Different Endings

"In the 184th year since Aegon's Conquest, Aegon IV, the Unworthy, at last let go of life. His son and heir, Prince Daeron, departed Dragonstone within the fortnight…"

Dragonstone was cold, windy, gloomy, and always smelling of smoke. Everything Myriah Martell was not used to. Everything she disliked. Of course, she was too well-bred to say so but Daeron could tell it by the way she spoke of the sun and sand of the distant land of her birth. His wife had not brought a great dowry but her demeanor carried confidence and pride, as if her very presence was an honour to the Seven Kingdoms, as if by wedding her to Daeron, Dorne had granted the realm a great mercy. That might be the key for joining Dorne to the rest of the kingdoms, Daeron thought. Never trying to break their pride. Of course, his father hated her for her pride – to him, the late King had saddled the family with a savage, vastly inferior match. Daeron knew for sure that Myriah's fertility had dismayed her goodfather a great deal.

It had been a mistake to bring her here. What was I thinking, he berated himself even as he lifted Baelor up to let him see Dragonmont better. His firstborn was entranced with the pale grey mist reaching for the sky. Aerys stirred impatiently in his nursemaid's arms, reaching with his tiny hands to catch the wisps, his eyes huge with wonder. Why did I decide that she'd want to live here? She'll probably get sick before the first moon is over. Of course, he couldn't really do anything about it right now. Returning to King's Landing was out of question. It was the season of storms, Myriah's time was near, and the idea of having his wife and two children tossed up by the whims of whatever tempest happened upon them was not an option. The chance of their third being born in the clutches of a storm was very real should they head back.

"A volcano," Myriah murmured, awed. "I've never seen a volcano."

Her hand went to her belly but while once, with their first child, Daeron would startle and ask whether everything was all right, he could now say that this was only one of the times she was trying to calm down the kicking babe.

"I am sorry," he said, taking in her gaunt face, the bruises under her eyes, her great fatigue. "I should have never brought you here. I just thought…"

He had seen it as a chance. Now, at becoming the heir to the Iron Throne, Dragonstone was his. He could learn here, prepare for the day he'd become king – a very different one to the ruler his father was already shaping out as. They could start again here, only him, this beautiful stranger who was his wife, the children that bound them together, and the people they chose. He and Myriah could get to know each other in a way that had proved impossible in the pot of intrigues and bad will that was King's Landing. Still, until now the city, and they, had been under Viserys' strict codes of behavior. But now?

Myriah seemed to have read his thoughts. She took her wool glove off and laced her cold fingers through his. "Let's stay here, my heart. We'll never be able to have a home of our own between the walls of the Red Keep, not while your father rules."

"Yes!" Baelor piped in. "Stay with vol… vul…"

"Volcano," Daeron helped him and took him down. Baelor loved being lifted to be shown things but he insisted that he always walked on his own two feet. Daeron gripped his son's hand tightly because the boy could run surprisingly fast for a two-year-old. Then, he turned to Myriah. "Let's go," he said. "Let's go home."

When Prince Rhaegar and his new wife chose to take up residence on Dragonstone instead of the Red Keep, rumors flew thick and fast across the Seven Kingdoms.

When he first brought his bride here, he felt quite uneasy. He was always fond of Dragonstone and he loved spending time here. But he had never thought of actually living here full time. And now, while they were waiting for the boat to come and take them, for no ship this deeply wading could go over the sharp stones blanketing the bottom near the coast, that idea looked especially bad. In some old parchments, there was the hypothesis that there was actually sharpened dragonglass scattered all over the bottom. A legend, of course, a tale meant to catch a child's fancy. But the danger of the teeth of the invisible beast down there was very real.

Rhaegar reached out and arranged the hood around Elia's face. Instinctively, she jerked away from the unfamiliar touch. But her self-control was such that she immediately calmed down and let his clumsy fingers fumble with the sable. The hair beneath it could rival it in lustre. I am very lucky indeed, to find beauty besides all her other makings, the Prince thought. Of course, to him his new wife's wits were her most appealing trait. But a hair flowing like a sunless river and eyes as black as dragonglass were nice additions. Maybe one day, her beauty would touch his heart. He hoped so, although this hadn't happened yet.

She smiled at him with her blue lips. "It's lovely here." Her voice was soft, as if she was trying to protect her throat from the harsh wind trying to blow them away.

Rhaegar narrowed his eyes. He had half-expected her to insist that they return to King's Landing at once. He couldn't blame her. She had had no idea what she had agreed to. But he? Had his desire to be as far away from King's Landing as possible blinded him so much that he had thought it a good idea to bring a sickly woman here? By the colour of her face, or rather lack thereof, he could say that tomorrow, she'd be very ill indeed. And how not? The sunless gloom of the ever damp Dragonstone, with its stones of hell, was the last place a daughter of the desert would choose to be.

"Do you truly think so, Princess?"

Rhaegar swept his eyes from his wife to Jon Connington. The words themselves were innocuous enough, yet there was something in his friend's voice that he misliked. "The Princess is not obliged to tell anyone what she truly thinks… or not," he said sharply. Now, he caught it: Jon had sounded as if he was interrogating Elia and that was something Rhaegar would not condone, friendship or not. He had taken Elia here to protect her from his father. He would not have his own friends disrespecting her. They would have a court of their own here and no one would act with derision against their future queen.

Jon blanched, for Rhaegar, for all his charm, could be as imperial as Aegon the Conqueror himself.

"Come on, my lady," Rhaegar turned to his wife. "The boat is here. Let me assist you."

She smiled once again and headed for the rope-ladder, despite the fact that her frozen limbs weighed her down like leaden. Grimly, Rhaegar thought that in the brief time that had elapsed after their wedding, she had had the chance to get to know his father well enough to brave storms and seas, and declining health just to be as far away from him as possible.

"Do you want me to send Jon away?" Rhaegar asked when they were finally alone that night. To the moment, she had not expressed any irritation over his friend's behavior but that was not the first time Jon had let her dislike of her show and frankly, Rhaegar was getting tired of rebuking him to no avail.

Elia shook her head and smiled faintly. "No."

He gave her a long look. "Are you sure? He… hasn't been very respectful towards you."

"I am sure," Elia said, inspecting the small dragonglass dragon on a side table. "It isn't something that he can control. And he's your friend. I wouldn't have you losing your friends over me, my lord, as grateful as I am for your willingness to sacrifice on my behalf."

He went to her and caught her small, slim hand. "It's you who's doing the sacrifice, Elia," he said softly. Behind her soft manners and gentle smile, he had already had the chance to feel the steely pride that matched his own. Tolerating Jon probably stung more than she cared to admit but she would do it. She'll make a good and just queen, he thought. Indeed, she was one whom he might, in time, trust with his plans. "I know it isn't a small one. I will not forget it," he promised. "One day, I will repay you as you deserve."