(The horse neighed, muscles bunching as the stream of screams whirled endlessly about. Rhaegar barely had time to brush a hand over the nape of its neck. The beast was as tense as he was, in no small measure understanding their precarious position. But Rhaegar could not afford to dismount and attempt aught else, thus he urged it forth and tried to catch sight of familiar faces.
Foot soldiers fell about, sharp edges cutting into flesh, hooves pounding upon unprotected skulls, arrows slung through the distance embedded into soft tissue. He did not stop for any of it. He could not stop any of it.
A cry of rage speared through the distance. The tumultuous waters of the Trident foamed and sputtered as a black steed carried its rider into the current. The war hammer glinted in the sunlight. He brandished his own weapon, keeping his fears in check. At least for the time being. This was Robert Baratheon and good a fighter as he was, Rhaegar was better. He had to be.
His horse started in a gallop, closing the gaping distance between foes as the Stormlord ended the life of a man foolish enough to interpose himself between the two. The soldier fell into the waters, blood staining the pristine purity red. He pushed forth, despite agony twisting in his gut. He was so very close to victory. One swipe and he would have reached his goal.
But Robert was faster)
A breathless gasp escaped the lump of furs squirming in bed.
"I just want another chance. A chance to make it all right." Rhaegar blinked up at the ceiling, beads of sweat coating his brow. That had been the last though he felt knocking about in his mind.
What a strange dream.
The sense that he was living through like events did not lessen by the time the sun was high upon its perch, shining down a stream of too-bright light. He'd anticipated much of what had gone on throughout the morning without missing a beat. Yet the memories were not his own. That was he could tell, for the flashes cane and then forever disappeared. Were they his own memories, he would have been able to recall them at will.
His mother hoisted him up on her lap and pressed a kiss to the top of his head. "You are so very quiet, my son. Why is that?"
Rhaegar shrugged. He'd had a strange dream; that was all. Little point in making it a greater trouble than it truly was. His mother's arm stretched out, fingers picking at the slices of fruits. She brought back three apple pieces. "You should eat aught. 'Tis not good to ruminate on an empty stomach."
Catching one of the slices, he nibbled on the flesh of the fruit, the slightly bitter taste giving his pause. The Queen placed the other piece in his free hand and ate the third herself, the crunching sound loud enough for him to hear.
He twisted slightly at the creaking of the door. His father's figure loomed in the doorway. "It seems I am late once more," the man drawled, sauntering within. "And how are you this fine morning, family?" Was he imagining the edge to his voice, or was his father taking out his frustrations on them?
Lord Stark. Rhaegar frowned as the name rolled off the tip of his tongue. Stark. Stark. Stark. Aught told him it was important. Another flash came to the forefront of his mind. It looked like him, sitting in his bedchamber with a tome. What did that mean?
He raced to his bedchamber, ignoring the voice of his septa. The woman hurried after him, trying to cut through what she assumed was his exuberance. If only she knew. Rhaegar wasted little time in opening the door and making a beeline for the desk. Upon it was indeed a tome.
His first instinct was to reach out for it, touch the spine at least, might be make his way through the first few pages. He did not though. Stopped by a cold shiver trailing down his spine, as though someone had stepped upon his grave, Rhaegar turned around and glanced at the woman gasping in the doorway. The septa struggled to catch her breath, cheeks flaming from exertion.
"Your Grace," she spoke softly, "we must away. His Majesty would not like it if you were to spend the entire day in your bedchamber. If Your Grace is amenable, we could stop by the kitchens for some lemon cakes." The blatant attempt at bribery would not have deterred him from his wish to stay within, were it not for that sliver of unease. He could not stay within.
Rhaegar pursed his lips and gave a shallow nod, making his way towards the septa slowly. "Only if we get lots and lots of lemon cakes."
The man who was sitting with his father was Lord Stark. Rhaegar peeked from behind the column, wondering why it was that his interest clung to the Northerner lord. There was little he saw to comment attention, other than an icy stare and mutinous line for a mouth. The perpetually displeased mien gave little indication of approachability, thus Rhaegar was not even considering asking. He sighed and bit into his lemon cake, concentrating on the conversation.
"The land could be used for more than hunting. With a proper irrigation system in place and a wall to protect it from attacks, this could be fertile land." His father had been droning on and on about greenhouses and new walls. Rhaegar was not certain if the Warden of the North was impressed or frightened. It could be that he was both, of course, and simply did not know what reply to give.
"The cost would be tremendous to Your Majesty," the man pointed out after a few heartbeats. "And it might be that sympathisers of those attackers would be willing to undermine our efforts. The Black Brothers warn of attacks in quick succession. And they would be much too far away to aid if such were the case."
"We could simply relocate them along the new wall," his father answered. "The inner wall would offer protection in case of too brutal skirmish, but given the condition of our warriors, I doubt that would ever be the case. What say you, Lord Stark?"
Rhaegar was wondering if death by boredom was an option.
The needling sensation of something missing kept pestering him every step of the way. It was rather like a half-healed wound. He poked and prodded at the scab of memory, wincing and grunting with every jolt of pain, nevertheless carrying on, despite the ruthless itching. He could not help himself. It did not matter how often he repeated to himself the mantra that a single strange dream meant naught. It did mean something.
And he'd been blessed, or cursed, whichever it was, with that knowledge. A pity it did not imply understanding as well. He'd been trying and trying to recall what was so important about House Stark. Nothing came to mind.
Nay. That was a lie. Aught did come to mind.
(The carefully woven crown slid into the maiden's lap, blue petals falling upon the folds of her skirts, clashing with the drab browns. A hush had fallen over the crowds.)
Rhaegar chased the thought around the dark corners of his mind, annoyed at the elusive quality of such dreams. He could not put his finger on it. He could not figure it out. It was might be as great a mystery as he was ever going to come across. And he had to find an answer. Even with the clarity of his goal in mind, the path was still murky.
And his septa was forever in the way.
How could he be expected to understand a thing when she was at all times trying to drag him away to some harmless play with wooden soldiers?
It was a tree. Rhaegar had been unaware there were such trees in the gardens. He'd never seen anything half as frightening and the throne room had dragon skulls hanging upon the falls. Compared to the twisted face glaring at him from its carved place in bone-white bark, those were not even worth mentioning.
Still, Lord Stark had not been afraid of it. And he'd stood before the face for all of an eternity, head bowed, murmuring aught that Rhaegar could not hope to catch. Thankfully, he'd been so distracted by the carved mien that he had not noticed anyone was about; which offered a perfect opportunity of figuring out what purpose the tree served.
Lord Stark treated the bark like mother treated the Seven in the sept. It stood to reason then that it was some sort of deity. An ugly one, to be certain, but the Stranger was not a handsome knight either.
Once the man departed, Rhaegar was left with the tree. The carved face followed his movement until he stood before it. There was no sudden revelation, no dawning of understanding or even as little as assurance coming from whatever it was he faced. Rhaegar frowned back at it and crossed his arms over his chest. His eyes roamed the path towards the ground until he noticed a small gap between the roots.
Was it aught like the small chest for donations, he wondered.
There was only one way to find out. He lowered himself on his knees and pushed his hand in the empty space. Naught was there.
Might be it had simply been taken away.
In the end, he decided to test the theory.
His ring was gone. Rhaegar palmed the humid earth in search of the object. It was nowhere to be found. Might be someone had followed him and taken off with the bejewelled band once he had left. It was the only plausible explanation. It could be the only plausible explanation.
He'd asked his septa about tree gods and where the donations chests were placed. And she had answered in a most unexpected manner, assuring him there were no chests and the old religion was naught other than tales the Northerners still chose to believe in. Of course, her explanation had been filled with the potential pitfalls of choosing such a religion, mixed in with a few threats of eternal damnation for the non-believers. Still, she'd made her point.
Thus, his ring could only be in the hands of a thief. That would teach him to have more care, right after his mother was done with him. That ring was supposed to be a gift. If he were to raise an alarm over its disappearance, it might well spell his end. Better to pretend he had no knowledge of it and with just a pinch of good fortune, he would not need to speak of it at all.
With that in mind, Rhaegar rose from his position and glared at the carved face. "What manner of god is as powerless as that?" But then he'd been a fool for believing there were gods in tress in the first place. He struck his tongue out in one last gesture of irreverence.
(A blue rose was nestled in the valley of his palms, bloomed wide and fragrant. Rhaegar inspected it for a few moments, twisting it back and forth. It was pretty enough, he supposed, if one enjoyed such sights. But it was just a flower, sent so much earlier to its death by the fingers that had plucked it.
Fingers. He glanced at those.
It struck him all at once at the sight of those hands, hitting harder than Dayne on a rampage. Those were not his fingers and most definitely not his hands. Startled, he jumped up and was horrified at the sight of waves of blue silk running down in curtains and folds.
Good gods, what in the bleeding hells was going on?
Before he could conjure an answer, any answer, he was interrupted by a disembodied voice. "Is there a chance you might come out of your bedchamber one of these days, or shall we wait until summer comes?" Undoubtedly, a young boy had spoken.
"I–" Even his voice sounded like that of a girl. Rhaegar turned and something bit into his skin with the movement. He winced and looked down.
There was aught beneath the kirtle's collar. Dare he look?)
Rhaegar fell out of bed with a loud thud, knocking his head against the hard tiles with a yelp of pain.
The first thing he did was look at his hands. Then down at the rest of himself, just to be certain. To his eternal relief, he'd not grown even the meagrest of bosoms and seemed to still possess all necessary elements to be his father's heir.
He'd simply had a strange dream.
About his ring. And a girl, whoever she was. She had his ring.
Arthur knocked him back with ease, the grin on his face fading. "I haven't seen you in so good a mood since the King nearly gave up the ghost in that keg of wine. Care to tell me what bother you so?"
To tell or not to tell. Rhaegar could almost imagine the reaction. And worst of all, Arthur would merely laugh it off and claim they should simply solve that with a visit to a pillow house. Not that he was fundamentally opposed to the notion. Still, he was going to keep the matter to himself for a little while. At least until he could understand what had happened for himself.
"It does not matter, Arthur. I am simply not much in the mood for any of it." He tossed his weapon away. "Might be on the morrow."
"This is truly surprising. Just the other day you were able to block me. Might be you are unwell. Care to spend a little time with the Grand Maester, my friend?"
"I would rather swallow a cup of nightshade." His companion laughed at the vehemence, clapping him on the shoulder with bruising strength. He tried not to pull away, if only for the fact that he discovered, to his consternation, that he had no memory of the previous day. Or successfully blocking any attacks.
Might be he was looking too much into the matter, but he could not help wondering what exactly it was that he'd seen and if it had seen him back.
Should he make another attempt at communication?
(His hand had grabbed onto something round and soft. Rhaegar turned on his back, a grow slipping from the back of his throat. And then he bolted upright, eyes flying to his hand. Who the bloody hell was this girl? Tugging his hand away, he made a valiant attempt not to think about the particular place he'd been touching.
On the other hand, pun not intended, he could finally try to find out where he was.
The bedchamber, for he supposed it was that, hosing a bed and other objects he could not make out in the absence of light, presented the obviously night setting in which everything was possible. Even finding out what her name was and how he could get his ring back.
He scrambled out of bed and very nearly tripped over the edge of the rug. A soft curse poured past his lips and a second obstacle worked to bring him to his knees. Without thinking, he grabbed at the slipper and tossed it. It slapped against the wall and then fell to the ground with a sharp sound.
Blindly feeling his way through the darkness, he ended up slamming against the desk. Rhaegar felt along the surface carefully. He found a quill and further ahead an inkbottle with a stop in place. It would be too much to ask for parchment as well. He would use what he had then.
Rhaegar uncorked the bottle and dipped the tip into the well carefully.
Who are you?)
(Look under the weirwood roots.)
The question is who you are rather than who I am. And what are you doing to me?
He chuckled. Having heard her voice, even if by mistake, he imagined the words spoken in a shrill cry of indignation and could not help himself. Still, her answer did not satisfy his curiosity in the least. Although, the more he looked at the scratched out lines beneath her first few words, the more he thought there was aught the gods had not allowed to pass between them.
It seemed it was high time to test the weirwood tree a second time.
Thus, without much hesitation, he scribbled his name upon the bit of parchment and added a question of his own. If that was the game, he was more than willing to play. Let her match her wits against his.
(It is rather difficult for me as well. And I imagine we are sharing a like experience, thus I wager we'd best come to an agreement. For both our sakes.)
While he was ambling about in her skin, she was likely seeing the world through his eyes. Which in itself was rather frightening. Up until that point they'd not interacted with the world around them to a great degree, though it seemed the girl had matched skills with Arthur and he'd found her adequate. Whatever that said about her.
(Listen to me and do exactly as I say, if you want to avoid trouble.)
Would that she listened.
I do not recall the exact details, but what it came down to was a bloodbath. Lord Darklyn would not release the King and the Lord Hand could not charge directly. In the end, 'twas Ser Barristan who saved the King's life, though his sanity was left behind somewhere. I am very sorry to be the bearer of such news.
"Allow me to join you, father," Rhaegar tried once more, looking at his sire over the supper table. His lady mother was staring at her food, studiously ignoring the both of them, no doubt still annoyed at some disagreement she'd had with her spouse.
"You are awfully insistent," Aerys murmured. "This interest of yours in the matters of the realm is not aught I'd expected. Why the sudden change?" Not that his father had any particular interest in the goings-on either.
"I thought it time to learn, Your Majesty. And who better to learn from?" It had to be the lickspittles around him which had fed into that particular attitude, yet it came in handy; when he wished to convince his father of something, copious amounts of flattering attached to his point would be more than persuasive.
I wish you good fortune in whatever you choose to do, whoever you are. But know that I shan't be satisfied with anything other than recognition should you succeed.
(Dapple light fell over the shield, the laughing weirwood glowing with joy.)
"If you insist." And that was that, Rhaegar surmised, as his father lost all interest in the conversation. Just as well, for further questioning would have likely ended up in incomprehensible babbling on his part. He breathed out in relief, pushing his plate to the side.
(I think that time itself has split. If my assumptions are correct, you are at some point in time ahead of me, but it cannot be very long. What we should do is attempt to find a converging point. I could finally put a name to your presence.)
And why would I wish to see your face? You lost to my brother. My brother. He teased me for an entire couple of days. You cannot imagine how that felt. I taught him how to wield a blade. This is beyond embarrassing and I demand you hone your skills or give up the blade.
(I've already apologised for that, my lady. Your brother took me by surprise. And whenever I happen to be in your home, I am assaulted by dizziness. One cannot fight and fend off fainting at the same time. Might be you should consider eating something every once in a while.)
Might be you should consider keeping your nose out of other people's affairs. After I helped you, as well. The least you could do is show some gratitude. If it had not been for me, your King would have been naught but a shade of what he is on this day.
('Tis not that I do not appreciate the aid, but I was the one who fought. Mayhap consider that, my lady, if you would be so kind.)
Fine. Then you manage on your own from this point forth. I would not wish to deprive you of your glory.
(That's just twisting my words.)
I am so very sorry.
Rhaegar held his ring tightly. He'd not looked at the object, not since he'd gathered it and the note from beneath the roots of the weirwood tree. The third thing he'd found was a pressed blue rose. Blue roses grew in the North. There was a boy who was her brother, younger, close to her in looks.
Why couldn't he recall her name? The brother had said it, hadn't he? When Rhaegar was besting in him swordplay as a belated apology to her. There had to be some sort of clue, something he could use to find out her location.
"Is there a reason for which you are staring at that tree, or?" He turned at the sound of Arthur's voice. "Are you a hound waiting for its master?" There was no answer for that. "Are you going to speak?"
"I would rather not speak at all." And yet there he was. Speaking. "You would not understand anyway."
"Because you are not telling me anything. If you would make the slightest attempt." He had thought about it. But telling Dayne felt like a betrayal of sorts. It was supposed to remain a secret. "Are you going to?"
And what was the daft girl apologising for anyway. If she'd truly felt a sliver of remorse, she would have looked for a way to say it to his face, not write it down and consign the whole incident to a dark, dusty corner.
"To be perfectly honest, I do not think I should."
(The waters of the Trident swallowed him. It wrapped itself around him, dragging at the metal covering with vicious strength. It was the end of the road. And he called out her name.)
Arthur blinked, his face scrunched up in confusion. At least he'd not dragged him to Pycelle, asking for the lunatic to be confined. "And you know naught other than the fact that she is a lady, has siblings and is rather good with a sword. I am certain this does not fit a great number of ladies, my friend."
Rhaegar could console himself with the thought that he had not breathed a single word about being able to see through her eyes. "As if I do not know as much. I swear I knew her name though. If the gods wanted me to meet her, then why contrive such a complicated scheme?"
"That is rather harsh on the gods; they need their entertainment as well." And with those wise words, Arthur ambled over to a row of tomes. "My advice is that you take a look at all the houses. Might be one of the names will jolt your memory."
It was not as though his chance of finding what he looked for was as slim as finding the needle in the haystack. Nay, indeed; it was even lesser. Burring his face in his hands, Rhaegar took a moment to register the heat. Heat. Warm walls. Fingers trailing over warm tiles, marvelling at the miracle of craftsmanship. Home.
He was not meant to loom for a woman's name.
Winter is rarely cold here. Although I do not think that makes much sense. Rather, winter is never cold within these walls.
"You promised I could have anything I wanted," Rhaegar pointed out, his plan coming together at long last. "I am not asking for the world, am I?" Thanked be the Seven that he'd caught wind of his mother's plans. "Am I?"
"Nay, but consider the matter, my son. It is a delicate problem and it requires more attention than you have been willing to give it. Surely you understand your father and I wish only what is best." He did believe she was doing what she thought best. He did not necessarily agree 'twas in his best interest.
"Four more years. That is all I ask." Rhaegar willed them to agree. It must sound like insanity to them, but he'd finally figured out what it was that he had been searching for. "Trust me."
He would do it right the second time around. There would be no bloodshed. There would be no misunderstandings.
("Do you ever wonder what our lives might have been like if we'd been just a tad brighter?" she questioned, fiddling with the ornaments in her hair. "It seems such a pity to have been blessed with such love; a wasteful curse."
Worse than a curse. "There is little point in such ruminations." Though he spent enough time on those to bring about headaches. "You should return within. The night air is growing chilly."
"Winter is never cold here. Not with you. Have I not told you that?" And she likely believed in her own words. The worst sort of believer; the one able to deceive even one's own self.)
("You look as though you are going to be ill," her younger brother commented, lips quirking slightly. "If you want, I'll tell Brandon to stop for a little while." He was not feeling ill;' just the slight wooziness which accompanied every single visit he made.
"I am not unwell." At least her voice had not changed all that much. And he was so very glad to hear it. After what seemed like a hundred years of absence. "Where are we?"
The boy pulled a face. "I just told you, didn't I? Why aren't you listening to me?" He crossed his arms over his chest. "We are near Harrenhal. Gods be willing, once this tourney is over and done with we'll never have to bother with any of its kind again."
"Tourney?" At Harrenhal? That brought back a slight sense of unease. Rhaegar squirmed in his seat, wondering why the bench was so hard. Did the North not know of cushions?
"Have you taken a tumble? Did you hit your head?" Her brother leaned in. "The Prince sponsored a tourney. Lord Whent offered to host it. We are going as well. To watch. And Brandon to participate in the joust."
"And that is not a good thing?" Rhaegar prodded.
The brother's eyes exhibited a fair amount of disbelief. "You sure change your mind fast. Have you grown more comfortable with the thought of wedding Robert, then?"
"What?")
There was only one solution. Rhaegar just hoped he was not too late.
Hope dies last, wasn't that the saying?
"Here it is," Lord Whent pointed out the weirwood. Rhaegar would have recognised it even without that. He nodded his head and asked to be afforded a few moments of silence. Fortunately for him, Lord Whent did not take that as aught amiss with the Prince. Likely as not because his kith and kin was nearby and willing to vouch for the Crown Prince's sanity.
And with that comforting thought, Rhaegar knelt before the tree. The face carved in this one looked almost as though it were concerned. It was right to be concerned. "I have a request to make." His whisper did not stir as much as a leaf. Not knowing whether he would be struck where he sat, or simply ignored, Rhaegar continued. "If you are truly disposed to aid, then give her this." He tied the string to one of the protruding roots, turning the ring so that it might be hidden from sight.
For a brief moment he thought he heard aught behind him.
Rhaegar turned, searching for the source of the disturbance.
From behind a line of tress, a form sprang forth, bathed in dying sunlight.
The young woman's eyes landed upon him, widening. "You. Are you truly here?"
He found himself nodding, holding one hand out. Without hesitation, she lunged at him, ignoring his hand in favour of a powerful embrace. "You truly are here. I am so glad."
"As am I." She drew back. "Now if only I could put a name to your face." She laughed.
"Look at him," Richard said, not even trying to hide the fact that he found the whole thing amusing. "One of us should tell the man that hurrying along this road would only end up in broken necks.
"I invite you to attempt it," Arthur encouraged. While he showed none of his good humour, he was not at all opposed to egging the other two on. "Let us see which one of you lads is up to the task." That was, of course, if any of them managed to catch up. Rhaegar rather hoped it were not the case.
"Why not do it yourself, Dayne? Richard and I are, as you so accurately point out, mere lads. But you are a knight. Might be 'twould be unfair to pit squires against their own master. Don't you think?" Myles cut in, clearly enjoying himself. And they only had a few more days to go.
A few more days of teasing and annoying him. But it was well worth the pain. Rhaegar reminded himself that much whenever the urge to punch any of the three threatened to take over. It just so happened that the itch was ever present. "'Twill not be my broken neck," he shot back, without missing a beat, turning his head just slightly.
Someone laughed. Possibly Myles. Richard was too busy trying to convince Dayne he was not afraid of a challenge.
He could hardly believe he'd managed to work around the obstacles. By sheer dumb luck. Proving once and for all that the gods did exist.
An armful of Northerner she-wolf later, Rhaegar was trying to keep his balance along with withstanding the impact her additional weight slamming into him. As it turned out, his beloved was entirely uninterested in anything other than hurtling towards the ground, or in their case a bed, which had been conveniently placed as though to catch reuniting lovers.
"What took you?" she questioned, straddling him with the efficiency of an experienced rider, which she was, truth be told. "The rain stopped days ago." Pouting down at him she unwisely pressed even harder into his frame.
Rhaegar, trying to get around his knotted tongue, attempted to move his hands from her waist to her shoulder. Miscalculating her own shifting, he ended up grasping something entirely different. "This feels very, very different."
The maiden straddling him flushed a bright red. "It is not my fault you are a giant." She pushed his hand away and tried to pry herself off of him. Alas, it was much too late, for in the fashion of all good dragons, he was not about to give up the prize.
"Nay; do not even think about it." With practiced ease, he trapped her between himself and the mattress. "You do not get to run off now; not after I have spent so long searching for you."
"I am not running off, dimwit," she returned, cheery as ever. "But someone might come, you know. I am here with my father."
"Came to see it with his own eyes, has he?"