Rhaegar I
She is beautiful.
That is his first thought when he meets the girl they would come to call the Maid of Fire.
But before all that he is horrified by his father's thought of revenge. Watched as he flattered the Lord of Harrenhal with a hiss of his words, demanded a King's right to show them all the might of the King. Rhaegar felt his jaw clench when he spied the King's favored pyromancer, stepping to the center of the jousting field. He walks with a large vat being dragged by the others of his order, and something drops in his stomach as the man bowed before the King with a sickly smile. Rheagar knows then that all his plans have been brought to a head. For It is a vat of wildfire amidst all these people. My people, that I called to end a Reign. Rhaegar feels Elia's hand tremble when she lays it on his arm. Even through his light cotton doublet, he feels the lacquered nails dig into his arm. He feels her gasp, silent as it is, because she has pressed herself into his side. And he is suppressing his own gasp.
He knew his father's lust for fire had grown.
But not to this extent. The vat is too large.
It could fit a person, as tall as a man, and as wide as one, and Rheagar knew without a doubt that amount could kill them all if it is even slightly mishandled. And though Qartlon is famed for his ability to temper flames, this is wildfire and his wife is with him. His baby princess is in the Keep, but still too near.
"Father-" he starts, and he stands in his alarm.
His father turns to him, eyes hard and narrowed. Discolored and bloodshot. A savage grin appears. Highlights the teeth he had lost.
"Sit down, traitor. Light the fire."
"Father, no!"
His father laughs.
"Did you really think you could usurp me? That you could call your rats to take my place as King?! BURN THEM ALL! BURN THEM ALL!"
People scream, start to rise, will no doubt tramp and panic- The pyromancer grimaces, but obediently lights the fire. The green flames come alive. His first movement is to his wife, covering her with his body, hand reaching for her's to run, and then he is staring stupefied as the green fire changes. His father's laughter dies. His screams for all of their deaths were cut off.
For there is something wrong with the flames. The pyromancers flinch away, stare in disbelief. The dance of emerald and jade flames has turned blue.
Sapphire and turquoise, with glimmering white flames of pure power and light.
When the pyromancer tips the vat over despite his alarm, the flame does not spread as it should. No, it dances in place. Hypnotic and beautiful. Then the dance forms something in its place, twining to what looks like- A woman. Her hair long and flickering, her arms extended and poised. Her hips lush and full. A beautiful maiden of light and flame. Gorgeous and made of white and blue. Then most of the blue twists and turns, to a rich, rich red. Her hair is that red, long and floating and-
It turns to normal hair.
Gorgeous, but normal. The glowing white fades to clear white skin. A young woman naked and stumbling comes out of his father's 'surprise'. Everyone stops their panic.
Everyone freezes.
And the beautiful maiden of fire takes another stumbling step. Utterly sublime, with hair as red as normal flame, coppery and long, near to her knees, skin pale and luminous white. Her face is peaceful, lips parted, eyes closed, and the rest of the blue flames dance around her until they die softly about her naked flesh.
And she stands, a beautiful maiden in the jousting field where before there had only been death.
Everyone is agog.
The young woman blinks. Her eyes fluttered open, as blue as the flames she had been born from. She blinks, once, twice. Her lovely face grew confused. She takes another stumbling step. Her head snaps back and forth, eyes growing wider as she looks around.
"Jon?" she asks, voice musical and perfect, "Arya? Bran? Rickon? Sir Brienne? Sir Jaime?"
She takes another stumbling step. Covers fair breasts automatically with long arms.
"JON!" she screams, voice desperate, "ARYA! BRAN! RICKON! BRIENNE! JAIME!"
Something tugs at his heart. And without his mean Rheager has let go of Elia's hand and is leaping over the royal platform, hand reaching for the clasp of his cloak. He removes it. And without a thought, he catches her as she stumbles mid-step. As if her legs cannot support her well. Like a newborn. And he drapes the woman of fire in his own dragon cloak. Covers naked flesh tenderly and carefully. The lush silk is black and scaled in red-gold samite made to look of scales that glimmer in the sun. She starts, eyes growing wider, tipping her head to look at him.
She is tall, this young woman.
Tall enough that she needs only to lift her head just the slightest amount to look him in the eye. Rhaeager thinks he gasps as her blue eyes lift, as they lock on his own. Tully blue. She has the looks of the Tully girls. But even more beautiful. Face perfect and fair and-
She stares.
"You are Prince Rheagar Targaryen of Westeros," she says, simply, in her perfect voice, sweet and even. Tempered by all things, a Northern accent.
He had heard Brandon Stark speak the same way just last night.
Rheagar stares back. Swallows thickly. His hands linger on the young woman's shoulders. He has to pull back. He has already covered her. But his hands linger.
Her hair is only a shade off from the red stitches, darker than the red of my House.
"I am."
She stares at him, and it is only because he holds her shoulders does he know that she is trembling. Then she stuns him. Because she curtsies, form picture-perfect, head dipping down demurely. Careful enough, however, to not disturb the cloak she had wrapped around her. She stays down, without a tremble or flinch in her form now.
"Your Grace, I find myself in a peculiar position," she says firmly, but politely, "And I fear that I am quite out of sorts. Would it be possible to be granted something to wear?"
Rheagar blinks and gives a short nod.
"Of course, my lady," for if she is anything but a lady he will eat his cloak, he draws back his hands, as they had stayed stupidly in the air after she had lowered herself into her curtsy, "Elia, my love."
He turns to his wife, and she is already moving, her most trusted Lady Ashara at her heels. She looks as stunned as he feels, as she reaches over to touch the strange young woman from the fire on her lovely face.
"Come, sweetling," says his wife, infinitely gentle, "I shall help you."
The young woman swallows and dips into another perfect curtsy.
"Thank you, Princess Elia?" her voice is a question, and his wife nods encouragingly.
"WAIT!" screams his father, voice breathy, "THAT WOMAN IS MINE!"
Rheagar feels his stomach roll. Especially at the lustful look, he throws the woman of the fire.
"Seize my father," he calls out, voice hard.
No one moves.
"Seize him now."
Jaime Lannister, barely a man at five and ten, is the first to react. Jumps forward and strides into the royal box with a hard, firm face to grip at the decrypted form of his father as everyone stares stupefied. Starts to subdue him as he thrashes about. Arthur is the next to react. And he reaches forward to help his former squire as the Lord Commander Gerold Hightower is reaching for his sword. Sir Barristan leaps to his feet, his face growing hard. It would become a blood bath. Rheagar knew this as he knew he must act.
"I disavow you!" called Rheagar, voice firm, "You have lost the right to be King, with the lives of the people of this Tourney. Stand down, Lord Commander. I command it."
And somehow, in one action as Lord Commander took to his knees, Rheagar knew he was now the King of the Seven Kingdoms.
MY LOVELIES. There is something wrong with me.
Don't publish anything new until I have five full chapters I say, twenty if it's a drabble series, I say.
Look at this girl WRITING FIVE CHAPTERS OF THIS IN LIKE A WEEK. The next chapter to be published. Catch me next Friday with this crazy plot-bunny that grabbed me in the middle of the night Monday like a frying pan to the head. Also, before you ask, I'm trying to keep this as short as I can. Thinking about twenty chapters, for now, but maybe more if I think of them.