i Rhaegel hardly listens to Aelinor's plight. His sister is Queen, she should be glad for that. And if brother doesn't give her children it is not to him that she should come. "I cannot help you." She suffers, he knows; alas, he speaks the truth when he says he cannot be of aid. For sweet Aelinor is not Naerys, and he is not Aemon the Dragonknight. "Try to persuade our brother, if you can." The King is set in his ways.
Stepping away from her, he sees Maekar dancing with his betrothed. Adaelajda, of House Tallhart, smiles over his brother's shoulder to him. It's a small stretch of lips. She doesn't nod when she catches his eyes, like any other ladies would, nor does she look at him for more than a moment. And for all his resemblance to Aemon the Dragonknight Rhaegel cannot seem to win her affections. Instead his brother delays her, twirling her petite form on the dance floor. Of course Maekar means nothing by it; their youngest brother is nothing if not loyal.
All the same, his wife-to-be dances with his brother, and they speak in hushed tones. When they finally break apart Adaelajda's face flushes when she meets his stare. Lowering her gaze the maiden allows Maekar to lead her to where Aelinor and Rhaegel wait. Dark eyes, warmer than the flames reflecting in them, dart from brother to sister. She smiles, fully now, her lips forming a soft arch. "My Queen, my Prince," she greets them, falling in a curtsy. "I hope you are well this evening."
Those polite words she hides behind frustrate him to no end. "Indeed, we are," Aelinor answers, a brittle smile settling over her face. She does her best, Rhaegel knows. And yet her bitterness grows by the second.
Rosy lips and flaming eyes, Rhaegel takes her image in. Laughter follows her about. Rhaegel follows her as well. The shadows cling to her in the dark. She beckons him closer with nary but a simple look. And smiles, that half-smile, when he does step forward. Then she turns and runs, her skirts swishing, her hair trailing after her. And Rhaegel follows still.
Fast as a whip, he gains on her, catching Adaelajda's waist and forcing her body to a halt. She laughs now, letting his savour his victory – or imagined victory, as she always manages to escape him somehow.
As she is wont to do, Adaelajda vanishes, only to reappear further down the path. Shadows reach out to touch her, stretching over the cobblestones. Small hands and sharp movements, Rhaegel drinks in the vision of her, bathed in moonlight. His heart thuds heavily. He would ask her to stay, if only he could find the words. But she won't, he knows that. So he pushes himself one more time and gives chase.
Wind pushes futilely against him. Adaelajda stands her ground. She opens her mouth to say something and he runs faster. "You ought not to force yourself so."
ii Peach juice slides down her fingers. Adaelajda shakes it away with a flick of her wrist. She looks at her father again. "They say he is mad." What they do say is that he dances naked through the Red Keep and laughs for reasons known only to him. The Laughing Prince, they call him. "Would you have me marry him even so?"
"Do you think he is mad?" Lord Tallhart asks his only surviving daughter. "I would have you marry him for the benefits it will bring us. 'Tis an honour not many have. So, do you believe him to be mad?"
She believes nothing. "I know him not that well." Maekar is the one who talks to her after all, as she doesn't dare approach Rhaegel on her own. "I need more time, father, or else I can give no answer."
Lord Tallhart sighs. "The time for stalling is past. You have to make a decision, and quickly now. They won't wait much longer for it." He pats her hand gently, caught between these decisions that have not yet been spoken. "You have one more night."
It's not enough. It's nowhere near however long she's planned to delay this. Bowing her head in defeat, the maiden forces herself to calm down. Weeping won't help. "I see, then you shall have my answer come the feasts end."
A bolder girl might have rebelled against the edict. She might have refused flat out to marry this man they pushed down her path. Rightly so, she may have even packed her things and returned home. A braver girl would have simply stated she had no interest in such an affair. But Adaelajda was never bold, nor overly brave. She is obedient. Not to the point of stupidity, but she would not ignore her father's orders. It is impossible. And yet she wishes to be another Visenya now, to battle against this with all her might. But she won't. It is not in her nature, she was made for kind words and kinder hands, she's known nothing else.
Bright eyes chase her through the hall. And she burns to the fire he lights, violet flames licking at her fingertips. Her lips curl on their own, her gaze strays to him. Madness, she thinks; it is madness to want him, and it is madness to refuse him. Perhaps both are crazy fools, but Adaelajda can't decide which of them is worse off. She or him? Dare she guess?
The burning heat inside of her comes to life, reddening her cheeks. She is being watched so intently. Shy by her very nature, such attention, solely on her, makes her nervous. She wants to scream at him to stop. Just stop.
And then again, she doesn't. The warmth scalds her insides and brings her blood to a boil, and she's never felt like this. He's next to her so suddenly that Adaelajda can't even hide her surprise. "Allow me," he says, taking her hand in his.
iii She smells wine and perfume, and wrinkles her nose. Adaelajda bows to the Queen. Aelinor drinks from her golden chalice, likely too distraught and distracted to even notice her for more than a few moments. Rhaegel however watches her as intently as ever. The corners of her mouth itch to rise.
"Sit by me," Rhaegel invites her. His voice is deep, but not overly so, and oddly pleasing. The words are spoken as if Adaelajda has been keeping his waiting for far too long. Those Targaryen eyes glint.
"My Prince," she murmurs and submits. Her dress of brocade, heavy and too full of decorations for her taste, shines; it's almost inviting. But not quite. Brown eyes scrutinize the Prince. "You honour me, Your Grace." It's the polite thing to say, even if she doesn't feel honoured, rather she feels anxious, restless.
How can she be anything but, with him so close to her. He doesn't seem all that crazy to her for all the people like to gossip. Or at the very least he is not the violent sort. He is obsolete, gentle and kind, his eyes say. There is a hunger there, though, for she knows not what. And maybe he thinks she can give that, whatever it is he wants. Dare she refuse him?
Her head falls back against the soft green grass, her hand coming up to shield her eyes. The apple tree is somewhere behind her, she can smell the fragrance of its flowers, small and white. A sigh catches itself in her throat and Adaelajda closes her eyes. Another hand, not hers, this is bigger, settles itself on her waist. Strangely enough she doesn't feel the need to turn and see who it is. Pushing back, she relaxes against this unknown frame.
"It seems to me you are very far away, my Lady," the Prince words carefully. Had she been daydreaming? His hand is somewhat closer to hers, resting atop the table as they are."What did you dream of?"
"Dreams are for the sleeping," she says. "I am awake, Your Grace, therefore I cannot be dreaming." Would that it managed to convince him not to question her further on this matter. She did indeed.
Only it seemed that she'd miscalculated her step. "No dreams?" His smile tells her that he does not believe her. For some reason she find that to be irritating and turns her head away. "Not at all?"
Oh she has plenty of dreams, but that does not mean she must share them with him. He cannot be mad after all. "I dream of flames." Of flames green as spring leaves and hot as the pits of the seven hells. Wildfire they call it. Alas, those are poor dreams to speak of. They leave her a trembling mass, with tangled limbs in white sheets. "I dream of a great burning fire."
"I dream of shadows, dark and cold," he whispers to her, imperceptibly leaning closer. "There, you see now? You do dream."
iv The newborn boys mewl in her hold. They both have the distinct features of house Targaryen. Adaelajda feels her eyes growing moist with unshed tears. She loves them so much. Inside her chest her heart hammers. The gods only know how she loves them. It's no wonder, she thinks, that women accept these arranged marriages as easily as they do. For what can be more precious than holding precious new lives that you've helped create? Blood of her blood, flesh of her flesh, part of her heart. The mother holds back a sob. Is there anything better than this feeling?
Rhaegel steps very silently into the room, a look of wonder on his face. The same has been present for a few days. It's like he cannot quite believe that they've managed to bring new life. That all those hours of half-murmured promises and slow-rolling passion have resulted into this. Into them. Two boys with his name and the markings of House Targaryen. It is something he has never really thought he'd have. Simply because his mind has never wondered upon it. And now they are here, in Adaelajda's arms. Let his brothers fight their wars and squabble over that hideous Iron Throne. So long as he has this, he needs no more.
"I never though," he starts, his voice shaky, "never, ever that I could feel like this." He takes one of the boys, laying a finger on his soft cheek. "You may ask anything of me, my Lady. Name it and it shall be done."
Pale skinned in the shallow light, Adaelajda smiles at him. "You've already given me the most important things, my Lord." What are jewels, soft fabrics and other riches to the feeling of a babe in her arms? Her beloved children.
They marry in the Sept, surrounded by too many people, too many prying eyes. Rhaegel almost feels tempted to have an episode of his usual ailment. Better that they think him crazy and leave them be. Adaelajda on the other hand, throws him a suspicious look. And some discomfort too is present of her face.
Come morning she grows less uneasy. She won't meet his eyes across the table, but the memory of her against him and the way she whispered to him in the dark is enough for now. At least until he manages to catch her alone and guide her gently to some alcove where he may have his fill of kissing her lips.
She enjoys this as much as he by the tremble of her frame and the way she throws her arms around him. It is rather like one whole new thrilling game that she's all too willing to play. "My Lord, this is hardly appropriate conduct for hallways," she chides after, smoothing her skirts over. "What if someone had seen us? What would they say?"
"Why they would probably say: Isn't that the Prince there with his lovely new wife? You knew who you were marrying, my Lady."
v There is death everywhere. Nobles and peasant alike, they are all dying. Bodies upon bodies fill the streets and the stench of burning flesh seems to never leave, embedded into the stone and earth. There's a sea of corpses out there. Rhaegel watches Adaeladja's frightened face and is powerless to it all. He cannot keep the sickness away. He gathers her in his arms. "Keep faith, my dear." They are older and wise now. There's no need for them to make more of a fuss out of it than necessary. Keep your strength, for the babies." She is heavy with child again. Her face should be aglow
Instead before him is a woman of chalky complexion, with dark circles under her eyes and a long suffering look. Her pain is his pain. Adaeladja gives his hand a weak squeeze. "How are my boys today?" She asks of the children she's already birthed; the ones she cannot see.
"They miss you," Rhaegel tells her. His expression is sullen, as if that might ward the illness away. "Get well. They ask for you every day. Promise me. He'll always insist on hearing one such promise a day.
"I'll do my best, husband." And everyday she complies. But even as the words leave her lips, she knows it is folly. Baelor's children have already died, the King has dies too. And countless others. Only she lingers amongst the living, in great pain. Because she cannot bear to go without giving her little ones a fighting chance.
When the birthing time is upon her, Rhaegel is led out of the room. There is blood, and more pain than she remembers. Adaelajda has refused to take milk of the poppy or anything that could harm the children. She screams and screams until her throat is raw, and pushes with all her strength – not that there is much of it left.
Miraculously enough there are two boys again. The cries ring in her ears and Adaelajda allows herself to fall back against the soft pillow. Her gaze is hazy now and the sounds are getting duller and duller. She thinks she can hear her husband's voice. He is shouting. Rhaegel sounds angry. A hand grabs at her shoulder and shakes her. "Do not close your eyes. Do you hear me? You promised!"
"To try," she reminds him, and she almost smiles. "I'm sorry." She is. Over the years they have grown fond of one another. "Know that I love you and our children." The pain hits her hard.
"Then stay," her husband tries again. But she's been dying for a long time now and she's ready to step to the other side. "Gods, woman!"
It's because of those babies, Rhaegel decides the moment his eyes see the two tiny humans. Has she not insisted on keeping them and accepted treatment, she might have survived. Now her hand is growing cold in his and the life is leaving her, pouring out with the blood that still flows.
vi The water is cool against his skin, just like her flush is hot against her face. Rhaegel smiles and stretches his hand out, fingers reaching for her. "What are you afraid of?" Droplets fall in the water.
"My Lord, I will not participate in this," she tells him heatedly. Kissing in some corner she can take, but swimming naked, with him, in broad daylight is another matter altogether. "I beg you insist no more."
With a low growl he steps out of the lake, making Adaelajda squeak and whirl around. That's just as well, for he grabs at the laces of her dress, pulling them apart. Her protest fall on deaf ears. "You'll come around." The shift underneath is a gauzy thing he could probably tear apart with a strong pull. Rhaegel takes it off instead, throwing it next to her discarded dress. He laughs when she tries to cover herself. One hand on her hip, the other underneath her breasts, he embraces her. "I already know all of you."
Turing her to face him, Rhaegel lets go until they are holding only hands. He pulls her along, and when her face shows signs of over-thinking their situation he hauls her in his arms. Then he throws her in the cold water which splashes everywhere once her body falls in. With a leap he joins her.
Rising to the surface Adaelajda smacks the water in his direction. "Seven hells! Are you bent on tormenting me?" She resists his attempt to take her in his arms. "What is the purpose of this?" But she does let him kiss her.
The cool water, their now cold skin and a thousand kisses drown out the world. "You mistake my intentions, fair lady." He drags her underwater with him.
Weak whines won't stop pouring out the infants' mouths. Rhaegel doesn't even look their way. He can't. His wife died for them. He had told her that there could be other children. They were not that old. All the same, she'd replied, she wasn't giving up those growing inside of her. And he'd bent, because what else could he have done. He should have made her drink Moon tea. Alas, now it is too later.
Once, a long time ago Adaelajda said she dreamed of fire. The flames surround her, eating away at her flesh. The King's Hand had wanted to take her to the pyromancers; Rhaegel had not allowed him to. "I will burn her myself before I allow wildfire to touch her skin." And burn her he does. The flesh melts off her bones and pains spears through him. He wants to gather her in his arms and beg her to wake up. The price is too great for him. Oh, he'd gained two sons, but he lost her. Again their cries fill his ears. Those two will never know what it is to be gathered at her chest or hear her voice. They'll never know her warmth. They have taken her away.