Daeron sat down upon the stump, rolling his eyes at the absorbed look on his brother's face. It was just a tree. Granted, the frightening expression carved within the bark was liable to leave some night terrors behind, yet it was still nothing more than a tree. Suppressing a yawn, the younger sibling allowed his gaze to roam about in search of something other than blood-red sap oozing from sharp cuts along the white bark. One would think that more than a hundred years would have been enough to close the gaps. But nay, apparently weirwood trees, beside serving to remind each and every dweller of the kingdoms that the end would come, also exhibited a special talent of leaking sap every spring.
Needless to say Daeron Targaryen would rather subject himself to a full day of lessons with Grand Maester Pycelle than watch sap dry. Alas, he could not go back on his own. He could not go back, in fact, until his older brother ended his examination. Which Daeron hoped would be soon. Or else he swore that he would chop down the tree himself, with or without Lord Whent's permission.
There was a very good reason he was with Rhaegar in the middle of a godswood and not comfortably within Harrenhal. If only Daeron could recall whatever it was.
A sliver of pain stung his arm as he carelessly brushed the limb against a nearby tree. Daeron released a hiss and glared at the sleeve-covered, smarting flesh. And just like that, his memory returned. Or rather the memory of Shaena flinging a dagger about returned. His sister was a dangerous woman, especially when someone happened to pass a weapon into her hands.
It was little wonder that Rhaegar preferred the Dornish Princess to their own sister. Shaena, for all her outward beauty, had proven herself, time and again, to be more than a handful. The very thought of spending the rest of his lifetime with her produced such fright within him that Daeron was glad he'd not been born first. It was to Rhaegar that their sister had been promised, it was he who would have to claim that burden.
Truth be told, however, Shaena herself was less than thrilled with her prospects. She would not tell him why she was so against wedding Rhaegar and Daeron had never attempted to pry the answer from her for fear of finding himself a limb or two short. But the matter still remained. And it was made even stranger by the fact that at one point, Shaena had been more than glad to be the future queen. Whatever had changed that?
Daeron shook his head. It did not matter. He would be better served by finding a way to convince his brother that he'd seen enough of the bleeding tree. If allowed his own devices, Rhaegar would not leave until well past nightfall and Daeron was already hungry enough to eat the Lord of Harrenhall out of house and home.
"So, brother," the younger Targaryen called over the whispering wind, "what does the wise old tree say?" That had to be one of the more interesting notions Rhaegar had come up with to be sure. Apparently, if one meditated within the godswood, the old gods would offer aid.
To Daeron's mind it was simply that no one had dared tell his brother that not all he read in those books of his was viable or even real. And in truth, who would listen to the advice of a tree? It was preposterous to even contemplate, let alone put into practice. He supposed that was exactly the reason for which his older sibling showed such interest in the scheme. If it was something thought impossible Rhaegar would the very first to attempt it. And all for the sake of some old prophecy. Daeron should not feel as amused as he was.
Mayhap the gods would answer and some way would be found to being together Rhaegar and Elia Martell. But Daeron sincerely hoped that was not the case. The last time any Martells had taken over King's Landing, the general populace and more so the esteemed lords of the realm, those that were not Dornsih, had heartily protested. For someone who loved history as much as his brother, that should have warned him away.
But nay, he persisted. He persisted despite history warning him and even more, in spite of the fact that his chosen bride was not exactly what one might call fit for the role. Heavens, Daeron was not trying to insult the Dornish Princess' intelligence; she had enough of that an between herself and her younger brother, the one called Oberyn, they had developed a taste for shredding the pride of anyone whom they perceived their inferior, which category counted, unsurprisingly, most specimens of the Seven Kingoms. If Daeron was insulting anything, anything at all, then it was the woman's attitude.
His observations when voiced had been promptly dismissed by his brother. The younger Prince could but shrug at that. Rhaegar seemed to hold the Dornishwoman in no affection, yet at the same time he did hold her in some regard. It occurred to him that his brother was trying to find an escape from their father's tyranny; yet even so, far better candidates could be pursued. Why of out of all he chose Elia Martell, Daeron was certain the answer would further unsettle him, thus he never questioned.
After all, it was clear that as much as his brother wished for the match, their father would fight him tooth and nail. Out of then two, Daeron was more inclined to count the King the winner. His brother was bound by his position and unlike Duncan the Small, he hadn't the benefit of a merciful paternal figure. Going against father's word meant death, not only for his brother, but for the Dornish Princess as well. The gods knew King Aerys, quite mad by all accounts, would not hesitate to strike them down.
Rhaegar merely looked over his shoulder at him, his eyes two chips of ice. "We should return. The wind blows harsher."
"I do say, must you think of this at all times? Surely, if the gods mean for you to be with someone other than our sister, they would give you a sign." Or Shaena would slit his throat on the wedding night. Whichever could be achieved. "An old piece of wood is not going to help."
"Neither is your incessant complaining," his brother answered harshly. "You had best mount, or you can find your own way back."
"Good gods," Daeron muttered under his breath, "if you act around the princess so, 'tis a wonder she truly wants to wed you." To wed a Tragaryen could provide one with many benefits, but just as many risks. Elia was either paving her path to greatness or tumbling to her demise. There was no middle ground, not with Rhaegar who wished to play the most dangerous games of all and win.
"I heard that," the Crown Prince returned. "You are not nearly as subtle as you would like to believe."
"I am not the one trying to win a lady's heart," Daeron mocked lightly. "Were I you, I would run away with her. Common sense would dictate that she became your wife in deed, if not in the Faith. Words are wind, after all. She might be tempted to change her mind." Sullen as his brother was, and much as Daeron disliked the match that was in the making, it simply could not be stomached that he might abandon Rhaegar.
For himself, he hoped the scheme came to nothing. If a suitable lady was to be chosen, then Cersei Lannister might do. That one had the added benefits of being young and healthy. But who was he to naysay true love?
They rode the rest of the way to Harrenhal in relative silence, joined by the Kingsguard who was to keep them safe. Ser Barristan. They were much in luck with him. Whatever the man saw or heard, he was so tightly bound by his oaths that he would never whisper a word of it elsewhere. Just as well that he mightn't else many heads stood to fall.
"I do wish Aegon had come along," Daeron spoke after a long silence, if only to quench the strange need for words that seemed to bloom within him in such oppressive silence. "He would have liked to see the scorch marks on the stones. Black Harren," he laughed softly, "what a fool."
"Your sentiment will be much appreciated by Lord Whent," Rhaegar allowed himself a mile of his own. "But I would not say so before their maester." That man positively thrived on stories of Black Harren. Some said he was possessed by spirits. Daeron was certain that the only spirits the man indulged in were those found at the bottom of an ale tankard.
"So I see; the mighty Prince Rhaegar has run afoul of the keep's maester." It was an amusing thought, to be sure. But not something Daeron might have imaged of his brother. "Tell me, were you disciplined by the man as Maester Pycelle does to Aegon." The latest occurrence would still be imprinted upon their brother's legs. Daeron was sure.
"You did not see his head mounted upon the wall as we made out way to the godswood, did you?" Rhaegar questioned. The younger brother shook his head. "My objective was not to engage the old man in any talk of ghosts."
"Indeed? What need had you of him then?" It might be the dreams. The night terrors. Daeron did not speak the thought out loud. Rhaegar did not merely dislike speaking of them, he loathed being reminded of those pests. "I trust he has served his position well."
"As well as can be expected." A tinge of heaviness hung around the edges of the other's voice. Daeron knew that Rhaegar would have preferred to have his maester from Dragonstone along, but the keep could not do without him and Lord Whent might think it an affront to his honour and sworn men were the Prince to refuse treatment from Harrenhal's maester.
The dreams were always bitterer and more disturbing the further away he was from Dragonstone.
By the end of the tourney he would be able to return to his keep and his maester; whether Shaena was on his arm or his Elia was yet undecided. The young Prince suspected he would have a pretty piece of mummery to remember the tourney by if nothing else.
They finally entered the main courtyard of the keep. Servants were all about them, carrying out duties, making last hour arrangements.
A pretty servant girl dropped a cluster of flowers and an older woman chided her. Daeron offered the girl a reassuring smile. Her cheeks flushing, the servant scurried away, clutching the flowers she had picked off of the ground.
"Has anyone ever told you that you've father's wandering eyes?" Rhaegar distracted him from pursuing the form of the servant girl as she disappeared around a corner. "Have a care, brother."
"I have yet to discover anything untoward in a look," came the quick reply. "Out of the two of us, the one in more danger has the more years upon him and should know better."
"That again," the Crown Prince sighed. "I've nothing left to say upon that matter, brother."
"Nor have I," Daeron assured him. "'Tis not something different that I've said to you. Pray excuse me, Your Grace, I believe I am needed elsewhere."
And with that Daeron shoved the reins of his horse into the waiting hands of a stable boy, more than eager to follow the trail of the young woman who had caught his eye. Unlike Rhaegar, he was not trying to make a lasting impression or even to convince anyone of anything. Second sons were unlikely to ever sit a throne, after all, and he couldn't be gladder.