes swept the room, and when they landed on Jon and Oswell, a smirk tugged at his thin lips. “Kessa myr laras, akka gendys mirri pyvvos,” he said to the serving girl passing by.

The girl laughed, shaking her head as she continued on her way. The man pulled out a chair at their table and sat, leaning back with a content sigh. His smirk grew as he looked between them. “Andals,” he said, the word rolling off his tongue like an old joke. “The ones in over their heads, I take it?”

“You could say that.” Oswell barked a laugh. 

Jon was not in the mood to jest. “To whom do we owe the pleasure?”

“Jaremy,” the man said with a slight bow of his head, the gesture more mocking than respectful. “My friends call me Quicktongue, though I do not have many to speak of as of late. Born and bred in the sewers of Lannisport and some say the sewers themselves pushed me out of their loins, though alas, I had a mother of flesh and blood. Amma. What a woman she was. A liar of the highest rate. Oh, do not look at me as if I’ve insulted your own mother! Amma was a liar, and proud of it. Lived day to day, flitting from the home of one man to the next, always dragging her little ugly boy along with her. Swearing her undying love until, inevitably, one of her loves tired of her lies and struck her down good.

“I remember it well. Old Malor, a smith with arms like tree trunks and a temper to match, caught her trying to sneak away with a purse full of his coin. One swing of his hammer and she learned to keep her lies to herself.” The serving girl returned then, setting a tankard before him. Jaremy nodded his thanks, flipped her a coin, and took a deep drink. “That was that. Amma’s luck ran out, and so did mine for a while. Made my way to Oldtown, thought I might be clever enough for the Citadel. Little Jaremy Quicktongue, an archmaester in the making! But the grand doors of the Citadel don’t open for the likes of me. Imagine how many bright minds are turned away for no greater crime than the sin of their birth. Funny, that.”

Jaremy drained the tankard, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “With Amma gone and no prospects in Oldtown, there wasn’t much keeping me in Westeros. I left. Sailed to Essos. The great world in the east, full of promise and peril. But enough about me. What do two men from Westeros seek in Tyrosh? And why do they need a guide?”

If anything, the man could speak, Jon thought. “I was told you know your way around languages.”

“Ha! I know my way around people. The tongues are incidental.” he leaned forward, his voice dropping. “What do you want, then? A trade deal smoothed over? A lover wooed? Or—” his grin widened, revealing crooked teeth, “—some information to get you out of hot water?”

“We need help with the culture. Navigating customs. Translations.” He glanced at Oswell before continuing. “We’re looking for a woman.”

“A woman, is it? Which of you scorned a lover so badly you’re hunting her down in Tyrosh?”

“Neither. We’ve been sent to find a woman of adequate birth for a Westerosi lord.”

Jaremy’s eyebrows shot up at that. “Adequate birth? My, how lofty. And who’s the poor sod that drew the short straw to need his bride found halfway across the world?”

“That’s not your concern.”

“Ah,” said Jaremy evenly, the sly smile still on his lips. “So it’s like that. Do you think this adequate lady is here in Tyrosh?”

“She might be,” Jon admitted with a slight shrug. “We’ll have to see. If not, we may need to travel. Lys, Myr. Perhaps further, Volantis.”

“A grand journey, indeed! Westerosi wanderers chasing a phantom bride through the Free Cities. Well, you’ve found your guide.” He offered Jon a handshake over the table. “Jaremy Quicktongue, at your service.”

Jon hesitated, his gaze shifting first to the offered hand and then to Jaremy’s face. There was a gleam of gold in his crooked smile, a tooth paid by one of the schemes he had spun with that silver tongue of his no doubt. 

He extended his own hand, gripping Jaremy’s. “Jon,” he said simply, the moment settling around him like a cloak he hadn’t decided yet if he wanted to wear. “We’ll see if you live up to the name.”

“Oh, I do,” Jaremy said, his grin widening, gold flashing again. “And you’ll find out soon enough.”