I have come this way before, Jaime reflected a few miles further on, when they passed a deserted mill beside the lake. Weeds now grew where once the miller's daughter had smiled shyly at him, and the miller himself had shouted out, "The tourney's back the other way, ser." As if I had not known. King Aerys made a great show of Jaime's investiture. He said his vows before the king's pavilion, kneeling on the green grass in white armor while half the realm looked on. When Ser Gerold Hightower raised him up and put the white cloak about his shoulders, a roar went up that Jaime still remembered, all these years later. But that very night Aerys had turned sour, declaring that he had no need of seven Kingsguard here at Harrenhal. Jaime was commanded to return to King's Landing to guard the queen and little Prince Viserys, who'd remained behind. Even when the White Bull offered to take that duty himself, so Jaime might compete in Lord Whent's tourney, Aerys had refused. "He'll win no glory here," the king had said. "He's mine now, not Tywin's. He'll serve as I see fit. I am the king. I rule, and he'll obey."
That was the first time that Jaime understood. It was not his skill with sword and lance that had won him his white cloak, nor any feats of valor he'd performed against the Kingswood Brotherhood. Aerys had chosen him to spite his father, to rob Lord Tywin of his heir. Even now, all these years later, the thought was bitter. And that day, as he'd ridden south in his new white cloak to guard an empty castle, it had been almost too much to stomach. He would have ripped the cloak off then and there if he could have, but it was too late. He had said the words whilst half the realm looked on, and a Kingsguard served for life.
A Storm of Swords
For the first, last and only time Rhaegar Targaryen blessed his father's pet pyromancer. Rossart had succeeded where Rhaella, Elia, the Kingsguard, half the small council and Rhaegar himself had failed - he had coaxed Aerys into donning kingly robes. Left to his own devices, Aerys would have chosen the filthy rags he wore at the Red Keep, the ones he claimed had been blessed by King Baelor so that they might never hold poison.
Today, seated at his place of honour in the stands at Harrenhal, under an awning of green silk, his father looked regal... as long as his six-inch-long nails were hidden from sight. His tangled white hair straggled about his hollow face but the greatfolk who knelt to pay their homage before him saw only the crown of black-gold, crusted with rubies, on his head. His black eyes glittered strangely, in a way that worried Rhaegar, but the smallfolk who crowded below them noticed only the shimmer of the goldwork and the twined onyx dragons on his velvet tunic.
They had cheered for him when the royal cavalcade made it's way to the stands - they had cheered for the son, at first, but somewhere along the way they began to cheer for his father as they had not done in many years. They were dazzled by the shining silks and the bright jewels, they cheered the prince because he handled his great destrier so gallantly, they cheered the crown. They would have cheered any man who wore it. Aerys had grimaced and acknowledged the applause, Rhaegar had put on a mummer's farce of a smile and wondered who was madder - the king or his people.
They would do better to spit at us than to cheer us. I am not worth half of any man or woman who works the land to earn an honest penny, to buy his daily bread.
In Rhaella's absence, Oswell's thirteen-year-old niece, Shella Whent, the lady of Harrenhal, occupied the throne next to Aerys. She was a bright-eyed little thing and today she reigned as Queen of Love and Beauty of the tourney. Her champions were her four brothers and her whitecloak uncle. She would reign but a short time as queen for the jousting would begin on the morrow and the defenders of her honour would be challenged by the greatest knights of the realm.
It is a hard world for a woman when she must rely on a man to defend her honour, he thought, glancing at the little girl who was squirming in her seat. Cersei Lannister had once told him that she would give anything to be a man. Even a whoreson or a cripple or a dwarf like my brother, Tyrion, she'd said. And to be Jaime's equal, to have his skill at arms would be hold the seven heavens in my hands. He could see what she meant now. That I had been the woman and she the man, he thought sadly. She might have done great things like her brother. And I... I would have an excuse do sing and do nothing at all.
Arthur sat beside him and on the tier above them, Elia and her ladies. Ashara was right above him and she had taken it upon herself to provide a running commentary on all the lords and ladies who had come to present themselves before the King. She was in the highest of spirits today. Cersei had been sent to Casterly Rock and now it was Ashara's turn to reign as the fairest lady of the court.
She had already coaxed promises from her brother, Jaime Lannister, Ser Barristan who was as fond of her as though she were his daughter and a dozen young men to crown her the Queen of Love and Beauty, should they win the jousting. She had tried to sweet-talk him into pledging her the crown too, but he had laughed and told her that in the first place he would never win and in the second, even if he did win the crown would be Elia's by right. Ashara had pouted and said he should write a song about that.
"...There's the Fat Flower, fatter than ever, he looks like he's going to burst in that doubtlet. I can see his nipples. Why couldn't he afford a bolt or two more of cloth to cover that wide chest of his? His breasts are as big as my wet-nurse's. His lady mother hoards gold in her cellars, surely he's rich enough to buy a bit more of cloth. That's his lady there, did he pick her out for the girth of her stomach? Goodness, they're as matched as a pair of pigs going to the fair, pregnant pigs I should say-"
"Aunt Alerie is pregnant," little Lynesse Hightower said reproachfully. "She said she'd name the baby Loras if it was a boy, Margaery for a girl. They want a girl this time, they already have two boys..."
"No girls? Then who's that little girl with them? The one with those pretty brown curls?"
"Willas Tyrell, the heir to Highgarden, firstborn son to Lord Mace Tyrell and Lady Alerie Hightower," Selyse Florent, whose beard and utter lack of humour made her an easy butt for wits, recited. "He is nine years of age."
"That thing is a boy? Dear me, I suppoes he might turn out manly enough though. Rhaegar did but he used to look dreadfully like a girl. He lost a wager with Arthur once, d'you know? He had to wear this pink silk gown, all bouncing frills and crocheted roses for a day and everyone went around thinking he was some love-slave from Lys that they'd set loose in the castle."
He chuckled. He had been thirteen at the time, Ashara six. It was one of her fondest memories.
"I don't like fat men. Their faces turn shiny when it's too hot and they waddle," Ashara was saying plaintively. "Puissant brother of mine, sweet Star of the Morning, promise me that you'll never sell me off to a fat man. I want someone long and skinny like - like Jaime. Only not like Jaime at all, not too handsome, Jaime's always flirting with his sister or the serving maids-"
"Duly noted," Arthur said dryly.
Mace Tyrell and company waddled off, to be replaced by Lord Tywin's younger brother, Kevan, and his lady wife, Dorna Swyft.
"Cersei was right about that aunt of hers. She looks like a pregnant chicken, well Cersei didn't say pregnant, she only said chicken-"
"She is pregnant," Elia murmured. "Her first child. They hope to name it Lancel if it is a boy."
"Why is everyone pregnant? Next you'll be telling me you're pregnant too, Elia. And what sort of a name is Lancel Lannister anyway? 'Ser Lancel Lannister' - think of the ignominy of bearing such a name! It'd be a deterrent to anyone wanting to perform gallant deeds and noble acts of heroism. When I have a baby I'll name it something nice and short - something like Jon. When am I to have a baby and a husband of my own, O wise and glorious brother?"
"The one will follow the other," Arthur said easily. "I would recommend the husband first and the baby after that but girls will be girls... we can always marry you off to Ilyn Payne if you get yourself with child before Father gets you a husband. He won't talk back at any rate."
"And he's long and skinny," Rhaegar added. "But not too handsome. And he never flirts."
Ashara made a face at him. "Ooooooooooo - girls look! There, over there! The tall one with the black hair, at the back! Look at those juicy muscles of his, goodness isn't he delicious?"
Falyse Stokeworth giggled. Selyse, who had a perfect mania for houses, sigils and great names chanted, "Robert Baratheon, the Lord of Storm's End. He is seventeen years of age."
Rhaegar felt foolish that the girl had recognized his cousin before he had. The sullen boy had grown into a tall, dashing man. Two golden stags locked antlers in deadly combat on his black surcoat and his face, beneath a thatch of tousled black hair, was frank, boyish and undeniably handsome. The family to which he would ally himself by marriage milled about him - they wore the colours of snow and ice and rock. The marriage would undoubtably have been Lord Arryn's idea at first but Robert seemed well at ease with his kin-to-be.
Their faces were frozen into a look that was one part frost and three parts disdain. It was the way nearly all northmen looked when they rode south to attend tourneys or participate into frivolous southron games - at least until they had thawed a bit and realized that the Andals and the Rhoynar were not so different from the First Men at all.
Lord Rickard Stark, he thought, spotting the man with hair shot with white. Direwolves clawed at one another on his pearl-grey velvet cloak and his face was as hard as though carved from flint. One day I shall sit at your hearth as Cousin Robert has. He had always longed to go north, to see the Wall of legend and the Winterfell of song with his own eyes. They say ice runs in place of blood in the veins of the sons of the First Men. Looking at Rickard Stark, anyone would have believed it. They know something of the old gods and the old laws, the laws of the freefolk. They have tasted the bite of winter and when the long winter comes, they will be the only ones ready among us to face it.
"Goodness me, isn't that Cat Tully with them? And Lysa, dear me, who put Lysa in pink? She looks like a pomegranate!"
"Is Lysa to be married to him?" Mariya Darry asked curiously. "The one with those lovely muscles? I heard they had to break off the marriage betwixt her and Ser Jaime... such luck! Here's little Lysa Tully, scarce thirteen, twice betrothed to two beautiful men and here's me at seventeen promised to a Frey."
"Wasn't Lysa betrothed to a northman?"
"No, that was Cat," Ashara said. "He had a wolf for his sigil, I remember, but I'm blessed if I can remember his name. Something sparkly... Spark? Snark? Dark?"
"Stark," Selyse said shortly. "You ought to know what the direwolf stands for by now, Ashara."
"Direwolf? I thought 'twas but a common wolf. Well I'm hopeless at those tricksy names, especially the northern ones." Ashara's world began at Sunspear and ended at Lannisport. If she were to be believed, giants and cannibals lurked in haunted forests and ice rivers just north of the Neck. "Viserys is better at this sort of thing than me and he's six. But then, his father lets him have cinnamon rolls if he can remember them all. Now if my father had done that I'd be quite as clever."
Rhaegar was about to point out that memorizing the names of the high houses and their sigils was a pointless waste of time and energy, that the feudal structure they existed in would one day be pulled down by the smallfolks' revolution, similar to the Defiance of Duskendale, only larger and bloodier and longer-lasting in scope and effect... before he thought better of it.
"Catelyn is betrothed to the heir to Winterfell, Brandon Stark," Selyse said primly.
"I was once betrothed to Cat's uncle. Ser Brynden the Blackfish," Bethany Redwyne murmured dreamily. "But he wouldn't have me for some reason... and you needn't make those sheep's eyes at Lord Baratheon, Ashara. I hear that he's engaged to the sister, the Lady Lyanna Stark. Look, that must be her right next to him."
"That skinny little stick?" Mariya sniffed. "Some girls have all the luck..."
"Lord Baratheon is rather a large man," Elia said mildly. "It would be easy to appear slight next to him... the girl seems tall enough to me."
"She has such a little waist," Selyse observed. "And such beautiful hair, see the way it shines?"
"Everyone's hair is beautiful compared to yours, Selyse," Lynesse said haughtily. Lynesse was a golden-haired little beauty who idolized Cersei and took after her in looks and temperament. Selyse... did not. "I say she's too pale and her face is too long and pointy. I never liked the northern colouring at all."
"She has a sweet face," Elia murmured. "So fresh."
"She's not a peach," Bethany said dryly. "Though she does seem rather young... how old do you think she is?"
"Her legs are eighteen and her face is twelve," Ashara said succinctly. "And her breasts and her hips are ten."
"She's not pretty enough for him," Lynesse said petulantly. "Her colouring is all off. He ought to have a fairer bride, a golden bride." Lynesse Hightower had hair like spun gold.
"Good for us that she's not pretty," Ashara said brightly. "Maybe he'll flirt with us. Well not you, Lynesse, you're eleven and he doesn't look like a craddle-robber but you never can say... maybe you'll be lucky and he'll catch you and kiss you in the dark like Jaime did-"
"He took me for his sister!" Lynesse protested. "When I made him aware of his mistake he begged my pardon in the most gentlemanly manner possible."
"Why'd you make him aware at all, you little ninny?" Mariya demanded. "You could have let him go on kissing you and he might have compromised you and then you'd have a man on your hands with no trouble at all. Why do the gods shower luck on silly chits like you and never on me?"
"Who kisses their sister on the mouth, I wonder?" Ashara asked. "Arthur doesn't kiss me on the mouth. His Grace and Her Grace don't and they're married. No, Jaime's a craddle-robber I'm sure. Why'd he join the Kingsguard if not to hide his unnatural lusts? Either he's a monster of indecent appetites or he's gelded or he's a woman. He could be a woman, you know, he's so very pretty..."
Don't let the Lannisters catch you saying that. They always pay their debts.
"Your brother is in the Kingsguard," Arthur murmured.
"My brother's vainer than Cersei and Lynesse put together," Ashara said crisply. "He thinks he looks pretty in white, that's all. All that Morning Star business. If men called him Darkstar he'd wear a black cloak and join the Night's Watch."
"Oh do shut up, Ashara you fool," Mariya snapped. "I want to hear what Lord Baratheon is saying."
Robert was kneeling before the makeshift throne, his slender bride-to-be at his side. A sweet child, Rhaegar decided. There was laughter and a look of wonder in her wide grey eyes and her smile was as warm as summer. When she noticed him looking, her smile grew even wider. He gave her a tiny smile back in response, to put her at her ease. There is little of winter in this one. Her lord father knelt behind her and Rhaegar turned his attention to him - the Warden of the North fascinated him more than the little girl.
"Cousin Robert." Aerys studied him. There was a pregnant pause and Rhaegar offered a silent prayer to whatever gods prowled the skies that his father would behave himself. Let him not think of treason. Let him not think of fire. That is all I ask. "You look like a bear." Rhaegar breathed more freely though Robert had flushed. "A big, hairy black bear. So you've brought your maiden fair with you, have you? Well what am I to do with her? Service her with honey as they do in the song?" Ashara giggled.
"Stand up, you two. Seven hells, girl, you're a beanstalk aren't you? How old are you, eh?"
She kept her eyes low but her voice was not as meek as it should have been. "Four and ten, if it please Your Grace."
Aerys snorted. "And why should it please me? You're not here to please me, you're here to please yon hairy bear. Four and ten... well, you'll grow some more then, won't you? I'd advise you to do your growing in the hips, not in the legs... you Baratheon men all have such revolting taste. I remember your father, he ran off with some girl from Greenshit - Greencastle they called it, but I say Greenshit, all swamps and marshes and lizard-lions, I remember... nothing would do for Steffon but I must carry his little Estermont naked up to the bridal bed. But she had hips, I'll grant you that, big, strong hips and she popped you out within the year. Oh Steffon was pleased as punch, not yet twenty and already a big, strong squalling son to his name... have you any sons of your own yet, boy?"
"No, Your Grace."
Aerys grunted. "You're lying then. You look the whoring sort - why're you taking that milk-faced little sop at all? She'll be dowered in the northern honour and ice and that's a mighty cold bride to have. Does she have your bastard growing in her belly, eh?"
Lord Stark's face darkened but Aerys prattled blithely on. "Well, no matter if she does, she doesn't look the type to carry a child to term and mayhap she'll die and spare you a lot of trouble. Jenny wasn't the type either and she had this girl's look, I remember..."
Jenny of Oldstones, Rhaegar thought. She had been his father's Uncle Duncan's common-born lover. Jenny of Oldstones and her Prince of Dragonflies - there was a song about them that his mother had often sung to him when he was a child. The girl with stars in her eyes and a laugh like the music of the bells... he had loved it. She died at Summerhall on the day that I as born and so the throne passed to my grandfather Jaehaerys. Duncan loved the maid so much that he would never take a wife, and so he bore no sons to carry on his name.
"Well, what d'you want me to say, hmm? You never asked me for advice on marrying, you think you're a man grown because you're seventeen, eh? Should I bless your marriage with many sons or curse it with barrenness? I can do both, I'm a king. I'm a god." Aerys' voice rose but it was not kingly. It was only the irritable squall of a sour old man.
"It's all one and the same to me, well, no it's not. It would have been better if Cassana popped out a bonny little girl for Steffon in place of you and your troublesome brothers. Hairy big boys like you, you're only trouble. Now if you'd been a girl, my Rhaegar would never have lacked for a bride, but you weren't, more's the pity. Well, I bless you and your ill-made marriage with a boy or two and many, many pretty daughters... we'll marry one of them to Viserys, shall we? Yes, that'll do..." So grumbling, Aerys waved them off.
Elia leaned towards Rhaegar and whispered, "Should I invite the Stark girl to join my companions? If she's to be wed to Robert, it would only be the right thing to do, the Baratheons are your closest kin."
Rhaegar had no patience with courtly etiquette or conventions. "Do what you think best."
"Run and invite her and the Tullys to join us tomorrow," Elia whispered to Ashara.
The sun was low in the sky by the time the long train of nobles waiting to be announced and acknowledged had ended. Half the great houses of the realm clustered in the shaded galleries overlooking the tilting field when Aerys stood up. As one, the Kingsguard rose. It was time.
"We are gathered here today," Aerys announced as solemnly as a mummer, "To welcome a new star, a new jewel to the shining crown that we call our Kingsguard, our sacred whitecloaks...'
His royal father had a flair for histrionics. So did his mother, come to think of it. His voice was deep and kingly, he had quite shed his petulance in his eagerness to play his part. His garments rich and royal and the setting darkness lent a softness and grace to his wild face. He had once been charming and beloved. At times like this, it was not easy to remember that he was as mad as a dog.
Rhaegar studied Lord Stark's face. What did he make of his pomp, this pageantry? Did it amuse him? Did he resent it? The Starks were once Kings of the North. Perhaps these new alliances are only stepping stones to raising a second kingdom. He knew that his father thought it so. He had only come to Harrenhal because of his mortal fear that his son had chosen the tourney as a ploy to gather as many great lords about him as he could, to forment treason. As though I could not rise against without help. I could lift up my finger in Maegor's Holdfast, with nary a second thought and it would be done. Does he truly think himself so well-loved?
Well, he did not grudge the north to the northmen if they wanted it. If they govern in peace, they are welcome to call themselves kings or lords as they please. It would be interesting to treat with Lord Stark as one king to another, to go north as a guest instead of an overlord. Perhaps the Wall will stand better if it is in the hands of the north... Winterfell has stood against the wildlings and the winters for thousands of years, but that was when the Starks called themselves Kings of the North.
Jaime Lannister knelt before Aerys, so young and handsome that Rhaegar could hear many girls' hearts breaking at the thought that he would soon don the white cloak. His voice was steady and clear as he recited the vows to serve the king and the realm, to hold faith and honour, the vows that sounded so similar to wedding vows.
My father's crutch, Rhaegar thought sadly. Poor boy, he dreams of glory. He knows not what he faces.
The King threw the cloak of white velvet over Tywin Lannister's son himself and pinned the white-gold lion's badge. A cheer rose and Rhaegar joined in the applause, though with misgivings.
And Arthur knighted this boy not four moons hence. Fifteen years old, he's the youngest knight to ever don a whitecloak. Even Barristan was sixteen. He swears such a deep oath. Does he have the faintest idea of what he's doing? Is this but another child's game to him?
"Rise as a sworn brother and knight of the Kingsguard."
The White Bull raised Jaime to his feet, almost tenderly. The knights of the Kingsguard came forth, one by one, to give him the ceremonial kiss on the cheek and welcome him as a new brother with the old words that King Aenys the Weak had first coined for the sacred seven. The realm held it's breath and Jaime Lannister blushed as prettily as his sister might have. Rhaegar had just begun to breathe more freely when the disaster he had expected struck.
"There, now that's done," Aerys grunted. Jaime towered over the shrunken old man and Aerys had to look up to him. Doubtless, this had done nothing for his temper. "Now I've mumbled the words over your thick head and those long golden curls of yours, you're mine now." Ashara sniggered behind her hand. "We have seven among us today, have we? Seven's too many, I say, an ungodly number. We don't need seven, I'll have but six with me. My queen and my prince are left at the Red Keep, with naught but servants to attend them."
What am I? A bastard? Rhaegar thought.
"And so you'll be off on your way, boy, you're to go to the Red Keep and keep them safe. Yes, that's what you'll do..." Aerys cackled as Jaime's face turned as white as his cloak. Rhaegar felt trapped, helpless. I should do something, he thought uncertainly. But what? I might do the wrong thing, I might provoke him, you never can tell...
Gerold Hightower spared him the need to interfere. "Your Grace." The White Bull knelt and said, "Ser Jaime is but newly a brother to us, still more green than white. Would it not be fitter if I were to hasten to the Red Keep, to attend to Her Grace and the little prince?"
Aerys sniffed. "No," he said shortly. "I'm the King and that's my heir over there. I won't have my best knight with a woman and a child of no account."
"Your Grace, if you will but permit Ser Jaime to attend this tourney, I will be gone and come back before you know it, just after the jousting..." Rhaegar winced. That was clumsily done - it would only serve to inflame Aerys. Ser Gerold loves the boy like a son - that is why he has taken leave of his senses.
Aerys seemed to consider. "That is kind of you, Ser Gerold," he said. "The boy is more green than white, just as you said. Boys will be boys, won't they? They dream of honour, dream of glory... I did. You did. We all did. And he's such a strong lance, such a fine seat on his horse... half the wagers are on him, aren't they?"
"They are, Your Grace."
Aerys chuckled. "How delightful." For a moment, Rhaegar thought that his father had reconsidered, that he had seen reason - but he should have remembered that he was dealing with a madman. Aerys' face turned purple and he bent down to bellow in Ser Gerold's face. "He'll win no glory here! He's mine now, not Tywin's. He'll serve as I see fit. I am the king. I rule, and he'll obey!"
Ser Gerold remained on his knees, his face flecked with spittle, and Jaime's face was the colour of chalk. For a moment, Rhaegar feared that the rash boy would do something but then he bowed stiffly and said, "As my liege commands. I am yours, to serve you as you will, for life."
Aerys chuckled and patted his shoulder. "Good boy," he said, almost fondly. "I knew you'd come around, I knew it..." And so cackling, he wheeled around and left.
A/N: I've always imagined Aerys to be somewhat Walder-Freyish. Shella Whent is said to be the Lady of Harrenhal during the War of the Five Kings. I like to think that she was Ser Oswell's niece, the titular Queen during the first day of the tourney.
