A/N: To Blood Baron: Here you go. :)
To Guest: Indeed.
The Lives of Four Kings lied on the mahogany table with stubby legs and heavily ornate. It was opened, parted carefully in two halves. The thick pages presented some remnants of bristle that had yet to be smoothed. At the highest point of the page, with large, bold, straight lettering, stood written the words of Maester Kaeth. Below, slimmer, rounder letters detailed the main topic of the chapter ahead. On the outer side of the page a large initial had been painted in bright colours, vivid sapphire and burning red outlined by a thin golden thread. Upon the rest of the page an elegant script expounded upon the virtues of the good rule, the well-done thing and well-planned action.
Rhaegar eyes the page distrustfully, frustration coursing within his veins. What good did it do to him that he was mindful of the words of the Seven, kept the good faith and strove to see hid kingdom flourish? He could pay tithe to a thousand different septs and beg nameless gods, and he would be just as well served as he had been by his own deities.
His mother would still be sent to the frozen North. The child could not quite come to terms with his own part in having exiled the only one person who had loved him to the end of he ream. It might as well have been Essos that she were sent to for all it mattered. Rhaegar knew that once she was gone, he would be all alone.
Mother would no longer be there. Just like his lord father. It would be as if she too had gone into the world of shades never to return. And all because he was a coward who could not bring himself to face the threat of his own lords. Men they might be and he just a child, but he should have at least fought them.
Yet he had not. Rhaegar had simply looked from one man to the other when they spoke to him about the fate of his mother should he refuse them, and in the end, with trembling fingers had picked up a quill and his sigil. He has signed.
And not a moment since had he found any sort of peace, The histories would write of him in cruel, harsh words. Right they would be to. A King ought to be the bravest, the wisest and the best of men. But not he. He was the coward who had accepted to have his mother borne away.
Alack, Something had been taken as a lesson by the young ruler. The child had understood that in such a world as the one he inhabited, the only person he could rely on was himself. Other would keep with him only as long as they were capable or satisfied in their vanity. When he would or could no longer please them, they would leave. Or a King could not exist without true allies. As such, the one who bore the crown had best open his eyes wide and amass as much support as possible.
Slow and lethargic, the King drew his fingers over the written page of Maester Kaeth's work. Within the Seven Kingdoms there were only four such books. One of them resided in Oldtwon, two in King's Landing and another at Winterfell. There was something like comfort in the knowledge that at least words would bind him and his mother. At the very least the son could look upon the pages of the Grand Maester's work and wonder, think to himself that his lady mother might be reading the very same pages as him many leagues away.
In that moment, the boy felt a flare of warmth spread through his body, all the way to his extremities. The sickening guilt had not gone away entirely. But at the very least he could breathe. At a long last. Rhaegar pulled his hand back and remained staring at the letters, his mind wandering towards other planes. A confused mass of thoughts ravaged through his head, bouncing from one corner to another, soft whispers and unfinished pleas mingled with waves of fury and despair. They tangled together in a wave so complicated the King did not even attempt to make sense of it. He merely stepped away from the table and allowed himself to land in a chair.
Naked skin touched polished wood, the smooth surface cool beneath his heated flesh. Like a mute, he lingered in absolute silence. Rhaegar would have spoken but he feared. What if someone without heard him? What if, what if, what if. He swallowed with difficulty as his mind stormed with unpalatable thoughts. Woe to him who knew himself to be in danger yet was powerless to help even himself. The King remained seated, eyes upon the door.
He expected that soon enough they would come for him. Not to shorten his height. Nay, for they had need of him well and alive if they were to rule in his stead. They would simply drag him from the comfort of his chamber so as to have him present for his mother's departure. Were the masses to catch wind of what had gone on within the walls of Maegor's Holdfast, there was the slight change that opprobrious words would be thrown towards those responsible.
Not that it would matter. Those with power seldom tripped over words. Yet Rhaegar would at least feel vindicated. Shaking the thought away the young King watched the unmoving door, the atmosphere growing more and more suffocating with each passing moment. The wait wrung his nerves. It was the very worst of it. At least in action one could and did at the very lest go through motions. As it was, however, he could but sit where he was and wait in silence, as if in a tomb.
A very fitting thought given the current situation he found himself in. Rhaegar grimaced. If only the blasted door would move one inch; even that would please him well enough.
As if in direct response to his thoughts, a low whine filled the chamber as the door swung on its hinges, giving way to pressure coming from without. The King startled in his chair. With only grim determination as his companion, the child staggered to his feet, eyeing the entrance with distrust and slight disgust when he saw who it was that entered his domain.
None other than the Grand Maester himself stepped over the threshold, an exaggerated paternal gesture following him within. "Your Grace," he said in a kindly voice, laced with concern, even as his beady eyes strained upon him, "it is time." He did not offer to guide Rhaegar, thankfully.
Without, Ser Harlan bowed to the ruler of the land, his lined face a perfect mask of serenity. On the other side, Ser Barristan, whom they still called the Bold, did the very same. It was without reason that the young King felt anger boil within him. Anger at these great men who should have protected him. Anger at their daring to face him even in such circumstances. He could but walk past them and away, as no words of his could possibly help matters.
To his mind it was rather clear what must be done. And that was exactly what he planned for. In the meantime it was best to keep his head lowered and not make waves. There would come a day when he would have retribution.
In the courtyard, his mother's party had made ready, a suite of armed men, joined by three ladies-in-waiting and a few other courtiers, one of whom, the Master of Laws, was to see the union between the Queen Mother and her betrothed sealed. Ser Gawyne would ride with them as well, as the principle protector of Rhaella Targaryen throughout her journey to the North, fraught as it was with perils.
Striving to keep a dignified mien, the young King walked to where his mother had been brought by Shaera. His grandmother was telling something to the Queen Mother, her tall frame imposing when opposed to her daughter's hunched form.
"Your Grace," his grandmother greeted, a smile painted upon her lips. Light violet eyes followed his progress. "You are come just in time. Your lady mother was wondering at your absence."
His throat worked almost convulsively, but somehow the boy managed to speak. "A moment with my lady mother," he demanded in a flat voice.
They must have thought it merciful of themselves to allow it. Rhaegar was only glad that they had. He wasted no time in walking into the Queen Mother's embrace. "I will find a way to return you to King's Landing, mother," he promised softly to the woman who had begun weeping even as she nodded her head.
"Of course, my brave son. I know you shall." Her words washed over him, yet the King knew not whether she truly meant them or was humouring her only child.
Rhaella shivered softly, her fur lined cloak less than enough for the cool climates of the North. Since they had passed the Neck, her very bones had begun to ache. Not only a vague feeling of discontent rattled her. Within her wheelhouse, the once powerful woman lay upon embroidered pillows and said little more than what was strictly necessary.
Her thoughts were not upon the journey, nor even upon the cold. Like any mother she wondered about her son. H Rhaegar Hr set boy who had promised h would find a way to bring her back to King's Landing. She hoped the thought would die within him and wither away. After all, a life of exile in the frigid wilderness of the tree worshipers was not the worst fate.
She would still be the lady wife of one of the realm's pillars and with enough fortune could mayhap convince him to allow her visits to her son. Long enough had she been in the company of women, and knew, from words and witnessing, that a man could be swayed. With that in mind, she could only hope that her own child would wait, would bide his time and not cause any sort of trouble. It was crucial that they gain some powerful allies before attempting to counter Tywin Lannister and his plans.
"Your Grace," one of her ladies called to her softly, holding up a bowl of dried fruit, "have some. You are too pale of skin."
"I thank you, but my stomach protests even the smallest of morsels." She smiled nonetheless, letting Ynnis Chelsted know that she appreciated the thought.
She had not lied though. Her stomach rumbled unpleasantly. It seemed to her that the very motions of the wheelhouse had brought on the plague of discomfort. Still, Rhaella had to endure. Winterfell would be looming in the horizon soon enough and once they reached the castle of winter, her fate would be sealed. There would be no turning back from that point onwards.
Arrana Celtigar offered her a wineskin filled with spiced wine. Rhaella swallowed a couple of mouthfuls. "I daresay we shall need something stronger," she noted, causing the third of her women to burst out into shrill giggles. Orsyla Butterwell had never been known for her subtlety though.
"Mayhap I could charm something off of one of your soldiers, Your Grace," the same Orsyla offered, a less than innocent smile appearing upon her face. She was by far the most spirited of her ladies and the boldest.
"Nay, this best you do not," Rhaella decided matters after a moment of contemplation, finding to her horror that she should have liked to give in. But the very last thing she needed was for one of her ladies to find herself carrying a bastard.
On their merry road they went, on and on toward the new home that awaited the mother of the king. And, as every journey must find its end, so did Rhaella Targaryen's, within the grand yard of Winterfell.
As expected, Lord Stark awaited the arrival of the Queen and her party, having been aware of their approach long before. Never in her life had Rhaella seen the man. In all her years at court, she had not heard him much spoken of, nor had it ever occurred to her to ask. House Stark was, for the most part, reclusive. Few individuals from the clan of the wolves had ever concerned themselves with matters without the borders of their frozen kingdom. In turn, the rest of the realm had comfortably ignored their existence. It had seemed only fair.
But now, as she faced the head of the house, being helped down from her wheelhouse by the odious Symond Staunton, she wished she had. Knowing next to nothing about the man she was to wed chaffed. At last Aerys had not been a stranger. Alack, she had no escape.
Her eyes drifted to the man in question. Somewhat broad shouldered and showing signs of stoutness, Rickard Stark presented the image of a man of middling height with piercing silver eyes and one grim line for a mouth. Dark hair framed his face, although Rhaella saw it was far from the sable of the Baratheons. A matching beard adorned his chin, travelling below towards his neck.
"Your Grace, I welcome you to Winterfell," the man said, his hand rising in an elegant gesture of presentation.
"I am pleased to be here," Rhaella responded, allowing him to take her hand and bend over it. The brush of his palm against hers left her flesh tingling. His skin had been warm.
The rest of the party was properly introduced and customs were observed, the guests of import making themselves known to their host. Lord Stark was patient throughout the process, but Rhaella thought she detected about him an air of ironic tolerance. It was in the way he looked at them all. As if he knew something they did not.
"If it please Your Grace, we should move within the great hall," the Northerner lord urged as soon as the last man that needed to be heard had spoken. Rhaella nodded daintily, slipping her hand upon his arm. And shoulder to shoulder the two of them led the procession.
As close as she was to the man, Rhaella found herself reticent to speak. Growing up as she had, it went without question that she had been taught conversation and good manners. But for some reason, her lips refused to work. Instead, she found herself looking around as they entered within.
To her great surprise, the walls of Winterfell exuded warmth. Her lips opened in surprise and the expression must have spread to her entire visage for Lord Stark looked upon her with slight amusement. "When Brandon the Builder put the foundation of this keep, he made sure that the harsh winter would not be overlooked. Warm water flows beneath the stone." The explanation made her yet more curious. She stopped to gaze at the wall and Rickard merely allowed her to touch the wall and convince herself.
"It is truly ingenious," Rhaella allowed.
They continued into the main hall, where a grand feast awaited them. Rhaella was, of course, given a seat next to the lord of the house. On one side sat Rickard Stark's men, on the other hers. It was a strange sight, reminiscent of days of yore in her father's home. Unexpectedly, her thoughts turned to a young knight who had once crowned her with a golden chain of flowers. Just as soon as the memory had passed, she returned to the present.
"My lord, if you do not mind my asking," the woman began, leaning slightly towards him, "I have heard that you are a father, yet I see no children here." She gestured to the gathering of grown men and women.
"Indeed, Your Grace," Rickard confirmed. "My two eldest sons are away squiring. My youngest, a daughter and a son, occupy the nursery." The explanation was met with a nod. It was nothing out of the ordinary and considering that winter raged without, one should think Lord Stark wise for not exposing his children to the dangers of a chill.
"Forgive my lack of knowledge, Lord Stark, but should they not be present at the exchanging of the vows?"
He slanted a dry look her way, as if unsure of her meaning. Rhaella merely shrugged. "I do believe you have the right if it, Your Grace. But I am one step ahead. Both Brandon and Eddard have been sent for. Our vows shall be exchanged in their presence."
"That is well." The Queen Mother looked at her plate of food. "I wish mine own son could have been present."
"A king's duty is to his people," Lord Stark stated. It was a sort of comfort he offered, she recognised. A cold comfort. Nonetheless, Rhaella managed to nod in agreement. "Mayhap after Your Grace has had her meal we could see the children."
"I believe I should like that." In fact, Rhaella would take the opportunity to have the gifts she had brought for her new husband's children delivered and out of her way. And why should she not enjoy seeing those babes?
If she thought on it, it occurred to Rhaella that any lord could only be flattered by attention lavished upon his offspring. Indeed, she ought to strive to capture the man's heart and mind and what better way was there than through those he held dear.
Pleased with herself, Rhaella continued her meal, finding that her stomach was less irritable with something warm within it. From the corner of her eye she could see that Orsyla was already smiling at one of the men sitting at a lower table while Aranna to Ynnis only the Seven knew what. She longed to scold the three of them but knew that she could not before such a large gathering. Instead, Rhaella turned her attention back to Rickard Stark, noting that he was silently contemplating her.
Far from a blushing maiden, she still felt her skin heat with the flow of blood.
A/N: Well, this is it then. Thank you for reading.
To those of you who also read The River Runs Cold, would you like it if I left clues for this story as well? Just a thought. Give it some consideration and let me know.
And, as always, let me know what you've thought of the chapter.