He wonders, in the roar of applause and the distant sound of shaking breaths being sucked in between quivering lips, if this is what people meant when they spoke of Ostara Baratheon. Wonders if the intensity of her eyes is what prompted Lords and Ladies to whisper about her oddness. Rhaegar would not be surprised if it were the reason for her eyes are unlike anything he's seen before.

When she'd first entered the hall Rhaegar had watched her, his friend and confidant, the girl who wrote him pages upon pages just to speak of her day.

He can admit that she is brilliant, more brilliant then even some of the great Maesters and scholars whose books lay used and worn in Rhaegar's personal chambers. But surely it is not her brilliance that the Lords and Ladies of the realm find odd.

But if not her eyes then what?

What about her had snagged his father's attention so? Tywin Lannister's attention so?

He cannot fathom it, perhaps because he knows Ostara well enough to call her a friend. But still, he watches her as Tywin congratulates his family on Viserys' birth, watches her as she smiled at servants, watches as she manged to get the typically stoic Baratheon son to chuckle at something she'd said that must have been rather funny. He even watches her from the corner of his eyes as he'd played the borrowed harp.

Whatever had fascinated his father and Lord Tywin enough to keep his interest fixated on the Baratheon girl Rhaegar had not known. Not at first. Not until now.

Now he understands.

There is a certain intensity to Ostara Baratheon. It's all in her eyes. Eyes that are too sharp, too focused, too knowing. Rhaegar thinks that she should not have eyes like that... For even when she offers a smile, perhaps forced or perhaps not, her eyes are still sharp enough to cut Rhaegar to the very bone. And while he knows she is intelligent, more intelligent then many full grown men, they have never spoken or truly met outside of the letters they'd taken to writing all those months ago.

Not since they were children in any case.

Vaguely, he wishes they'd had more opportunities to meet in person. It would have been less unsettling, he thinks, if he knew what Ostara was thinking. Knew what the little subtleties of her face that hinted at what she was thinking in regards to the woman currently speaking to her mother or the tourney or his music.

He is released from her stare when Arthur steps between them, smiling too broadly and too happily and Rhaegar considers Arthur a good friend but he isn't sure he appreciated the look in his off-purple eyes.

"Pretty thing," Arthur says when the lords and ladies around them have begun to speak loud enough to drown out their conversation. "Very polite."

"You've met I take it."

He ignores the irritation that tries to bubble up in his chest.

"Just yesterday, I came across the Lady Ostara and her pet exploring the tourney grounds.

Pet.

The way Arthur says it is amusing. Like he isn't sure whether he's terrified of the shadowcat or enchanted by it.

Personally, Rhaegar finds himself rather weary of the beast.

He still remembers what happened the last time Baratheons went to Felwood.

Ostara Baratheon's shadowcat had crushed a man's skull, bit down until skin split and the bone gave way beneath the pressure. Unrecognizable, a head made of mush, mutilated. All things Rhaegar had heard whenever someone spoke of that damned shadowcat.

A man with a crushed skull and several unidentifiable bodies.

A frown tugs at the corner of his mouth.

If his friend has a shadowcat that is so obviously loyal to her that it would protect her with such ferocity what does that say about her?

Like calls to like, after all.

"I find it hard to believe you just happened across her." Rhaegar replies, fingers idly stroking the intricate carving running up the pillar of the harp he's still standing beside.

Arthur shrugs.

"I was curious."

Curious.

Of course he was curious. Arthur Dayne, while a good friend and confidant, has always been too curious for his own good. It'll get him killed one day if he's not careful... But Rhaegar can't fault Arthur for his curiosity when it comes to Ostara Baratheon.

A quick glance at the girl shows that she has been brought before the king.

Something in Rhaegar's stomach knots as he watches his father interact with the girl who will likely be his wife one day.

Pale lavender eyes rake up and down Ostara's figure as Aerys speaks about something rather personal if the tension in the girl's shoulders is anything to go by. Rhaegar can only imagine what he's saying. Something inappropriate no doubt. His father has never been able to hold his tongue, whether he's well into his cups or no. It does not help that his friend has been left alone in the presence of Aerys.

But Tywin lingers alongside Lord Steffon. Both men hover at the very end of the long table his father had insisted be brought. If Rhaegar hadn't been looking he wouldn't have thought anything of it but he is and the two men are only just far enough away to offer the appearance of privacy to the King. Rhaegar watches for a moment longer before stepping around Arthur and making his way over to the put an end to whatever conversation Aerys is forcing the girl to endure.

"And my son's song? You enjoyed it?" He hears his father ask.

"I found it quite entertaining, your grace." Is her reply.

Rhaegar steps up beside Ostara and when his father notices him something in those glassy eyes turns sharp and angry. There is only one reason his father would be so annoyed with Rhaegar's presence and the prince stops himself from reaching out, curling his hand around Ostara's arm, and pulling her closer. He does not have the liberty to do so.

Not yet.

Perhaps not ever.

"I'm sorry to interrupt but I fear we've yet to be reacquainted." He says to the girl with the vivid purple eyes.

He does not reference the letters he has kept hidden away or the book she had sent to him nearly four moons ago. He does not say anything because his father does not know and what is the point in bringing it up before him when it is none of his business anyway?

She offers a tense smile and curtsies as is custom.

"An unfortunate circumstance I'm afraid."

His father scoffs, "Leave me, there is much I wish to discuss with my hand and my cousin."

Rhaegar takes the opportunity to guide Ostara away from his father with a gentle smile and a hand curled around her elbow. It is the only liberty he will allow himself. The only one she will let him take, no doubt.

Once they're away from Aerys and his eyes and his ever growing interest in Ostara, which Rhaegar finds vaguely disturbing as he's not sure what his father's interest is exactly, the prince turns to face Ostara and finds her staring at him.

Up close, her eyes are not so much intense as they are unnerving.

"I suppose I should thank you." Ostara remarks, tone dry but the smile curling her lip seems genuine enough.

"No thanks are necessary, Lady Ostara."

I did not want you near my father, he wants to say, he is known to take interest in fair maidens that peak his interest.

"Well, thank you none-the-less." Ostara turns her head toward the raised dais upon which his father is speaking with Tywin and Steffon.

Silence fills the air between them. It is not uncomfortable, it is rather peaceful. This is a silence that allows them to study one another away from prying eyes and whispers. Rhaegar is thankful for this opportunity as it allows him to truly observe his friend.

She is tall, but not so tall as him, the top of her head only coming to his chin. He suspects she'll grow a bit more as she's still young and Baratheons do not tend to be small in their stature. Her hair is long and the curls seem soft despite their wildness, she's inherited her mother's mouth and her father's jaw, and slender fingers.

Fingers that were made for music and art.

"I congratulate you on the birth of the Prince. I'm sure your mother is happy," Ostara says and this time she's smiling.

"Delighted."

"I am glad." It is said with a smile that softens the acute sharpness of her eyes.

And it sounds so genuine. So different from the vultures who had congratulated his parents and himself for Viserys birth but whispered about infidelity when his mother mourned the loss of her children. This girl has never spoken of infidelity or betrayal, her eyes are not cold with malice, she does not simper at him or bat her eyes as she speaks as if she were expecting her admittance of her pleasure to garner his affections.

He remembers his mother speaking of Ostara. Telling him about a girl with ancient eyes and a heart like liquid sunshine.

He'd thought it all terribly poetic. Thought that perhaps his mother, in her grief over another lost babe, had latched onto the girl who would one day be her good daughter. They'd been barely acquainted then and even though Rhaegar knew she was kind but had doubted she was as kind as his mother claimed. Even as they continued their correspondence Rhaegar had wondered whether her kindness was a lie.

Rhaegar was wrong to think such things.

"I think," He says after a long moment, "that we should talk."

"About the betrothal our parents are tying to arrange? Yes, I agree we should." Ostara says.

"You knew then?" Rhaegar asks, not entirely sure why he's surprised.

"Not until just recently."

Silence settles in the space between them.

Rhaegar isn't sure what to say or do. Nothing has been finalized, they might never be betrothed, though Rhaegar knows his father probably end up getting his way in the end. No one can truly refuse the King without consequences and Lord Baratheon is Aerys' cousin too. It's very likely that when Ostara is old enough to marry she will be married to him.

"I wasn't aware," Rhaegar finds himself saying, "but I suspected."

"Can I be frank?" Ostara asks.

"When are you not?"

She gives him a look but doesn't comment on his poorly timed joke.

"I don't know how I feel about this, Rhaegar. I'm not chattel, I won't be sold and bought." He somehow suspected she'd say that and he finds he's not offended in the slightest. "You're my friend, Rhaegar, and I don't want to spoil that."

"We don't have to talk about this now if you don't want to." Rhaegar says, "There's time to discuss it later. Right now no one is expecting anything from either of us."

Ostara stares at him for a long moment, lips pursed, before she nods.

"We do need to talk about it though Rhaegar. This is a decision that will effect both of our lives in one way or another." She says.

"I know and we will. But not right now." Rhaegar offers her a smile before turning his attention to the men and women dancing.

Beside him Ostara's stiffness melts away and he feels bad that he hadn't even realized she was so uncomfortable. Then, rather suddenly, she's smiling at him and asking if he'd dance with her. He's almost taken aback by the forwardness of it but finds himself smiling and leading her out onto the floor seconds later.

~X~

Later, after the Lords have left and Rhaegar has returned to his tent the prince lays across his cot and thinks about Ostara Baratheon.

Rhaegar sighs. There will be no sleep for him tonight. An unfortunate occurrence but one he is used to. He has spent many nights lately lying awake in his bed wondering about the future of his kingdom.

He wishes he had Ostara's ease of mind. He wishes he had her innocence. Unfortunately he is not so lucky and the weight of so much rests upon his shoulders. He wonders if Maggy the Frog would be able to do anything about it? Help him to understand the prophecy he'd found scrawled across aged, crumbling parchment in a book long since forgotten in the libraries of the Red Keep.

From what Rhaegar understands the Prince that was Promised would be born from a union of ice and fire.

The Prince that was Promised would be born of his blood.

But how can that be?

Ice and fire.

Rhaegar presses his lips together before rolling off the bed and slowly making his way to the small table in his tent with only the use of dim torchlight slipping through the flap of his tent to light his way.

Once he's reached the table Rhaegar lights the candle, watches the flame flicker and weave before burning strong. Without thought he holds his palm above the candle so that the flame licks and whispers at his flesh. There is heat but there is no pain, no damage left on the skin when Rhaegar pulls his hand away.

Yes, he thinks, a union of Ice and Fire indeed.

Unfortunately there is a problem.

Ostara Baratheon is not born of ice.

And yet... And yet...

Rhaegar runs a hand through his hair, tugging at the loose strands, and blows out the candle before returning to his cot.

Sleep does not come for some time. Rhaegar tosses and turns and sighs with every minute that slips by. Outside he can hear guards talking, laughing, making bawdy jokes as they do their patrols.

Go to sleep, he tells himself, sleep will do you some good.

And after what seems like hours Rhaegar's mind finally slows enough for sleep to claim him.

~X~

He dreams of a King's Landing, of the Red Keep, of Maegor's Holdfast.

There is a room that is vaguely familiar too him but he can't be sure because there is nothing but blinding white light flying through the window, reflecting off of every shining surface in the room.

Rhaegar flinches away from the light, twisting to lay on his side, and comes face to face with a child.

It is enough to startle him. Enough to make him jerk away from the little body curled up in the space between him and-

"Stop." A voice, rough with sleep, cuts through the white light. "You will wake her."

He does, stop that is.

Because he knows that voice. He'd only just spent the past evening speaking with the owner. Of course, Ostara Baratheon sounds older now but it is still her voice. Without realizing it Rhaegar relaxes just enough to settle into the pillows. He squints into the white light, only managing to just make out Ostara's figure. There is nothing distinguishable.

Not even the child, who is merely half a foot from him, is distinguishable.

Everything about them is washed out by the white light that fills the room.

"What is this?" Rhaegar asks even though he feels like a fool.

"This is us."

"Us?"

"Yes., our legacy."

"I do not understand."

"Hmm... Go to sleep, Rhaegar."

No, he wants to bark, I will not sleep.

He wants answers.

But there is a grey haze at the edges of the white light that grows darker and darker and darker until their is nothing but empty black space and a voice like fog and mist and wind brushing dead leaves across stone floors whispering about battle and monsters and a girl with magic in her veins.

~X~

When he wakes up in the morning it is to the hum of activity and the smell of food waiting on his table. Rhaegar rubs the sleep from his eyes, rolls over, reaches for... Something.

He frowns.

Aside from the smell of bacon and the unmistakable signs that Arthur had been in his tent Rhaegar can find nothing out of place or moved from their original spots. Which means that no one had entered his tent to steal from him while he slept. And he certainly hadn't slept with anything within grasp save his sword, but he had placed that at the foot of his cot not beside him and when he looks he confirms that the sword has not fallen.

Perhaps it was his dream. He can't remember it, of course, but he believes that the lingering sense of something missing is merely a product of his imagination.

It gives him some peace of mind as he rises from his cot to dress and eat.

Breakfast is simple. Toast, bacon, and eggs. He eats it quickly and covers the tray before turning to step out of his tent where finds Arthur and Ser Selmy waiting. He offers both a soft smile, barely that really, and moves to secure his scabbard.

"Your highness." Ser Selmy greets.

"Sleep well did you?" Arthur asks, eyes bright with mischievous glee.

Rhaegar wonders if he might have said something earlier when Arthur entered his tent. Assuming he doesn't talk in his sleep would be foolish but he hopes that if he had spoken while still in the throes of his dreams that whatever was said would not be... Too embarrassing.

"Well enough." Rhaegar replies.

And Arthur's smile turns downright feral.

"Good, you'll need all the energy you can get if you want to impress your friend. I hear she absolutely hates the melees." Arhur chortles.

"Yes, I am aware of Lady Ostara's disinterest." Rhaegar admits.

Something in Arthur's eyes dim, "You don't seem too disappointed."

"The tourneys are a way to entertain the people, Arthur, it is not my place to be upset over whether or not someone enjoys them."

Arthur opens his mouth but Ser Selmy steps forward, hand on the pommel of his sword.

"We'd best be going," it is not a suggestion, "much to do in so little time to do it before the tourney begins."

Neither of them argue. Neither of them would dare. Because Barristan Selmy is their friend and their mentor and he is a fierce warrior. If Rhaegar were a lesser man, a weaker man, he would almost fear Barristan Selmy.

But he does not and so it is with a nod that he turns to make his way to the tourney grounds.