A.N.: We never get to see Rhaegar or Rhaella or any of them, so I thought I'd bring them in…
So, when I envision Princess Elia, I think of Gal Gadot in her stunning red gown at the Vanity Fair after-party at last year's Oscars. Gal Gadot also has that rich, husky voice and sweet smile, and a subtle, sultry elegance I think would have come naturally to Elia.
For reference, when Rhaegar sings, I hear Pavarotti and Bocelli - the song he sings is the High Valyrian equivalent of Nessun Dorma with a hint of Con te Partiro. Because I seriously sob any time I hear either of those songs!
Valyrian Steel
12
Waking the Dragon
The Mad King was hideous to look upon. He brought to her mind the Night King's wights.
Beard untrimmed and wild, matted and unwashed, his hair fell in thick tangles to his waist, glinting a dull steely-silver in the light of thousands of candles. His fingernails were long, cracked and brittle, yellowed, untrimmed. His face was sunken and gaunt from malnutrition, his eyes bloodshot, heavy black bruises hanging beneath them from exhaustion. There was something faraway and distracted in his eyes, but at times they glinted with a sharp, suspicious lucidity. He was richly clothed, and wore on his head a huge, almost ungainly crown of deep red-gold, sitting low and heavy on his head, each of its points a dragon-head set with gemstone eyes that glinted in the candlelight, giving them an almost sentient feel. The crown of Aegon IV - Aegon the Unworthy.
Apt, Larra thought, cringing away from the madman in horror and disgust. She had heard - it was another thing entirely to see…
The King sat at the head table in a grand hall opulently decorated for feasting and celebrations - she remembered the Great Hall at Winterfell decorated with greenery and sweet herbs and white flowers from the glasshouses in preparation for King Robert's arrival: The garlands of vibrant, unusual flowers wreathed around the hall with sashes of vibrant silks put all their weeks of preparation to shame. The air was redolent with the perfume of tens of thousands of flowers - camellias and rhododendrons and roses of every colour, delicate jasmine and sweet orange-blossoms, unusual irises and elegant calla lilies, dangling chandeliers of orchids of a dozen colours and sizes, deep purple chrysanthemums and velvety white peonies, scented astilbe and hydrangea blossoms the size of her head, honeysuckle and columbines, showy gladioli and foxgloves, penstemons, hundreds of dahlias and alstroemeria, velvety golden-tongued blood-red snapdragons, waxy tuberoses and a hundred different kinds of perfumed narcissi. Their perfume mingled with the scents of the hundreds of nobles gathered, with the aromas of rich foods displayed for the feasters, the braziers burning with sweet herbs and the enormous hearths alive with firelight that sent sparks crackling and dancing, wafting tendrils of fragrant smoke to the older lords and ladies sharing potent tipples on elegant chaises, observing the dancers and playing dice games. It was almost stifling in the great hall: At the high windows, the shutters open and draped with samite, fat snowflakes drifted lazily past, glowing in the moonlight. Fine white linens clothed the sweeping feast-tables, which were groaning with decadence, gold glinting and fine crystal sparkling in the light of the thousands of candles, exquisite delicacies - cherries soaked in liqueur, gilded chestnuts, tiny delicate pastries filled with flavoured cream and glazed with caramel and decorated in elaborate towers with flowers, tiny dishes of sweetmeats dotted about and trenchers of fine cheeses, crusty bread, pickles and chutneys - displayed for the feasters to pick at as they finished the savoury courses and high in a gallery an orchestra played beautifully: Hundreds of dancers ignored their King as they enjoyed themselves, dancing a more boisterous country dance made elegant for the court.
Larra's stomach jolted. There they were.
Her family.
Benjen was young - perhaps ten, the same age Bran had been when he fell: He had Jon's narrow pale face and dark glinting eyes, but this was not the Benjen of Larra's memory - this was the boy Benjen, long before he had taken the black, when his family had been whole, and the world theirs to explore and enjoy. He danced eagerly with a slim young woman with long dark hair and expressive eyebrows, thoughtful, kind grey eyes and a beautiful smile that flashed out of nowhere - wolfish - and stunned casual observers, making them do a double-take. She wore a fine grey gown embroidered from the hem to her knees with silver winter-roses glinting with tiny beads; the modest neckline was decorated with a high collar all Northern noblewomen wore, stormy-grey silk adorned with silver direwolves at the points and embroidered heavily with Northern flowers Larra could name by scent blindfolded. The girl's hair was loose to her waist, except for the coil of twists and braids drawn from her face to the back of her head, the hairstyle Northern ladies called a crown - the same hairstyle Larra had always adopted for feasts and formal occasions: Lyanna had woven tiny white snow-bells and sprigs of palest purple-white lavender into her braids, decorating her crown.
"'Tis no wonder Father's smile always died at the sight of me," Larra said sorrowfully, her heart burning as she gazed at her mother.
For the very first time.
Larra's heart stuttered.
Lyanna's beauty was wild, unpolished; her laughter was free, her smiles wolfish and untamed. She danced with an unconscious enthusiasm, and enjoyed herself without constraint. Her gown was not the finest in the hall, by any stretch: She was not the most refined. But there was an earthiness, a natural charisma and joy that lit Lyanna from within. It shone in her eyes and made her smiles earnest and entrancing, and desired; half the men who saw her smile found themselves half in love with Lyanna Stark, wanting to ensure she smiled again - and just for them.
"You are very like her, in many ways," Brandon said softly. "But you are not Lyanna reborn. Father knew that. You are utterly yourself, and always have been." Larra turned to look at her brother - Brandon was watching with heartbroken sorrow as Lyanna danced with a roguishly handsome, huge man with the Stark direwolf emblazoned at the breast of his fine wool tunic - he had Father's impressive square jaw but Benjen's inky dark hair, and his smile was more boisterous. Her Uncle Brandon. There was a lot of Robb in his face, Larra thought, a blade twisting in her gut as she watched. Clusters of young ladies flocked about Brandon, eyeing him as if they were dying of thirst in a desert, and he was the oasis to save their lives. All around Lyanna, fine silks shimmered and jewelled hair-nets shone, but it was Lyanna, dancing with her wild smile and pretty flowers and modest neckline, who drew the gaze of half the men and women gathered at Harrenhall.
Including Prince Rhaegar.
Larra could not swallow the lump that rose in her throat when she saw him, staring at her mother across the great hall. Her heart thumped inside her chest, hurting.
This was it. The beginning of their family's misfortune that had plagued them for two successive generations.
She had always been told Rhaegar was beautiful. He was. Not the way she remembered Jaime Lannister, beautiful and golden, and almost too perfectly handsome, or even her brothers, with fierce jaws and solemn eyes and unexpected grins. Rhaegar's face was solemn, his features even and masculine, and very compelling to look upon. He had passed his lips on to Larra and Jon, and his cheekbones - high, sharper than Valyrian steel… And he was tall, very tall, deceptively slender-looking in his tailored tunic; he had broad shoulders, and a muscular torso and strong legs. A warrior's build. Jon had Rhaegar's broad flat shoulders but was slenderer in Larra's memory than Rhaegar, and Larra doubted life at Castle Black and beyond the Wall had done much to bulk him up since she saw him last. Jon had the shape of Rhaegar's eyes, but the colour of their mother's Stark grey eyes, so dark they appeared almost black in certain light.
Larra had Rhaegar's eyes exactly. Deep violet, almost indigo.
And his glinted in the candlelight, watching Lyanna as if entranced, sweeping from the glittering hem of her gown to her narrow waist - a tiny hourglass waistline Larra had inherited - to her high, plump breasts and the shine of her dark hair as she twirled and danced and smiled. With a jolt, finding herself weak-kneed and stunned as she gaped, Larra realised Lyanna was dancing with Robert. She had only ever seen him overweight and unhappy. Robert, the Lord of Storm's End, a young man in his prime, honed for battle, was handsome. Fiercely handsome, dark-haired, with vibrant eyes and an impish, unconcerned air; he gazed at Lyanna as if she was the only woman in the world. Lyanna's smile had cooled as she danced with him: Her eyes flitted to her older brother, to Ned, who looked down at the floor almost shame-facedly before turning his gaze to a pretty violet-eyed lady in a lilac silk gown, her dark hair glittering with silver jewels. Lady Ashara Dayne, once rumoured to be Larra's mother…
The music forced a change of partner as the dance changed: Rhaegar sipped his wine, watching Lyanna over the gilt rim of the crystal glass, a yearning, hungry, sorrowful look on his face.
He sighed, shoulders rising and falling, and slipped into an empty chair beside a startlingly beautiful olive-skinned woman with twinkling dark eyes and a delicate demeanour, draped in a glinting blood-red, sleeveless gown cut simply and sensuously, without corseting or darts for shape, a trailing hemline and a neckline cut with sensual elegance to the navel, hinting at her tiny breasts and showing a faint glimmer of silvery-pink scars on her flat belly - the mark of motherhood. Draped from her slender throat, glittering sensuously all the way to her navel, was a necklace of gold filigree sunbursts and soaring dragons linked together, set with rubies and garnets. Her black hair shone as it wove to her waist, tucked away from her face to show off her delicate cheekbones and glinting dark eyes. She wore a gauzy shawl of gold Qartheen lace draped over her elbows, and looked slightly ill but incredibly lovely as she sipped apricot liqueur and played a game of cards with her lady-in-waiting, just about hiding her winces of discomfort as she fidgeted subtly in her high-backed chair piled with cushions.
She made such a striking figure, with her glossy hair and her simple gown and sensuous eyes and that glittering necklace, the rich colours of gold and blood-red so exquisite against her skin, for the first time in years, Larra's hands twitched to grind pigments and drench herself in the odour of turpentine and paint…
One day she would paint Princess Elia. Hers was an exquisite beauty that deserved to be immortalised… And with Jon declared King in the North, an independent kingdom - they had to think of the future, of overtures that must be made to other sovereign nations: How long could Cersei Lannister maintain dominion over the elusive, dangerous Martells when Targaryens, with all their dragons, could not?
Amends must be made. And no two Houses had suffered more at Targaryen hands than the Martells and the Starks. One sister and her two babies, an uncle: A father, a son, a daughter. Their deaths had forever shaped the world in which Larra lived, in which Jon was now a declared King and had to rebuild from the destruction created by civil wars.
Two civil wars, spanning two generations: Provoked first by the Targaryens, and then by their successors the Lannisters.
It was Houses Stark and Martell who had suffered the brunt of their cruelty. They had lost too much. Though their cultures were opposite as fire and ice, Larra thought they had common ground. That had to be enough to make a start…
As Rhaegar joined Princess Elia, the lady-in-waiting stacked the painted cards neatly and slipped away, leaving husband and wife to lean in to each other and converse under cover of the noise of the festivities. The candlelight glinted off Rhaegar's pale golden-silver hair, illuminating his eyes to an impossible deep purple, and it was clear to Princess Elia that her husband's gaze would remain riveted on the girl in the grey gown with her infectious smile no matter what they spoke of. There was an amused, fond, almost indulgent look in Elia's pretty dark eyes, as she gazed between them, Rhaegar tenderly stroked her hand, murmuring to her in spite of his distraction.
"You are in discomfort," Rhaegar said finally, when Lyanna had disappeared from his view, to enjoy a drink with her brothers and catch her breath, murmuring quietly with Ned Stark and frowning at Robert Baratheon, who was flirting shamelessly with a cluster of young ladies glittering with jewels and swathed in asymmetric gowns Larra would have associated with Cersei Lannister, had she been in power, and present at the tourney. Larra gazed yearningly after her family, but Brandon remained focused on the royal couple: She had to stay. Rhaegar gave Elia a thoughtful, considerate look, shaking his head. "The journey was too much, and too soon."
"The decision was made when Lord Varys whispered into your father's ear of Lord Whent's tourney," Elia said, her voice rich and soft and accented, bringing to Larra's mind spices and exotic perfumes and indolent afternoons lazing in the perfumed shades of a bright hot sun she had never experienced. There was also a bite to her tone, the sting of the poison her family was known for. Her dark eyes flicked briefly to the King, staring agitatedly but unseeingly into the writhing masses dancing boisterously in spite of his presence. Rhaegar's eyes fell on his father, and a cold rage flitted across his face ever so briefly - a second, and it was gone, but Larra saw it, saw the muscle ticking in his jaw the same way Jon's did when he was trying to control his fury - and Elia saw it. "This tourney would have been the perfect opportunity to declare you intend to marry again."
Rhaegar blinked, startled, and turned to his wife, looking appalled.
"I do?"
Elia's smile was sad but accepting. "You yearn for more children, Rhaegar, I see it every time you are with our daughter; you ache to ensure her childhood, Aegon's, is nothing like your own lonely one. You would fill the nursery to bursting with babies if you could."
"El…" he sighed, shaking his head, his indigo eyes wide. "We have Rhaenys and our little Egg, and are blessed to have both. And you. Do you think I am so selfish I'd risk you just to put another babe in your belly?"
"If they take after me, our children shall not live long. Your mother's luck proves that there is no certainty though the babe survives birth," Elia said, grimly and honestly, glancing at the King once more as Rhaegar gaped; a chair sat empty beside the King, Queen Rhaella's seat. He had forbidden her from leaving the Red Keep in years, long before the Defiance of Duskendale, and young Prince Viserys was absent also. Viserys, one pregnancy out of a dozen to come to term after Rhaegar's birth, Rhaella's only child after Rhaegar to survive past infancy. And Elia had always endured her fragile health as best she was able, though she had remained bedridden half a year after her daughter's birth, and delivering her son had almost cost her life.
Rhaegar knew it: He had no answer.
"You need another wife," Elia murmured, though her anguish at the idea poured into her voice, flinching as she said it. "For the good of the realm you must father more children, and I…I cannot carry another child." As if to compound her statement, she shifted on her cushions, and a sharp gasp had Rhaegar looking anxiously at her; pain flitted across her face, her cheeks going pale, and she settled back in her chair slowly, breathing out through her mouth, eyes half-closed. "All things must end, love… Tywin would offer his daughter and his support."
"Tywin has too much strength already," Rhaegar said grimly, shaking his head. "And I mistrust the girl."
"Why so?" Elia asked gently.
"There were other ways to spite and insult Lord Tywin," Rhaegar said thoughtfully, watching his father, who sat festering, blind to the celebrations, not touching the food or drink set before him. "The empty Kingsguard position was not intended for Ser Jaime…Lord Varys mentioned something about Cersei Lannister and her twin-brother, something…worrying. Only a Targaryen would not find it distasteful…"
"Isn't all news Varys brings distasteful?" Elia asked, with a clipped, almost disdainful tone. She frowned, and glanced at Rhaegar, then across the hall, her lips parting with realisation, as they landed on handsome young Jaime Lannister with his golden hair and irreverent emerald eyes. "You surely don't mean -?"
"Varys says it was Cersei who approached by father with the idea to naming Jaime Lannister… There were rumours Tywin intended him for Lysa Tully."
"Take the white cloak of the brothers…take no wife," Elia murmured, watching Jaime Lannister dancing. "And yet Tywin took Cersei from the capital when your father named Jaime to the Kingsguard."
"Not quite what Cersei expected," Rhaegar said, with a twist to his mouth, a glint in his eyes.
"And how would she have been certain she would remain in the capital?" Elia asked, but even as she did, her eyes narrowed. "Ah…Aegon."
"The entire court awaited news you would survive his birth," Rhaegar said, an angry undercurrent to his tone that had Elia resting her elegant hand on his arm. "I imagine Tywin would have been the first to offer condolences and a choice bride."
"He is far more subtle than that," Elia murmured. "An alliance, with the promise of you un-naming his heir to the Kingsguard, the position of Hand returned to him under your regency… Tywin will always bide his time… He knows what is happening at court, Pycelle will see to that. Tywin will be waiting to see what you do, Rhaegar."
"I know what I have to do… I should have done it years ago: My Uncle Maester tells me I must kill the boy…'kill the boy Rhaegar, and let the man be born, the man who would be King'," Rhaegar said miserably. "The man who would depose his own father, no matter how much he loves him…for the good of his people." Rhaegar watched the Mad King with a mixture of dread and sorrow - in that moment, he was a son heartbroken by the loss of the father he remembered, the mind of the man he had loved fracturing irreparably before his eyes. He was old enough to have witnessed his father's deterioration - Larra had worked it out during her lessons; Rhaegar had been eighteen years old during the Defiance of Duskendale. The question of how history may have unfolded had not Ser Barristan the Bold single-handedly rescued the King was one that had consumed hours of her and her brothers' study with Maester Luwin.
"How shall you go about it? King's Landing is a nest of vipers - and coming from a Martell you know this is not an exaggeration," Elia murmured, and Rhaegar's lips quirked with subtle amusement. "Where can you ensure the support you desperately need, to ensure the transition goes smoothly?"
"I don't know…" Rhaegar looked suddenly exhausted, and he rubbed his brilliant indigo eyes, his expression pained. "This tourney should have provided the perfect opportunity to find out."
"Perhaps it still shall," Elia mused, thoughtfully watching the dancers, and a skimpily-clad woman from Volantis tumbling past, amusing several young lords. Elia sighed. "The scandal of you setting me aside to remarry - the mad scurry of all the lords of Westeros rushing to provide your new bride - would give ample concealment of your true intention to solidify alliance to imprison your father and enforce a regency."
Rhaegar gulped visibly, his indigo eyes widening, and he slowly set his wine-glass down. "Imprison?"
Elia's face was fierce for a moment, her voice losing its sultriness in favour of a sternness that Larra remembered in the Northern voices of her childhood. "If you do not confine him soon, someone will take opportunity to kill him in spite of all his precautions. You know this. You know there are those at court who are willing to die for you by killing him. You know you do not want an innocent person condemned to death for regicide when you can prevent things escalating further."
"I know it. I dread it," Rhaegar admitted, his shoulders drooping with grief. He shook his head, silky golden-silver hair past his shoulders glinting in the candlelight. "You have more faith in my abilities than I do."
"There's not a person in the world who could do this…except you. I believe that with every fibre of my being." Rhaegar leaned in, and tenderly kissed his wife's lips; he stroked her cheek with his thumb, and sighed, resting his brow against hers, eyes closed, relaxed for the briefest moment with her. "You were gone all day; your father was looking for you. Arthur tells me you wandered the godswood, searching for the Knight of the Laughing Tree. Did you find him?"
"I found the steely strength and honour of a true knight, indeed," Rhaegar said, settling back in his chair, and betraying himself by seeking out Lyanna Stark among the dancers, an amused glint in his eyes that transformed his entire face, making his compelling features warm, entrancing. "But the Knight of the Laughing Tree was a mirage…"
"Much like this tourney," Elia murmured, glancing around the vibrant hall with its exotic Volanteen dancers and tumblers, its flowers and fools. Her eyes rested on Lyanna Stark, now dancing with Ser Jaime Lannister, youngest-ever initiate of the Kingsguard, a gilded lion in his prime - and no longer any competition to the young lords gathered at Harrenhall set upon sealing contracts for marriage with the ladies present. Lyanna smiled beautifully as she danced with Ser Jaime, but - and Larra knew it from personal experience - the thrill of Ser Jaime's outward beauty was dimmed by his arrogance. Lyanna's smile was wild and bright, her cheeks pink from wine and dancing, and she laughed breathlessly at something, before leaping and twirling to the music, away from Ser Jaime to her new partner. "She has a fierce beauty, doesn't she? I do not recognise her face from court."
"Northerners stay in the North," Rhaegar said, almost miserably, a yearning look in his eyes as he followed Lyanna twirling around the hall. "That is Lyanna, Lord Rickard Stark's only daughter."
Elia blinked, and glanced back at Lyanna, now dancing with a young lord from the Neck who was not a natural dancer - Larra recognised the sigil upon his breast, and for a moment, she was startled - it was Jojen. But it couldn't be… She flicked her gaze at Brandon, who was watching young Howland Reed with a sorrowful, wistful grimace that made Larra think…perhaps he was still in there, her Bran… Realisation flickered in Elia's dark eyes, and Larra thought of the reputation of Elia's eldest brother, the cunning Prince Doran. "The Starks honour the Old Gods."
"They do," said Rhaegar, giving his wife a sidelong look; they could not keep secrets from each other, Larra realised.
"I have never seen you mesmerised by a woman before…" Elia said thoughtfully, watching Lyanna curiously. "What did you speak to Lyanna Stark about all day in the godswood?"
"Knighthood." There was an ironic little tilt to the corners of Rhaegar's lips as he smiled. His eyes glittered with enthusiasm.
"Perhaps the Lady Lyanna desires to be knighted by royalty," Elia said, hiding a smirk, trailing a fingertip along her husband's arm. He quirked one eyebrow - a talent he had bequeathed to his twin children Jon and Larra - and glanced at Elia.
"The Northerners pay no mind to knighthood, and even less to southern royalty," he said, almost gloomily. Elia's lips twitched.
"And yet you cannot look away. She is intoxicating," Elia admitted without envy, watching Lyanna, now dancing with Ser Arthur Dayne - she had a breathless awe in her face that Larra would have recognised in a polished glass; Larra had always been half in love with the Sword of the Morning. Elia's dark eyes twinkled with flirtatious amusement as she turned to Rhaegar: "She has such wonderful hips…and those breasts…how succulent." The way she said succulent, as if savouring the word with her tongue, lingering and erotic, made Larra shiver from her nipples to her knees, warming everything between. She had always heard of Elia's frail health and assumed by nature she was also reclining and gentle: But there was the Dornish flair in her after all, a seductive indolence and glimmer of danger - the danger of an educated woman who knew her husband. "I imagine a direwolf would birth you a formidable litter."
"And what about you? Shall I become Maegor to secure more heirs?" Rhaegar asked, and Larra thought he was angry - almost ashamed, absolutely offended by the comparison, the idea that Elia would propose it to him. "Shall we share Dragonstone, the three of us, and raise our brood of children together?"
"The Faith will not accept it, you know this, though it would be to everyone's benefit to allow it…" Elia sighed, shaking her head. A whisper of spicy perfume teased Larra's nose, a direct contrast to the crisp white floral scents she remembered wearing as a girl. It was an exotic and inimitable fragrance that had died with Elia, never to be recaptured.
"I remember your stance on polygamy," Rhaegar said fondly, his lips almost smiling.
"More damage has been done through your family's incest than through their polygamy. Maegor was one man: Targaryen intermarriage created a dozen more of his ilk," Elia said, with a sharpness that surprised Larra, her dark eyes lingering on the King for a heartbeat. Aerys II Targaryen was now named beside Maegor the Cruel and Aegon the Unworthy in terms of his insanity, his cruelty, and his ineptitude as a monarch.
"And what happens to you?" Rhaegar challenged her, turning to his wife after refilling her cordial glass. "What shall I tell your brothers when I cast you back to the Water Gardens, still healing from delivering the last child I gave you?"
"You needn't tell them anything. I shall," Elia said benignly, and she smiled beautifully and sighed, closing her eyes. She rested against the high-backed chair. "To be among my family again… It is all I want. To see my children play among the orange-trees with their cousins…"
"Gods. Rhaenys shall wield a glaive before she is five. I do wonder if Arthur would flee from her," Rhaegar said drily, and Elia's lips quirked into a beautiful smile, though her eyes were closed, resting, perhaps reminiscing, her elegant hands folded over her navel as if remembering her recent pregnancies, and perhaps yearning for the next child she could never have. Rhaegar watched her sorrowfully; he reached over and squeezed her delicate hands with one of his own huge ones, and Elia's dark eyes opened to see Rhaegar leaning in for a delicate kiss that became consuming.
Their relationship was complex, as all marriages seemed to be.
"I adore you. You do know that," he said softly against her lips, Elia breathless, tugging on the sleeve of his tunic, and she nodded her head subtly, her eyes on his as he kissed her again, lazily. Larra wanted to look away, her cheeks warm, a surge of loneliness filling her with sadness.
"You will find a way, Rhaegar," Elia sighed against his lips, dusting his jaw with kisses. She stroked his cheek with her thumb, a delicate ring with a citrine set into a gold sunburst glinting on her finger. "If there is no precedent, you shall set it. A modern way to manage royal marriage."
"A modern way?" Rhaegar chuckled, though the warmth of it did not quite reach his eyes. "Preferable to beheadings and war."
"A modern way that protects our children's place in the line of succession," Elia said carefully, a flair of pride and determination tilting her chin up, "and ensures another takes my place to help you fulfil your duties to the crown…just in case… You married me out of duty. This time, you can marry for love. Marry a woman of your choosing, and be happy, Rhaegar. No matter what happens, choose wisely, and let yourself love her - allow yourself to be loved by her. You must let someone past those walls you have built so assiduously."
He kissed her once more, deep and lingering, and again Larra was reminded of the complexities of marriage, having observed the quiet companionship of Robert and Cersei. She remembered Ned's marriage to Catelyn, strong and enduring - and tainted by Ned's love for Larra's mother; Catelyn loved Ned and despised his children out of jealousy of their mother.
Rhaegar may not have been in love with Elia, but it was very clear he did love her, respected her wisdom and shared companionship with her. They adored their children. They enjoyed each other. If not for the fact Rhaegar was not in love with Elia, and not truly happy, it would have been ideal.
Larra thought Rhaegar was blessed: And taking Elia utterly for granted.
Who was truly happy? And how long did that joy last?
What was ecstasy - a brief moment of brilliant, shocking delight, over too soon - compared to constant, steady friendship, companionship, respect?
How rare was it to find both in one's partner in life?
Larra had a deep well of joy to draw from, from her childhood - in spite of Lady Catelyn's best efforts - and her memories were all that had sustained her the last few years, bittersweet as they were.
But Rhaegar's conversation with Elia added another layer to the mystery of why the Last Dragon, the famed poet-warrior who sang to orphans and tradesmen in the streets, a champion in the lists, respected and admired by the Seven Kingdoms in spite of the Rebellion, had abandoned his wife to pursue a wild Northern girl, and torn the kingdoms apart with civil war - something Larra knew implicitly, from this conversation alone, that Rhaegar was trying actively to avoid.
And she realised why he had not simply seized control, confining his father and imposing a regency: Rhaegar did care what others thought of him. Asking Elia how he could possibly explain his actions to her brothers when he dishonoured her by ending their marriage… Imprisoning his father to seize control: It mattered to him how his reign began. He had married Elia, at his father's command: He was a dutiful son, and an honour-bound, dutiful prince who worried about the realm. And it was for the realm he held back from taking action, lest it spark widespread conflict beyond his control to maintain…
He had made a colossal error in keeping things secret, in an attempt to prevent a civil war…
Ser Arthur approached, bowing formally to the Princess with a glint in his eye and a smile she returned fondly; he addressed Rhaegar, in a soft, rich voice like velvet and smoke. Subtle and commanding, like the Sword of the Morning himself. "They want a song, Rhaegar."
"Of course they do," Elia chuckled, shaking her head and smiling adoringly at her husband, laughing fondly as Rhaegar made a show of groaning, though his eyes were smiling. "Keep them sweet."
The dancers had stopped, the music gentling; people were murmuring, laughing, turning to the royal couple. It could not be plainer that they were here for Prince Rhaegar: The King's presence was an unwanted anomaly, and he was largely ignored - dangerous, considering the King's malleable moods, but in that moment, Larra doubted the King was lucid at all. A gentle, expectant hush fell over the hall, and Rhaegar chuckled to himself as he climbed out of his seat. Everyone rose - he was the Crown Prince, after all, and etiquette demanded it - he glanced around, sipping from his glass and waving his hand to coax everyone to sit.
Rhaegar, their Crown Prince, stood for them, entertaining them at their request. And he looked happy to do so; he gestured at the orchestra gathered in the gallery, and the crowd sighed as he started to sing.
Larra's eyes burned, her throat closing painfully around a hot lump.
Everyone said Rhaegar had preferred singing to killing: He was excellent at both, but enjoyed only one. He was not Robert Baratheon, honed for war, and left to rust when idle. Rhaegar was a poet, a singer. And his voice…
They said he liked to sing. They said women wept at the sound of his voice. Until Larra heard it, she had no idea, truly, how gifted Rhaegar was. His voice was deep, rich and smooth, and he had been trained, she could tell; he projected his voice above the musical instruments, so that every last child and elderly lord and servant in the hall could hear him, as if he stood beside them, singing only to them.
He sang in High Valyrian, but it did not matter: The music, Rhaegar's voice, the composition of the piece of music…
Larra knew this song.
She had heard it in her dreams. One day, she had started humming it; dreams had gifted her the words, and she had practiced singing it every day for weeks.
She remembered the look of horror on her father's bloodless face when she had stood on a table in the Great Hall at Winterfell, singing to the King and his court held entranced by the bastard of Winterfell's voice… This song, Rhaegar's song. Rhaegar had a deep voice, what Maester Luwin would have called, in the Valyrian tongue, a tenor vocal range. Larra…she was somewhere between a mezzo and a soprano - and not nearly as well-trained as Rhaegar.
She had never, in all her life, heard anyone sing the way he did. The music, the composition, his voice…
Tears ran down her cheeks, utterly heartbroken.
Besides painting, music was one of her greatest joys: She had always loved to sing, to experiment with the few musical instruments that made their way to Winterfell. There were few at Winterfell to teach her the technique Rhaegar had mastered.
She was not the only one crying. Old men gazed breathlessly at Rhaegar, shakily catching their breath as the music swelled and abruptly ended in perfect synchronisation with Rhaegar's voice: Girls wiped their eyes on the sleeves of their gowns, and warmongering young lords blinked, stupefied. Elia Martell gazed at Rhaegar as every man wanted to be gazed upon by his wife: Utterly, irrevocably in love with him.
Rhaegar's eyes sought Lyanna in the crowd: His smile was startled and amused and he laughed softly, as he watched Lyanna upturn a glass of wine on her brother's head, her face shining with tears. Beside her, young Benjen was clapping enthusiastically, smiling with pure childish delight at the Crown Prince.
The Crown Prince bowed to his audience. The song, the bow - simple acts of humility that ceded power to his lords and ladies, and earned their respect.
Showmanship, Larra wanted to call it. Rhaegar knew who his people were, and what they wanted, and chose his moments to give it to them - in ceding power by singing at their request, Rhaegar had only solidified his position with his people.
Very clever.
"He was clever," she said sadly. She shook her head, and glanced at Brandon, asking miserably, "Why was it always the cleverest of men who make such staggering blunders?"
Brandon smiled sadly, and the hot, perfumed hall melted away. They were in a new place.
It was mid-afternoon, perhaps, in summer - or the South. The stone floor of the chamber was pale gold and the walls were painted beautifully, a sweeping frieze of songbirds - and elegant, stylised dragons that had a sinuous, eerie, spine-tingling beauty. The light was gentle as it filtered through sheer curtains over the balcony, glinting in the froths of pale curls spilling over a woman's slim shoulders to her waist, soft, warm-toned golden hair with delicate silver lights glinting whenever a shaft of sunlight shone through the sheer curtains, sighing in the breeze that smelled of sunshine, brine and heavily-perfumed flowers.
The woman sat at a chaise, exquisitely elegant, and in spite of a dramatic difference in their colouring, Larra was reminded vividly of Cersei: The cut of her gown had the same asymmetric draping, delicate satin ribbon ties to bind the wrapped layers of shimmering iridescent silk so thin Larra was sure she could read raven-scrolls through it, in soft tones of pale lavenders, lilacs and silver. The billowing sleeves were lined with shimmering opalescent organza embroidered with silver and glinting beads. The woman's waist was cinched with a sash of citrine brocade, and over this she wore a belt of gilt-embossed silver links etched exquisitely with stylised dragons. Around her wrists, she wore two elegant gold cuffs fashioned like sinuous, winged dragons - the three-headed dragon of the Targaryen sigil. There were hints of old bruises and scratches on her pale skin, revealed by her billowing sleeves as if she had long forgotten to try to hide them: A shawl of finest Qartheen lace, delicate as spider-silk, was draped over her elbows, again reminding Larra of Cersei Lannister. There was the subtlest trim of lilac velvet at the neckline, which came to a high point, revealing nothing but the base of a slender white throat, and the hints of old bruises and even a bite mark, slowly healing. Larra stared at it for a second. She knew, of course, who this woman was.
Set upon her grandmother's rampant curls was a delicate circlet of silver and gold, not elaborate or heavily jewelled, just pretty, understated. Simple and elegant.
Queen Rhaella. She was breathtakingly beautiful. And the resemblance to Daenerys Targaryen was extraordinary. They were not identical, of course; but Daenerys had the same shape of eyes, and though this woman's mouth was smaller, her lips were pretty, budding like a rose - Larra's lips. There was something quiet and dignified about her: This was a woman who did not need to reveal an inch of flesh to have a crowd in thrall to her. Her face was oval-shaped and solemn, and her daughter had inherited her cheekbones, and the shape of her eyebrows; the Queen's were pale gold, hovering anxiously over delicate lilac eyes.
"Now, you remember the most important thing?" she asked the little boy who stood before her, as she carefully knotted the high, scale-embroidered collar of his tunic with corded ties tipped with silver points like dragon-teeth. He fidgeted in the heat, uncomfortable in a fine, sleeveless overcoat, heavily embroidered with the Targaryen sigil, with sharp peaks at the shoulders that recalled Drogon's spines, over a tailored leather tunic with split, peaked cuffs. He had the Targaryen silver-gold hair and pale-lilac eyes identical to his mother's in colouring, though not in shape.
"Mmm…?" the little boy said, glancing away from a large gilded cage that spread across almost an entire wall, where brightly-coloured songbirds hopped and chirped merrily in spite of their captivity.
"You must remember, Viserys, not to wake the dragon," said Queen Rhaella, with a kind urgency that was terrible to hear, her elegant hands gentle on his slim shoulders, veiled terror mingled with gentleness in her expression, a mother's love pouring from beautiful eyes that seemed shuttered.
"I remember, Mother!" he chirped happily. "Shall Father give me sweets, do you think?"
"Only if you are very good," Queen Rhaella assured him warmly, smoothing his shimmering hair, and he grinned. Tiny white teeth glinted in the sunlight.
"Surely he shall! I know all the names of the dragons now!" he said proudly, puffing out his little chest.
"Your father should like to hear them," Queen Rhaella said softly, her expression as she gazed down at her youngest surviving son. He did not notice the bruises on his mother's skin, or the bite-mark healing at the neckline of her gown, or the way the warmth and gentleness disappeared from her face in an instant as two septas and a lady-in-waiting appeared, replaced with something stark and terrified and then - nothing. Only her face, expressionless; betraying nothing, not even her own suffering.
Prince Viserys had not noticed the scars of her mother's abuse; perhaps he saw them so often that they were not remarkable.
But Rhaegar, who slipped into the chamber after the little prince disappeared, noticed immediately. His searing indigo eyes went straight to his mother's throat, the bruised bite-mark flirting with the neckline of her gown, winking from behind her shimmering curls - thick, heavy, riotous curls that ringleted and coiled, waved and danced wildly with every movement, as pale as her granddaughter's were dark: Larra had inherited Queen Rhaella's curls.
In contrast to the little prince who had skipped away with his septas, perfectly groomed, and the memory of Rhaegar at Harrenhall, dressed for a feast, Rhaegar appeared in dusty breeches and boots, the asymmetric collar of his black wool tunic open almost rakishly, his broad chest sheened with sweat, and a sword strapped to his back.
His had a dangerous glint in his eyes as they rested on that bruised skin, for only a heartbeat; then Queen Rhaella seemed to return to herself, saw her son, and Larra could never have accused him of a temper, his face betraying no anger. Mother and son had mastered the same technique of erasing all evidence of their private thoughts from their features. Larra wondered how long it had taken them, and what horrors they had endured to perfect it.
The Queen rose from the chaise in an elegant move Larra would never be able to mimic. One moment she was reclined, the next she was sweeping toward Rhaegar with her arms outstretched, a beauteous smile lighting up her entire face.
"Rhaegar…!" she sighed warmly. Rhaegar embraced his mother, tucking her slim body into his in an embrace that, to Larra, looked incredibly protective - as if he was offering her his physical strength, literally exposing his back to cover her body with his protection. He inhaled deeply of the perfume in her hair, a wonderful scent of jasmine, pear, honeysuckle and decadent Qartheen camellia that whispered around Larra's nose and flirted sweetly, never overpowering but opulent. Understated, elegant and beautiful, like the Queen herself.
Larra inhaled the perfume deeply, tantalised by the scent. Perhaps a hint of Rhaegar's memory lingered; to Larra, it smelled of home, of warmth and deep love, contentment - that was what Rhaegar experienced whenever he smelled his mother's perfume…
"Was that Viserys I saw?" Rhaegar asked, as he released his mother.
"He has been summoned to the Throne Room," Queen Rhaella said placidly, and Rhaegar gave her a sharp look. It may have been months since Harrenhall; there were stern lines in Rhaegar's face that hadn't been there when he was relaxed beside Elia, singing to his court. Something significant - or maybe several significant things - had happened since Harrenhall, something that kept Rhaegar at court, rather than his home on Dragonstone with Princess Elia and their children.
"You won't join him at court?" he asked gently. Queen Rhaella and her husband the King had lived separate lives within the Red Keep, it was well-known.
"Let us have tea together," Queen Rhaella said, smiling beautifully, and she rang a tiny silver bell that set the songbirds into a chorus. She watched them thoughtfully, approaching a little inlaid table, and lifted the lid of an enamel box; she dipped manicured fingertips into the box, taking a generous pinch of birdseed, and scattered it into the cage. The jewel-bright birds chirped and sang and put on a display for her. Rhaella watched the birds, and Rhaegar watched her; he seemed to sigh to himself, shaking his head, and turned to carry a carved chair toward his mother's chaise. She cast him a disapproving look, gazing pointedly at one of the comfortable, upholstered seats.
"I'm covered in sweat and dust, Mother."
"I wonder you did not bathe before you presented yourself to your Mama."
"I wanted to see you," Rhaegar said simply, as a lady-in-waiting appeared bearing a silver tea-tray, laden with elegant tulip-shaped tea-glasses and an etched silver pot steaming subtly over a tiny flame. Clustered around the teapot and glasses were tiny silver dishes of roasted almonds tossed in oil and salt, small sweet figs, tiny oranges, sticky, stuffed dates the size of Larra's little-finger, tiny thousand-layer pastries oozing with honey and crushed pistachios, and the sweets Larra had seen only once, brought to Winterfell by the royal court during King Robert's visit, morsels of ecstasy. A delicacy of Old Valyria, brought to Westeros by the Targaryens centuries before the Conquest. Exquisite pink pillows of rosewater and orange-blossom water flavoured gel encased crushed pistachios and chopped dates, each dusted in confectioner's sugar.
Sansa had graciously allowed Larra to share one of the sweets Princess Myrcella had gifted her in a dainty silver box. Larra had never been bothered by sweets, her tastes leaning heavily toward savoury dishes…but those morsels…
Larra's mouth watered even now for the unusual flavours, sumptuous, foreign and decadent and deceptively simple: The aromatic rosewater, the delicate tang of lemon-juice, the perfect sweetness and the savoury nuts, the rich colouring from the pomegranate juice, the unusual chewiness, they all reminded Larra of that quiet afternoon in Sansa's chamber as summer snows had drifted around Winterfell, and they sat on the heavy, embroidered eiderdown on Sansa's bed, a tiny silver box between them, sharing the contraband sweeties Sansa had hidden from her mother.
She had shared the secret with Larra. It was the one true kindness Larra remembered from Sansa in years, and perhaps it was that rare moment with Sansa, more than the morsels themselves, that made them so wonderful in her memory. She remembered Sansa prattling on about Princess Myrcella telling her that the ladies at court all ate morsels of ecstasy with bitter tea in the afternoons, to tide them over until their evening meal, playing a lazy game of cyvasse, or listening to the high harp, or sewing and gossiping. In her chambers at Winterfell, the Queen had invited Sansa to join her and Myrcella for bitter tea and decadent morsels: They heard of nothing else until Bran's fall, the first true hurt their family had experienced since Lyanna's abduction all those years ago.
Larra had always wondered why Cersei, who had seemed to take no genuine delight in food or in company, would sit to tea offering morsels of ecstasy. Now she understood: Cersei, who had spent time at court when she was a girl while her father served as Hand to Aerys II Targaryen, had seen Queen Rhaella luxuriate in the tradition. Cersei associated tea and morsels of ecstasy with the role of Queen: So she continued the custom, though she had not cultivated the tradition or had any personal connection to the treats handed out. It was different for Queen Rhaella: the morsels were her inheritance, the last few scraps of her family's culture that had survived the Doom, one of the few ways she could retain Valyrian traditions in a strange land. Larra wondered how much of Valyrian culture the Targaryens had taught each other and carried on throughout the generations with quaint customs like this, and how many of them had inadvertently leaked throughout Westeros due to their influence the last few centuries.
It was a strange thing for her to focus on, when Rhaegar Targaryen stood not three feet from her, very much alive… But she did. She couldn't help it. Were Brandon to show her their father again - the father she remembered, not the boy he had once been - she would have been a wreck, sobbing in a heap on the floor, most likely - but it was like Cersei with the morsels of ecstasy: Larra had no personal connection to Rhaegar. He was a man, like any other - a brilliant, foolish man, it turned out - but not her father. He may have wedded and bedded Lyanna Stark to help create her and Jon, but the man who was her father had raised her, ensured her education, protected her, had lost his head in this very city…
She could not deny that it was not exhilarating to look at Rhaegar Targaryen, the man who had fathered them, now that she knew the truth about her mother - and even Rhaella, her grandmother through Rhaegar. Larra had inherited her grandmother's lips and curls, through him, and Jon his nose; Rhaegar had given Larra her eyes, and her height, she was sure, and they had both inherited his hands - Jon's, absolutely, huge palms, long, slender fingers, and Larra's, slightly smaller, more elegant, with fingers just as long and slender. They even had the same shape nails, and looking even more closely at him, Larra was certain she had inherited the same pattern of tiny beauty-spots on her chest as Rhaegar had on his, and those dusted on his brawny forearms, his sleeves pushed up to his elbows.
Larra looked at Rhaegar, and realised they even had the same shape teeth - good and strong, white and straight. They had his smile - rare, and more startlingly beautiful because of it.
People had always said their mother had left little of herself in Jon and Larra: That they favoured their father, Ned, in looks. The truth of it was, they took after Lyanna in her colouring: But they did share some resemblance to Rhaegar Targaryen, in the details. Larra had always paid close attention to the details: in her lessons, in her cyvasse campaign strategies, in her painting; and in people's requests, their complaints.
Mother and son sat to tea, the Queen passing the honour of pouring the tea over to her son - the women prepared, the men poured. That was the custom in Old Valyria: And men served guests first, always, ladies and children first - ensuring they were provided for.
That was a quaint custom Larra felt more of Westeros should have long ago adopted.
Rhaegar tried, and Larra could see his frustration - remembered Jon, in the moments she watched Rhaegar trying to coax his mother into speaking of politics, of the fraught nature of court, of…of her husband the King whose paranoia was becoming legendary, only outmatched by his brutality.
"Word is spreading through the city," Rhaegar murmured, watching his mother carefully, and Larra could see Rhaegar tasting his words before he used them. "They know Father is excited by fire."
Queen Rhaella could not hide her flinch: If it had been anyone else, Larra thought she might have been able to - though no-one else would have dared bring up the topic. She could not hide from her firstborn, though, her adult son, who was the same age as Larra now was, she realised, as they spoke, though he seemed older than his years due to his size, and his melancholy nature…she wondered what horrors he had witnessed in these painted halls. Yes, people knew Aerys had become sexually excited by the executions-by-fire he commanded in the latter part of his reign… It was still whispered - out of respect for Rhaella - that he had been sexually violent to the Queen after he fed men to the fire.
Daenerys Targaryen, they said, had been conceived by force after Aerys fed his Hand, Qarlton Chelsted, to the flames: during the Rebellion: Aerys had viciously raped Queen Rhaella, resulting in her last pregnancy.
Larra thought of Daenerys Targaryen in the temple of the dosh khaleen, and wondered if she had fucked her paramour that night - Larra had seen him, earthy and handsome, cocky and relatively speaking, good-natured, standing beside an older man wearing the bear sigil of House Mormont, and a white-haired man even Larra knew as Ser Barristan the Bold.
She wondered if Daenerys Targaryen felt a thrill every time she executed a man.
Larra wondered if Daenerys would be as ready to burn men alive if she knew she would never have been born had her father not lusted for death by fire - had he not brutalised her mother every time he sentenced a man to die…
Rhaella stood to scatter a pinch of birdseed to her songbirds in their gilded cage, her face wiped of all emotion. But her fingers trembled, and Rhaegar noticed. He stood, and Larra observed how careful he was, in how he approached his mother, how he made himself seem smaller, less threatening, did not crowd her, approached her as if she was a wounded, skittish animal that might die of fright rather than bite to protect itself.
Rhaegar reached out, and tenderly moved aside the collar of his mother's modest, beautiful gown to reveal her neck, bruised and scratched… Inches below her collar-bone, a fuchsia-purple bruise flourished angrily, another bite-mark glared furiously red and ragged against her pale skin, the swell of her white breast above her stays and tissue-thin silk smallclothes. The dangerous glint in Rhaegar's eyes seemed to catch alight, even as the light flickered and died in Rhaella's eyes, absence of any emotion replacing the warmth of her smile, the gentle strength of her love.
It struck Larra how large Rhaegar was: He was a good two heads taller than his slender mother - she was taller than her daughter, Larra knew, closer to Larra's own height - and even in his dark, sleekly-tailored sparring clothing, deceptively slender, Rhaegar was well-built. Beside him, the Queen, who had not struck Larra at all as being frail, or as anything but regal and composed, looked particularly delicate, and young… She tried to remember her lessons, thought Queen Rhaella had not yet seen her fortieth birthday when she died on Dragonstone… She had been married after her very first blood, it was commonly known, with Rhaegar born during the Tragedy of Summerhall soon after, born as his family died in flames and agony as Aegon the Unlikely strove to bring dragons into the world again and bring the Westerosi lords to heel… Larra was reminded again of the temple of the dosh khaleen…
The Queen seemed to ignore the look on Rhaegar's face; she did not shy away from his hand, but she did not acknowledge it either. "How long have you known?"
"Long enough I am ashamed not to have acted before," Rhaegar said quietly, and something flickered in his mother's eyes. He righted the neckline of her gown, and Larra saw him clench his hands into fists as he lowered them.
"The court is like a cache of wildfire," Queen Rhaella said, her voice gentle but unyielding. Larra had heard people describe Rhaegar as having 'iron tones' in his voice - she imagined this woman was where Rhaegar got his strength from, not his broken-minded father. "One careless spark and we shall face another Dance of Dragons. Darling boy, the Seven Kingdoms cannot be drawn into our family's tragedies."
"We cannot prevent a civil war, Mother. Soon Father will execute the wrong man," Rhaegar warned quietly. "All we can do is minimise the damage."
"We need Tywin," Rhaella said, almost a moan, as she wrung her elegant hands. "I am surprised he does not return to King's Landing to take young Ser Jaime's place as your father's intended hostage to ensure Lannister loyalty."
"Ser Jaime is not his father, and Tywin knows it," Rhaegar said quietly. "And Lord Tywin knows Father would as soon burn him alive as invite him to be his Hand again. What news from the Rock?"
"I receive no word of answer to the ravens I have despatched," Rhaella said anxiously.
"You are assuming Varys has not diverted them to a brazier."
"I take them to the ravenry myself," Queen Rhaella said gently, a flicker of apprehension crossing her face. "Whatever happens, we cannot rely on Tywin's loyalty. Not with Ser Jaime as your father's hostage, and such bad blood between them."
"And with sixty-thousand men at his command if he chooses to raise his banners…?" Rhaegar murmured, catching his mother's eye. He shook his head. "It will not be Tywin who ignites the wildfire, Mother. He's far too prudent for that. He'll wait, and watch…he'll do what he must to ensure the boy's safety, but no more… Father has turned a stalwart ally and fierce friend into a man utterly indifferent to his fate." His eyes lingered on his mother's bruises. "All those who once loved and admired him see him for what he has always been."
"He hasn't always…"
"Been cruel? You best of all know that he has," Rhaegar said gently. Rhaella turned her lilac eyes on her son, frowning subtly. "You cannot hide it from me as you do Viserys… Yet the more I see, the more you seem to blind yourself to… Now all of Westeros shall know just how broken Father's mind is."
A faint tinge of colour touched Rhaella's cheeks, but she stood tall, her shoulders back, chin level to the floor. Unchallenging, but not cowering either. Confident, but not arrogant. Larra was enthralled by her use of her body to communicate without words. "Should I bar my door and send him to a brothel? Bring whores to his bed for him to mutilate when they displease him? How many shall die so I may sleep painlessly?"
A muscle ticked in Rhaegar's jaw - the same muscle that ticked in Jon's whenever he was furious, and trying hard not to give in to his frustrations. "It pleases him to hurt you."
"I know what people think - I hear what they say… Lord Varys is very good about keeping me informed, just as he does your father, though he feeds us different morsels… People do not realise I have my own influence over the King," Rhaella said softly, and that tick reappeared in Rhaegar's jaw. "It is I who can gentle the worst of his obsessive distrust, after he has taken such pains throughout our marriage to ensure I alone can be trusted… But I would endure him every night, my darling boy, if it meant keeping you safe. And Elia, and Rhaenys, and Aegon, and Viserys."
"It should be me protecting you," Rhaegar said firmly.
"No, my love…do not deny me a mother's single purpose…to protect her children. How many generations lingered on Dragonstone before Aegon turned his eyes westward? I will wait…and I will witness a great ruler create an empire the world has never seen before," Rhaella murmured, resting her palm against Rhaegar's cheek, her lilac eyes over-brimming with pride and love.
Larra's heart broke. She had lived her entire life wanting someone to look at her that way. Her heart broke, because this kind, dutiful and resilient lady had died, knowing all but two of her family-members had been butchered as sadistically as any of her husband's victims had been. A boy with missing milk-teeth had been crowned King at Dragonstone; all Rhaella had to give her daughter was a trailing name she had carried with her to the Dothraki Sea and beyond…
A lady-in-waiting appeared; the Queen cast her a measuring look.
"A meeting of your charities? Or are we to have another ball?" Rhaegar asked gloomily. Queen Rhaella's lips twitched toward a smile, her eyes glinting, but they didn't quite make it; a shadow flickered across her eyes, and her smile died.
"Keep the court fed and entertained and they will endure any mistreatment," she said softly.
"Slowly the unthinkable becomes tolerable," Rhaegar murmured darkly. "And then acceptable. Then celebrated… Until it is not. Father's madness will not long be tolerated, Mother."
"Rhaegar," Queen Rhaella warned. "These walls have eyes and ears."
"The Spider can tell Father what he likes; the Gods know he already does, to suit his own purposes," Rhaegar said, with a touch of impatience rather than disdain.
"Better to keep everyone sweet, my love," Rhaella warned in an undertone, echoing what Elia had said at Harrenhall. She turned to leave with her lady-in-waiting.
"Would you forgive me, Mother?" Rhaegar asked, and Rhaella paused at the steps. She glanced over her shoulder, that look on her face again, breaking Larra's heart.
"My first, dearest love… A mother can forgive her child anything."
That was Rhaegar's permission; and his pardon.
It dictated the destruction of a dynasty, though that was not the intent of Rhaegar or his mother.
The Queen left, her lady-in-waiting trailing behind her, and Rhaegar let out a pent-up breath, his eyes closed. When he opened them, he unfurled his fingers, and Larra felt suddenly light-headed, noticing the tiny bloody crescents standing out angrily on his calloused palms.
Her own palms seemed to burn, and she glanced down at them, her lips parting. She bore the same scars as her father; had the exact same habit to internalise her rage and prevent herself hurting anyone, or making anyone think less of her for her reaction.
A shadow appeared in the doorway, an unassumingly handsome man with cropped dark hair and violet eyes, clean-shaven, with solemn high cheekbones and a sense of gravitas that made him feel almost Northern to Larra. She knew he wasn't. Her lips parted, a surge of unexpected delight almost making her smile.
She was uncertain how she felt about seeing Rhaegar Targaryen in the flesh, after what she had learned - perhaps especially because of that. As a girl she had been hyper-critical of Rhaegar's conduct and apparent contradictions in character when he abducted Lyanna - to know he had acted honourably to Lyanna after all, yet had torn Westeros asunder in the act of marrying her…she had thought him selfish in her youth; now, the same age he had been when he and Lyanna eloped, Lyanna thought him foolish. She was uncertain of Rhaegar, and probably always would be; he was an enigma that belonged to the past.
But Ser Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning?
She had always been half in love with him.
Father spoke so rarely but so highly of him… She now knew why: Ser Arthur had died defending Lyanna - defending her, and Jon, the last of Rhaegar's legacy. It wasn't just that Ser Arthur was the best swordsman Ned had ever seen: Father had considered him a noble, honourable man. Rhaegar had taken control of royalist forces fighting in the North, and had left his best, fiercest friend, a legendary swordsman, to defend Lyanna.
Ser Arthur sighed heavily, his eyes on Rhaegar's hands. He approached, took one of Rhaegar's hands in his to examine his palms.
"That's no good. You won't be able to hold your sword if you continue to maim yourself," he said, in his smoky, rich voice.
"Did you hear that?" Rhaegar asked glumly, and Ser Arthur nodded.
"I did," he said simply. "I am with you, always." Rhaegar lifted his head, his own indigo eyes seeking Ser Arthur's violet ones.
"Thank you, brother," Rhaegar said softly. Ser Arthur nodded, clapped a hand on his shoulder, and the memory melted away as they departed the Queen's painted chamber…
Brandon showed her a great many memories after that. The Queen's flight from King's Landing on a crisp morning, the sky cold and blue above, the sea gentle, the city holding its breath as it prepared for siege. A heavily pregnant Rhaella, receiving a raven-scroll from Dorne, signed by Lord Dayne of Starfall Hall, announcing the death of Lyanna Stark, and the Sword of the Morning who had defended her - it was Rhaella's grief that cemented Larra's belief that Rhaegar's mother had known all along what Rhaegar had been up to, that she had known Rhaegar had dissolved his marriage to Elia in favour of marrying Lyanna and gaining Northern support for a coup to impose a regency on his father's reign… Rhaella, thin and anxious, had sobbed, her belly bulging as she collapsed beside the Painted Table, small wooden dragons clutched in her hands, Viserys, now seemingly a lot older due to the frown of apprehension on his little face, watching from the hearth, roaring with flame as a storm raged around the castle.
Brandon showed her Rhaella nursing her only surviving daughter; and the gentle, strong queen with hands clasped at her breast, in full regalia, dressed all in gold, in the Sept, summer sunlight shattered through crystals that picked up every hue of gold and silver in her hair and gave colour to the death-paled lips small Viserys kissed as a septa waited patiently for him to say goodbye to his Mama.
They watched two small golden-silver haired children in a modest manse in Braavos, with a great bear of a man roaring orders at servants, who stole all of his money and turned out his charges when he died. A tiny meek girl traipsed, weeping, from the house with the red door and her quaint bedchamber with a lemon tree outside the window.
Larra traversed the Free Cities with the last Targaryens, the Beggar King who grew angrier, more desperate, more hopeless, with every door shut on him, every promise proved false…protecting the innocence of his sister against servants and sly hosts, even as he bullied her in his frustration and anger at their circumstances, the one person in the world who was beneath him.
The meek girl turned into a pretty young woman, a pale and delicate wraith who trailed uncertainly beside him, treading on eggshells as she glanced out of the corner of her eyes to gauge her brother's mood, always heeding the threat - you don't want to wake the dragon, do you? - the same warning his mother had given Viserys so many years ago: Viserys never realised Rhaella had been warning him against his father's madness, the insanity Viserys resolutely denied all his life. Rhaegar had been a clever man who saw everything; Viserys had been a child whose family was gone before he could realise the truth for himself. He had passed his ignorance and his anger to Daenerys Stormborn, who turned her gaze away and stopped listening every time her Westerosi advisers warned her against echoing her father's choices, giving in to her first, worst instincts.
Larra journeyed from the tranquil gardens of Pentos to the endless Dothraki Sea, and found herself thirsty for Daenerys Targaryen's horse-lord husband, considerate to his fragile bride as he coaxed and petted and adored her their wedding-night, and mounted her beneath the stars when she whispered a breathless, Yes!
She saw the complexities and paradoxes of Daenerys Stormborn, a meek girl who survived the brutality of the Dothraki, growing in confidence, adopting their harsh culture as her own, embracing their brutality - and simultaneously repulsed and horrified by it.
Larra witnessed the birth of dragons, heard newborn dragons croon and sing in the sunrise as a great pyre hissed and cracked and belched black smoke, and the Mother of Dragons was born.
They journeyed to Qarth, and Larra wished she could explore it: She grew more concerned as Daenerys Stormborn threatened to reduce Qarth to ash if her weak khalasaar was turned away - and did turn Astapor to ash, after reneging on her word to the Wise Masters. She sacked the city, and marched at the head of an army of Unsullied… Through trickery she claimed Yunkai, and her handsome lover Daario Naharis, wise through experience and the only one who did not dread Daenerys' wrath to speak honestly to her.
She conquered Meereen. Gave proper burials to the child-slaves crucified as mile-markers to the greatest city in Slavers' Bay - and then crucified hundreds of noblemen, even those who had nearly bankrupted their ancient families outbidding other, notoriously brutal nobles, to protect slaves they considered it their duty to protect, and provide for, within a corrupted institution only time and education could eradicate.
Larra smiled fondly, watching a drunken dwarf invigorate a broken economy, bringing peace to a city at war with itself, all while enjoying his sceptical Volantene whore, and trading barbs with the eunuch Varys, who watched the Dragon Queen shrewdly, and patiently, and disappointedly, as Daenerys continued to undermine her own rhetoric of breaking the wheel… At the first opportunity to nurture true, lasting change in Meereen, with support and peace and men who knew how to rule to guide her, Daenerys had ordered her khalasaar to board ships, Unsullied to leave their posts, and sail for Westeros - leaving a sell-sword company as her proxies in the Great Pyramid of Meereen, her lover with them.
Larra watched everything as it had occurred, attempting to do so without bias, but she was disappointed. Truthfully, she was distrustful, and wary of the Dragon Queen.
Daenerys Targaryen's actions did not match her words.
Her actions spoke more than words.
The last memory was the most recent, Larra knew.
In a gloomy, high-ceilinged chamber, shards of brittle light glinted off eerie black rock shaped by spells and dragonfire, tall braziers burning as a diminutive court held its breath. At the far end of the chamber, a small woman with long silvery-gold hair sat straight-backed and arrogant on her ancestors' first throne. This was Dragonstone, and a motley assortment of followers had gathered in the firelight to show their support of her.
Gone was the meek girl in finest Qartheen lace; gone the courageous young-woman in horse-hair vests and painted-silk trousers; gone the woman armoured in exquisite gowns, untouchable and out-of-touch; hints of the woman who had smiled as she burned the khals and luxuriated in the thrill of wielding her dragons as a weapon against the armada sent by Yunkai and Astapor showed in the hard set to Daenerys Targaryen's face as she waited for someone, her chin raised arrogantly - somewhere between Qarth and the Astapor, Daenerys Targaryen had lost the warmth and courage and fierce earnestness that had defined her as a khaleesi - perhaps it had happened in Qarth, sentencing a maidservant to die slowly and in agony, for loyalty - Brandon had shown Larra that the maidservant Daenerys Targaryen had locked in a great vault to starve to death had been found in Daenerys' enemy's bed, where Daenerys had sent her, and where she had been kept, prevented from hearing news of her mistress until the Mother of Dragons had locked her away. The Summer Islander had broken the girl's neck in the dark, rather than let her suffer.
Daenerys had killed those loyal to her without blinking, without reflection on her own part in what had happened: She had betrayed her word to the Masters of Astapor: And abandoned Meereen to its fate only after failing at establishing the new world she had vowed she was determined to create.
There was a coldness to Daenerys now, a brittle sense of power that Larra disliked immediately. As Daenerys Stormborn had left Essos, the warmth of Essos had left her.
It struck her that Daenerys was fully-clothed for the very first time. She had adopted the black colour-palette of her Targaryen sigil: And her clothes, though still incredibly fine, were of sturdy, thicker materials more suited to winter. The sharp shoulders of her short, pleated jacket recalled her brother Viserys' embroidered overcoats. And the Breaker of Chains wore a silvered chain of dragon vertebrae from one shoulder to her hip, with a three-headed dragon clasp. Her long hair glinted in the firelight as she waited, unmoving.
Around her were clustered people Larra had never met, but knew where they came from simply by their dress.
A sultry Dornishwoman draped artfully in layers of shimmering fabrics that still managed to hint at the lithe, shapely body beneath, her tanned midriff almost bare, her painted silk trousers and overskirts billowing, embroidery glittering in the firelight as she moved, a sash of vibrant silk protecting her from a wide belt heavily adorned with gold discs embedded with jewels. Her voluptuous breasts were highlighted by a bright, cropped jacket over a translucent silk split tunic that gave teasing glimpses of dark little nipples, flirting with her many pearl necklaces dripping sensuously to her navel, two veils - one heavy, embroidered and beaded brocade, held in place by a heavy chain-and-pearl headdress, the other shimmering, light as air, barely disguising her face and the eyes glinting beneath, smoked with kohl. She held hands with two young girls, similarly though more modestly dressed, in richly embroidered, beaded fabrics draped airily and irresistibly, the elder dressed in black velvet with a Martell-ochre silk veil draped artfully around her, clasped with a sunspear brooch at her breast, the younger dressed much like her mother in warmer, sultry colours, subtly shaking her wrist around which a bracelet of tiny silver bells was clasped.
As the mother spoke to her girls in undertones, she was watched by shrewd pale eyes set into the wizened face of an old woman. She was plump in her old age, but was on her feet, and richly-dressed in a black brocade jacket, intricate thorny, vine-like belt and billowing skirts - she looked attractive and very dignified, wearing a wimple and a crespine adorned with a subtle golden rose motif in metal and a diaphanous pleated veil. The black of her outfit mirrored the mourning-wear of the Dornishwoman, echoing the wintry tones of Daenerys Targaryen's new wardrobe, and the shell-like black leather armour of her Unsullied soldiers lining the walls.
The only breath of fresh air, of gentleness and softness, delicacy, and colour, came from the veritable bouquet of beauties clustered around the Tyrell matriarch, young girls all under the age of thirteen, Larra would guess, except for the eldest, who stood beside the inimitable Queen of Thrones, with her shoulders back and her chin level to the inlaid floor, deceptively unassuming and exquisitely pretty. The young girls all wore versions of the same gown, cut cleanly and simply, with floaty skirts of organza over silk, a short jacket with a low, wrapped neckline meeting at a point, worn over a gauzy organza underdress knotted at the base of the throat with silk ribbon, almost imitating Lady Olenna's wimple, softer and more delicate, prettier. The tracery on their short jackets and some of their shawls was of closed, tight rosebuds - not decadent open roses like Lady Olenna's gold tracery on her black jacket. And, unlike Lady Olenna's black clothing, the young girls were dressed in soft pale-blue and shimmering icy-greens that had soft dove-grey undertones, still subdued but fresh, clean and crisp like an unexpected frost on the moors.
The eldest girl, the most exquisite of them, with her gentle green eyes and soft golden-brown hair waving to her waist, wore a more adult version of the younger girls' dresses, not quite Lady Olenna's jacket and skirts ensemble. Her shimmering gown had full skirts and simple lines, without the excess of organza, cleaner and crisp, the low, pointed neckline and the sharp cuffs of the long sleeves trimmed with velvet and glinting with embroidered vines and tight rosebuds. She showed off her elegant hands, her slender throat, hinted at her pretty breasts with delicate folds of iridescent organza tucked at her neckline, folded almost to resemble the unfurling petals of a rose. A heavy, embroidered shawl covered in almost erotic roses was draped around her for more warmth, and Larra knew the chill was not so much from the weather as the atmosphere in the hall: Superbly uninviting.
It was a small court, jumbled and hastily-assembled, not quite certain of itself. The only ones confident in their place were the Unsullied, and the Dothraki blood-riders who wielded wicked arakhs and whips, moving around the hall, restless, their long braids shining - and catching the young Tyrell girl's interest, watching them curiously, the subtle chime of silver bells in their long braids adding to the music of the youngest Dornish girl as she huffed impatiently and shot a nasty look at Daenerys Targaryen, who sat unmoving, expectant, cold as ice.
Larra knew the Queen of Thorns by reputation alone: She assumed the Dornishwoman had some personal connection to House Martell.
And there…she recognised him instantly, though he looked older, his hair had grown out, and there was a solemnity to his face that had never been there before. She remembered him smirking and irreverent, irritating beyond belief, but fierce and loyal to Robb… Theon Greyjoy.
They were all waiting for someone.
And Daenerys Targaryen was impatient.
A.N.: Sorry this one was so long! I got carried away, and the chapter sort of just ran away from me!
FACE-CLAIMS: There are a few for this chapter, actually for this story!
Queen Rhaella: Lea Seydoux (when she was in La Belle et la Bête)
Rhaegar: Combo of Tom Hiddleston and Chris Hemsworth
Elia Martell: Gal Gadot
Alynore Tyrell: Kristine Froseth
Gendry: Henry Cavill, mmmmm…..
I love the costume designer's theory on GoT that current Lannister fashions were heavily influenced over the last two generations by Targaryen court dress. The asymmetric cuts and elaborate folds and metal detailing are distinctively other in comparison to the other styles worn in Westeros. I like the theory that the Lannisters, through proximity to the court, with Tywin as the Hand of the King to Aerys for decades, had adopted some of the foreign, Old Valyria, Targaryan styles worn at court; and Cersei, expecting to marry Prince Rhaegar, would have adopted the style of dress she saw worn at court, especially by Queen Rhaella, similarly to how Sansa dressed to please Joffrey and Cersei in the beginning. Cersei was already imagining herself part of the royal family, and would certainly have dressed as if she belonged by Rhaegar's side - and her family could afford it. Viserys wears a style he remembers from his childhood at court, which shows the same asymmetric cuts and folded, rich fabrics. After the end of the Targaryen dynasty, the Lannisters became the true power in Westeros and their dress was a nod to them usurping Targaryen power, usurping the fashion trends the Targaryens had set and making them their own - especially Cersei. Look at a picture of Viserys, compare it to young-Cersei's dress, and there are a lot of similarities in the cut, draping and tie details.