ii. the Blessed
He lays his head in Lyanna's lap, still kneeling on the floor, and she strokes his hair softly while she gets her breath back. He meant to lay with her properly tonight, because he must get her with child soon if she is not already, but tonight his flesh failed him. When he saw her at Harrenhal with her savage grin and men's armour, he thought he might never go soft again, and yet since they've reached this tower bringing himself to her bedchamber has become more and more difficult. He was so embarrassed, but she merely giggled and suggested he use his mouth instead.
"Rhaegar?" she asks when she catches her breath and finds he still has not spoken, nor moved. "Are you alright down there?"
"Fine," he murmurs into her thigh. His knees will lock like this, he should go lie on the bed and get some sleep, but he just can't bring himself to stand. He's so tired. Why is he so tired now?
Lyanna seems puzzled. "Are you going to fall asleep there then? Use me as a pillow? Should I tell you a story?" She pauses. Frankly, Rhaegar thinks that sounds like a wonderful suggestion. "I should tell you one of Nan's stories, that'd wake you up. She never was any good at getting us to sleep."
Rhaegar looks up, bleary-eyed. He feels like he should smile, but it won't come to his lips. "What sort of story?" he asks.
Lyanna seems bemused, but she shrugs. "There were a lot of them," she says. "I always liked the one about the Night's King."
"The Night's King." The words feel like a drink, unfamiliar, but cool, soothing, refreshing, on his tongue. It is hot in Dorne, and the sun sets so late. He did not think of that before he came here.
"One of the old Lord Commanders of the Night's Watch." Lyanna smiles as she offers a hand to help him up, and Rhaegar takes it. "No-one's sure who he was before the Watch. Maybe a Bolton, or an Umber. Or a Stark." Rhaegar perches on the edge of the bed, still holding her hand. "He met a woman beyond the wall. Not so unusual, but this wasn't just some wildling, oh no. This was a beauty of some other world, a beauty of death and cold. Her hair were as white as the snow, and her eyes blue, terrifyingly blue." Rhaegar's own indigo eyes go wide as he listens, and Lyanna tucks a lock of his silver hair behind his ear. "He knew he shouldn't, but he loved her. Loved her more than anything he'd found in the realms of the living. He took her to wife, took her back to the Wall built to defend the realm from the likes of her. Made her his queen. Some even say she bore his children."
"Do they," Rhaegar murmurs as he crawls beneath the sheets, not letting himself drift too far from her. Even here in the blazing Dornish sun, Lyanna's touch is cool.
"Of course, the way the tale ends is less romantic," says Lyanna, winding herself around his back. "The kings of men slew them both, and when they learned the Night's King had taken the Others as his gods, they wiped all mention of his name from the history books."
But it is no use; Rhaegar has already drifted off to sleep.
Rhaegar has always liked Tywin Lannister. You would not think it, the sweet, gallant, dashing prince with his silver harp and the stern, cold, ruthless Hand of the King – he's sure the admiration is not returned. Still, for all Lord Tywin's faults, he is a straightforward man. That is not to say he is honest, but while he would lie to you in a heartbeat if it would accomplish his goals, he would not just to spite you. There is not a drop of mercy in him, not since Lady Joanna passed away (Rhaegar tries not to think about Lady Joanna), but in some ways that is also refreshing. You need not wonder where you stand.
He is meant to marry Lord Tywin's daughter. He is not meant to know that yet, as Father hasn't told him, but the gossip is everywhere. Everyone speaks most highly of the young Lady Lannister's beauty, even when she has yet to reach her eleventh nameday; indeed, they speak of little else. Imagine how lovely the babes will be! the smallfolk sigh. Silver and gold, emerald and amethyst.
Father does not watch him carefully at the Tourney; he is far too preoccupied with his second son who they all celebrate. Rhaegar is pleased for him. He acquits himself well in the tourney, as he is expected to, forcing one man after another off his horse. The crowd gasps and sobs and cheers his name, and he barely notices. Some of these men just freeze as he rides toward them, like they cannot believe he is real, that the famous Prince Rhaegar is about to cross lances with them. He will forget all their faces by the end of the day.
When Arthur finally knocks him from his saddle, he imagines how the crowds would gasp if he split his head open on that rock over there.
It is easy for little Cersei to find him, mingling with the servants and smallfolk behind the stands. Father is not watching. He almost doesn't see her, such a small girl surrounded by grown men, but if she is at all intimidated she doesn't look it. "Your Grace," she says, her hand tugging on his sleeve brazenly. Lord Tywin's daughter or not, Father would kill you for that. He'd probably do it especially for Lord Tywin's daughter. But Rhaegar is not Father.
"Lady Lannister," he whispers so as not to draw too much attention to her, although her bright crimson gown probably makes that pointless. "What are you doing here?"
She raises an eyebrow. "I could ask the same of you."
"It isn't safe." He takes her by the hand quickly and leads her away; he will not have the Warden of the West knowing Rhaegar let his daughter go unaccompanied among commoners, among people who could do anything to her. "You shouldn't run off unaccompanied like that; what will your father think?"
"I'm sure my father will be glad I took the initiative to come meet you," she says, smiling to herself. "We are to be wed soon, he says."
"Betrothed." Hopefully Father will not force him to take this poor girl to bed until she is of age, although he would not put it past the man. He is so paranoid about Lord Tywin, and might want to lock him under key as soon as possible. "But it's all rumour and gossip anyway."
"Oh, is it?" The girl bats her emerald eyes at him. No, not emerald. "Shame. Could we stop for a moment, my prince? I'm terribly thirsty. Do you have water with you?"
He does; he makes a point of carrying it at Tourneys, since the last time he forgot and almost fainted in the stands (and Father laughed at his son swooning like a maiden). He pauses and hands her his canteen, and they are surrounded by trees and deep in shadow. Cersei is a messy drinker, he realises. A drop of water falls down her neck and beneath her bodice. He looks away.
She dabs her mouth with her hand and passes the water back to him; Rhaegar moves to continue walking, but she does not follow him.
"Can we stay here a moment?" she asks. "The sun is hot."
Rhaegar shouldn't, and really, he didn't find it hot out there at all, but he supposes that velvet she wears is heavy. He pauses, not sure what to say, and she eyes him appraisingly.
"Jaime will be worried about me," she sighs. Rhaegar takes a second to remember. Of course, the girl's brother, Lord Crakehall's squire, the one who keeps going on about how he'll be a better knight than any of them someday. He's been giving Rhaegar suspicious looks all day, and cheered for Arthur louder than anyone when he finally unseated the prince. Still, Rhaegar supposes that's a normal enough way for a young boy to feel about the man who's going to marry his sister – little Jaime just wants to protect her, that's all. Lucky they weren't born in our family. "I was born before him, and yet he still treats me like a child he needs to look after."
You are a child. Saying as much would be rather impolite though, and so Rhaegar says nothing. "Father says I am to be your queen," Cersei says. "And I'm glad. Everyone says how beautiful I am, how I will be an excellent queen. They say the same thing about you."
"If beauty were all it took to be king or queen, Westeros would have been ruled much better these past few centuries," he says.
That makes her smile at him. "How right you are, Your Grace," she says, moving closer. "Still. I think you will make a king worthy of me. Nothing like your ugly old father." For a second, Rhaegar lets himself be flattered. Then she recklessly grabs his hand, and presses it to his cheek. "Tell me, Your Grace: if I were your queen... how would you honour me?"
A dull horror floods Rhaegar's senses. She is trying to seduce me. Gods, what is she, ten years old? Did her Father put her up to this?
...What has he done to her?
Rhaegar pulls his hand away like burnt. "Your family will be worried about you," he says, and then leads her back to the Lannisters' stand, not speaking a word. Lord Tywin looks completely impassive, and does not ask where she was; Jaime's eyes narrow with anger. Rhaegar feels sick as he makes his way back over to the royal box.
That night, Father finally speaks of the prospective betrothal. He does not say nice things.
"The self-satisfied, double-crossing bastard!" Father screams, spittle flying from his mouth, and Mother keeps her glass of wine pressed close to his lips so it won't land in there. "Does he think I don't know what he's up to?! What that whore he's bred will do if I give her half a chance? I'll find my son's throat slit on his wedding night."
And then you would be rid of me, wouldn't that be a relief? It's stupid, what Father says; Lord Tywin is not fool enough to have his daughter kill the crown prince once she'd already married her way into being queen, but Rhaegar knows there is no arguing with Father when he's in one of his rages. He says nothing. He half-wants to run, but that will only make it worse.
"You! Fetch a raven," Father points at a scribe, and the poor man almost faints with terror. "Write to Lord Tywin, and tell him – I am not marrying my heir to a servant's daughter. Because that's what he is, he is the realm's servant, he is my servant, and he better remember that."
"Father, please be reasonable," Rhaegar finds the words falling from his lips before he thinks them. But he must, because he is the heir, he is the reasonable one, he is the one who knows what a stupid thing Father does. "Even if you do not accept the proposal, Lord Tywin is the Lord of Casterly Rock, he is the Warden of the West, he is your Hand of the King, you have to deal with this courteously–"
His words die in his mouth as Father turns, his furious glare now focused solely on Rhaegar. Stupid, he thinks as his blood runs cold. Right now, he feels everything he could not make himself feel at the Tourney, when men rode at him with lances. There's no arguing with him like this. Why did you say anything?
"You want to marry her, don't you?!"
Rhaegar takes a deep breath so he won't hyperventilate. "That is not what I meant."
"Isn't it?!" He's coming closer now, and Rhaegar just wants to run, but he is frozen to the spot. "You don't want me to know what you've been up to behind my back?!"
Mother stays in her seat with her wine pressed to her lips, tears forming in her eyes. "Aerys–"
"Silence, woman!"
Rhaegar sends her a desperate look. Don't get yourself hurt trying to help me. I couldn't bear it.
Father grabs his chin and yanks his head up to meet his eye. "Don't look at her! Stupid little boy, still looking to your mummy to protect you. She can't help you now." No-one can help me, Rhaegar thinks, and it is almost a relief to feel so helpless. "Treacherous cunt. What's he promised you? He'll get me out of the way and make you king early, so long as you do as you're told? He'll even throw in that blonde bitch? Don't think I didn't see you before, boy, sneaking her off behind the stands and right back into her daddy's arms. Did he let you have a taste early, so you could see what you were buying? What is she, ten years old? You're sick."
"No, Father, I swear–"
"You're all plotting against me," Father snarls at him. "You, Lord Tywin, your mother. Little Viserys is the only one I can trust. You all want me dead."
Can you blame us? "I don't even want to marry her–"
"Why not?!" Father spits at him, squeezing his jaw tight enough to bruise. "Come on. Like you said, she's Lord Tywin's daughter, one of the richest, most powerful families in the Seven Kingdoms. And she'll be the greatest beauty in them once she has some tits on her. Every man in the realm wants to marry her, why should you be any different? Are you like uncle Daeron then? Come on boy, tell me, why wouldn't you want to marry that girl?"
Rhaegar doesn't want to let tears fall from his eyes, that will not make Father think any better of him, but he can't breathe. He cannot tell if the whimper he hears is his or his mother's. What does he want to hear?
"She – she frightened me."
It's not until the words leave him that Rhaegar realises how true they are. That stops Father. Slowly, he relaxes his grip on Rhaegar's jaw, as a savage, horrible grin spreads across his face.
"She frightened you?" He steps back a good foot, and yet Rhaegar feels no safer. Father bursts out laughing. "Oh, this is priceless! Prince Rhaegar, heir to the throne, the warrior who knocked dozens of men off their horses, scared of a little girl!"
Rhaegar turns his face to hide his shame. A blonde little girl, with eyes like wildfire.
Father is still laughing, and some of the servants are starting to laugh too, more from relief than anything. Rhaegar cannot fault them that. When he eyes Mother, she has finally set her wine back down, and is sighing in relief. "Write to Lord Tywin. Tell him that no, I will not betroth my son to his daughter." His face screws up in a mocking pout. "After all, I don't want my little boy getting scared."
Rhaegar, sixteen years and utterly humiliated, slowly and calmly turns and makes his way back to his rooms. Once he's alone and safe, he crawls under the sheets, and sobs his eyes out.
Lord Tywin takes the insult as badly as anyone could have expected. He resigns his position and packs up his household, little Cersei screaming and stomping her foot as she's forced to saddle her horse. Rhaegar watches them go from his window, not sure if what he feels now is dread, or relief.
Once Elia can walk again they bring the Princess Rhaenys to King's Landing to be presented before the king. Rhaegar can think of nothing he wants to do less than subject poor Nyssie to his father, but he knows that he must.
When King Aerys spits she smells Dornish, of course Rhaegar is offended at the insult – to his daughter, to himself, to his wife, to his wife's people. But he is also relieved. He cannot touch her. Of course, it's not that he can't touch her, it's that he won't, but for now it will do.
He says goodnight to his mother before he and Elia return to their chambers that night, and to Septa Ashwood and Septa Jude, waiting for their queen to finish the cyvasse game she is playing against herself. Once they're gone, Elia gets a puzzled look and asks: "Those septas, do they follow your mother everywhere?"
"Only to bed." Elia raises her eyebrows at that, and then Rhaegar has to explain. "Father, years ago after – they couldn't have another child after me. Father thought it was because she'd been unfaithful. The gods didn't want to let a bastard sit the throne." I must be his son then, he thinks bitterly. "So he confined her to Maegor's holdfast, and ordered two septas to sleep in her bed." Elia looks horrified. Most people seem to think this one of the less mad things Father's done. It's certainly far from the worst thing he's done to Mother. "Stupid, I know, and the babes kept dying. But now we have Viserys, and so he'll never stop it."
"Oh," says Elia, looking over his shoulder. She has a gentle heart, and Rhaegar knows it must ache for his poor mother. His own does too, but he has lived with that pain long enough he barely notices it.
He thinks of Baelor the Blessed, who locked his sisters away so he couldn't be tempted by them. Because for a man to bed his sister was wrong, sinful, shameful. And what did that give the realm? Daemon Blackfyre, and a hundred years of pain. You might have been blessed Baelor, but what about the rest of us?
"Elia," he says, "if I put two septas in your bed to be sure you were faithful – what would you do?"
She seems bemused. Would you do such a thing? her eyes seem to ask, and Rhaegar feels sick. No, he would never. He is not like Father. He is not even like Baelor, the Blessed, the Beloved. He is not mad. He knows he feels too much sometimes, and sometimes he feels too little, but he is not mad.
Then Elia smiles. "Your Grace, I'm Dornish," she says. "I'd simply fuck the septas."
He laughs at that, loud and strong. He is very fond of his wife. "Well, good for you then," he says, and she grins as he takes her to bed.
When Elia's belly swells again with child, Rhaegar is terrified. You must, he reminds himself. You need a son, you need an heir. And if you are not... He grows old. In truth, he's barely past twenty, but he grows old enough. Something should have happened by now. Three heads. He has always tried to make that part make sense, and he has always failed. Perhaps it isn't him.
He cannot tell how he feels about that. Perhaps he feels nothing.
Nyssie does not share his worry. "Is my brother here yet?" she asks, and she seems to just assume it will be a boy. Everyone assumes it will be a boy, and Rhaegar hates them for tempting the gods like that. Even if it is a boy, there's no guarantee the boy will live. He remembers little Jaehaerys in his crib, the happiest babe you ever met, and how happy he made Father. He remembers being fourteen years and stupid and thinking maybe, just maybe, this boy might make things right again, might make them happy again. He remembers when Jaehaerys died. He remembers Hanna, a disgrace to his mother's honour, but always sweet and polite and only seventeen years, tortured to death beneath the Red Keep. He remembers hating himself because he could not cry for his baby brother, not when he was too busy crying for himself.
He is there when it begins this time. He starts spending the nights in his wife's chambers, just in case, which reminds him too much of Mother and her septas but no-one else seems to notice the similarity. He does not lay with Elia then, he will not take the risk.
She wakes him in the middle of the night with a whisper. "Rhaegar, fetch the maester," she whispers. "The babe is coming."
Rhaegar almost faints with terror, but no, he does as he's bid.
This birth is even more painful than the last, and once it looks set to continue into its second day, the maester takes him aside and tells him he does not want to be present for this. The last time, he would have refused. He would have insisted his place was by his wife's side as she bore his babe, no matter what happened. But now, they tell him to leave and he leaves.
He waits outside in the windowsill instead, looking out onto the rocks below. Servants bring him his meals and later take them away again untouched. He tries not to think. Nyssie is the only person who can get a smile out of him, once she comes up and asks where her brother is, he was meant to be here ages ago. Soon, he smiles and lies and promises her, and when she hugs him he wonders how he will explain it to her once her mother and brother are dead. He tries to remember how they explained it when Shaena was born dead, but he was already eight years then, so he thinks everyone just expected him to understand.
Half the week passes before Maester Dacton – that's his name – emerges with a sleeping babe in his arms. "A boy, Your Grace," he says. "You have a son."
An heir. Rhaegar takes the babe into his arms, sleeping so peacefully you could think him dead, skin white and pale. When the boy opens his eyes for a split second, Rhaegar sees a violent Targaryen purple. He tries to remember how he felt when he first saw Nyssie, how perfect he thought she was. No-one else seems to share his opinion: the Seven Kingdoms are not pleased their favourite prince's firstborn was a girl, with dark Dornish skin, dark Dornish hair, and dark Dornish eyes. This boy is much more what they were hoping for. And yet, when Rhaegar looks at the heir he needs, all he feels is dread.
"And Elia?" She cannot die. If she dies I will never be able to forgive the boy for it, and he is an innocent, he doesn't deserve that.
Dacton sighs sadly. "I will do my best," he says, and Rhaegar knows that is all he can offer. "But even if she lives, she will never bear another child. It would kill her."
Rhaegar nods. "Just save my wife." Don't let her die just so I can have an heir.
The maester goes and Rhaegar remains, boy in his arms, still not thinking. He is not sure how long he sits there before he looks back out the window, and sees something in the sky. A red comet.
Born beneath a bleeding star, he thinks immediately. It's not me. It's him.
Perhaps it is a relief.
Though he tries, he cannot stop himself thinking more. The dragon must have three heads. He never quite could make that make sense for him, although he tried. He tries to make it make sense for Aegon – yes, he is named Aegon; he is Aegon the Conqueror come again, he must be. Rhaenys, Aegon...
She will never bear another child.
Rhaegar stares out the window, and wonders.
He is to meet his future bride today. The time to break his fast has already come and gone, as has the time for lunch, and yet Rhaegar feels no hunger. Still, he must get out of bed. He must.
The servants come and tell him so, but he simply rolls on his side and ignores them, and he is the crown prince, they don't want to push it. Father could get me out of bed, and then he imagines how Father would sneer, his son too lazy to even dress himself to meet the woman he will marry.
Why am I so tired? he wonders. It is not as if he dreads wedding the Martell girl. From all he's heard, she is lovely, and he's sure he'll enjoy being married to her more than he would have Cersei Lannister. It's not being married to her that makes him feel like this. It is the thought of having to wed her; the thought of having to go and stand in line and make awkward small talk with the woman he'll spend the rest of his life with, of standing in the great sept in the eyes of all the gods and vowing to love forever some girl he barely knows. Well, at least she's not my sister.
"Are you still not up?"
Rhaegar turns, for a moment afraid it's father, because who else dares speak to a prince like that but a king? When he sees however, he almost smiles. "Jon," he says, because Jon couldn't control his tongue if he tried. "What are you doing here?"
"Looking for you. Everyone is." Jon sighs as he walks into the room. "Let me guess, you took your kingsguard out to go play your harp on the streets and make all the girls cry, and then they went and got you drunk again too."
Rhaegar shakes his head. He had meant to do that, once more before his wife arrived, but last night he fell into bed too tired to even sleep. Gods, why is he so tired? "Why do they cry?" he asks. Jon looks confused. "It's just a harp. I pull a string and a noise comes out. Any fool can do that. Why would anyone cry over it?"
"...Nobody plays it quite like you do," murmurs Jon, averting his eyes.
Rhaegar sighs deeply. "Everywhere I go, people cry 'Prince Rhaegar! Prince Rhaegar!' Butchers, bakers, septons, whores, everyone. They love me. They do not know me, but they love me." He pauses. "I don't know why. I've not done anything for them. But I am their prince, and because I am pretty and I've yet to start torturing them to death for my own amusement, they think I am perfect. They think I can save them all from – something – and I... I..."
He trails off, not knowing how that sentence ends. Jon looks like he doesn't know what to say, and then averts his eyes. "You need to get up," he says. "We don't want that girl getting a bad first impression or anything," he mutters, bitter, and Rhaegar gives him a curious look.
"...Come here, Jon."
Jon looks taken aback when he asks. Rhaegar still does not get up, and so Jon, hesitant, comes over to the bed and sits on the edge of it. Rhaegar tries to smile at him again.
"Lie down, Jon."
Even more uncomfortable now, Jon does, and he and Rhaegar face one another inches apart. Rhaegar feels almost like he's being cruel, but he knows Jon, he's known Jon for years, Jon might even be one of the heads of the dragon and–
"You want me, don't you?"
Jon immediately looks away, and for the first time in his life, Rhaegar sees pure panic written across his friend's face. "I–"
"It's alright, I don't mind," Rhaegar is quick to reassure him. He didn't mean to scare the man. "I know. I've always known." In truth it took him years to put it together, not until he was at least thirteen and the marriage offers went from being a weekly to daily matter, but still, close enough. "You've known me for years, since we were children... and you've wanted me all along."
When Jon finally raises the courage to meet his eye again, he's squinting suspiciously like he senses a trap. "Yes," he says, gruff, "what of it?"
He does not trust me. Rhaegar tries to smile again. "If you want me Jon," he says, and he takes the man's hand to lay it over his chest, through his white silk nightshirt, "then have me."
"What?"
"I mean it," Rhaegar says, and he could feel giddy at how bewildered Jon sounds. "I don't mind. No-one's watching, they're all off waiting for the princess. Fuck me, now, hard enough I'll feel it for weeks – leave me limping to the altar."
Rhaegar can see Jon's cock jump at his words. And yet... "Rhaegar–" and he worries he has misjudged it. He remembers Ser Criston Cole, who Princess Rhaenyra threw herself and at left him so disgusted he went to war against her. So he said, anyway. "–your betrothed?"
"What, will I be the first Targaryen to cheat on his wife?" he scoffs.
"First with a man, maybe," Jon says, and Rhaegar doubts that's true, by sheer rule of numbers, but he supposes whichever ones did it previously were clever enough not to get caught. And then there's Rhaenyra. "It's meant to be wrong," Jon smirks bitterly. "Septon says."
"I know, I've read my Seven-Pointed Star," says Rhaegar. "It says how wrong it is for two men to lie together, and two lines later, it says how wrong it is for a brother to lie with his sister, how any children born of such a union would be abominations, should not be suffered to live."
Jon frowns, and Rhaegar knows he has said too much. He sighs and closes his eyes. He imagines what Father would think if he caught his son in bed with another man. Like uncle Daeron, Rhaegar can imagine him sneering, like he did when Rhaegar was five years old with his head in books, which confused him then, since everyone said Daeron was a warrior, not a scholar. Fuck him, Rhaegar thinks, and it's like a tiny flame being lit within him. Fuck the lot of them. I'm the Prince of Dragonstone, and if I want to know what it feels like to be fucked, I will.
He opens his eyes when he feels Jon's hand laying across his cheek, gentle for such a rough man. In turn, he reaches out and winds his fingers through Jon's hair, red as flame, but cool to the touch.
"...I don't think you really want me to."
"Why would I ask if I didn't want it?"
Jon shrugs and chuckles. "Fuck if I know what mad things go through that pretty head of yours."
Rhaegar jumps away from him as if burnt. "I'm not mad."
Jon looks puzzled. "Rhaegar, I was only joking–"
"I'm not mad."
A tense silence falls between them, and in it, whatever little fire Rhaegar lit in himself withers and dies, leaves only an even tinier pile of ash. He sighs and collapses back into the bed, closes his eyes again. No, he doesn't want to sleep with Jon. He just wants to sleep.
"You need to get up."
"I know," Rhaegar says, and he does not move a muscle.
Jon sighs. "So what, do you need me to dress you or something?"
Rhaegar cracks open one eye, and then laughs. "See, you say that as a joke, but it would actually help."
"Oh. Well fine then." Jon sits up, and he pulls Rhaegar up with him, keeps him still as he tears off that nightshirt and goes looking for the crown prince's fine tunics and coats, like little more than a bodyservant. Rhaegar feels cruel again, making a man who wants him and can never have him and yet loves him regardless torment himself like this. And yet he sits there, like a child, and a lazy one at that. Even Viserys isn't such a brat. But he is just so tired.
When he meets Elia Martell for the first time, he bows and kisses her hand and tells her how honoured he is to see her great beauty. He can tell she's charmed by him immediately.
"So, have you thought about who you'd like to squire for?"
Rhaegar grins up at his mother. "I have." She smiles back at him. He knows she doesn't take it seriously, no-one does, a little boy dreaming of being a warrior. But I am the prince who was promised, so I have to be knighted first, he thinks. And who wouldn't want the prince who was promised for a squire? Still, everyone thinks it's the right thing for the heir to the throne. Even Father approves – about time he started fighting. But Rhaegar will become as good a warrior as Father could ever hope for. A better warrior than him. Rhaegar frowns. That thought feels mean, and he doesn't like it.
"Well then?"
"Ser Bonnifer Hasty."
The smile falls from Mother's lips, and she reaches for her wine again. Rhaegar's confused. Did he say something wrong? "I'm not sure that's a good idea, love," says Mother into her glass.
"But why?" he asks. "I thought he was a friend of yours. That's what everyone said."
He's been asking around, asking the castle knights if there was anyone Mother might like an excuse to see. Mother seems so lonely a lot of the time. Ser Bonnifer's name kept coming up; apparently, he crowned her Queen of Love and Beauty once. They must have been very close for him to do that.
Mother smiles sadly for a moment. "He was, once." But then she sighs and puts her glass back down. "But your father wouldn't like it."
Rhaegar frowns. "Doesn't he like your friends?"
"I'm afraid not, no."
Rhaegar leaves it at that, then, but in truth he doesn't really listen. He can talk Father into it, he reasons, and tries to ignore that vague anxiety he feels at the thought of trying to talk Father into anything. Father will probably be a lot more understanding than Mother thinks. Every man wants his wife to be happy, right? Everyone says Mother looks so unhappy the day they were wed. Rhaegar half-wonders if she'd have been happier if she'd wed Bonnifer Hasty instead.
At the next tourney (Father throws them rather often), he goes looking for Ser Bonnifer. He's not hard to find, crowded around the banner of the Holy Hundred, listening to some sort of sermon. He seems a rather grim man, and Rhaegar wonders if he's really the right man to cheer his mother up. But he's her friend, not his, and she must see something in him. If Rhaegar gets to be his squire, he will probably find it himself. He must be kind beneath the stern words, for the Seven are meant to be kind. Perhaps he could be like another father some day.
Besides, it's good when a man shows proper respect for the gods. Father cares little for them.
"Ser Bonnifer?" he asks, and he feels like a shy child, but he is the prince that was promised. He will not buckle at asking an older man's attention.
It takes the man a moment to turn to towards him, and when he does, his gaze is cold. Very cold. Rhaegar shudders like the wind's been blown straight through him.
"Do you want something, Your Grace?"
There is nothing strange about the words, and yet– He hates me, Rhaegar realises, and he doesn't know how he knows that but he does, he can tell. This man hates him, and he has no idea why. He'd never want me as a squire.
"N-no, ser. Sorry." And he runs. As he goes, he hears one of the other men mutter abomination, and the word keeps ringing in his ears.
Well, I will just have to find another knight to squire for then, he thinks as he makes his way back to his mother's side, but there is no joy in it anymore.
When he sees her walking toward him in her golden gown, on her father's arm, he thinks she is so small. He's always known she's small, born a month early and having never quite lost the look of it. Some use that to speak against the marriage, saying the Martell girl is too weak and sickly and will never give him strong sons. Mostly these are people who just don't like the Dornish. Frankly, Rhaegar thinks the connection between a woman's body and he ability to bear children is overrated, for his poor mother always had firm breasts and wide hips, and yet she suffered dead child after dead child.
As he wraps Elia in his dragon cloak, he feels massive, ungainly, and she looks like she's drowning in black and red. I cannot do this to her, he thinks for a second.
But he must.
He kisses her to seal their union, although he knows he will not truly until he beds her. After, he whispers "I am the dragon," and standing in the Great Sept of Baelor, feeling flushed in the light of the Seven-Pointed Star, he's afraid someone might hear him.
