iii. The Unworthy
The flame is bright, red and yellow flickering, a delicate point over the end of a candle. It's hot, of course it is, but it's under control, and Rhaegar does not have to touch it unless he wishes. It's what fire should be.
"Rhaegar, sweetheart, Nyssie won't go to bed, she says she can't find Balerion, could you – what are you doing?"
He does not pull his hand away as he looks up and sees his wife in their doorway, watching him stick his hand through a flame. "Conducting an experiment," he explains. He remembers he thought of being a Maester once when he was very young, younger than five, before he learned swordsmanship and books were his only love, and he wanted to be like uncle Aemon, who was always so good and kind. After mother bore dead babe after dead babe however, he knew that dream was a folly.
Elia's eyes are wide as she watches him, slowly shutting the door behind her. "Sweetling, you're going to hurt yourself," she says, Rhoynish tones coming out stronger when she's worried.
"I won't," he smiles at her. "It doesn't even hurt." He might be exaggerating; it does hurt, a little, but only that – any other man would have yanked his hand back in pain a long time ago. "I am the dragon. Fire cannot kill a dragon."
Elia curses under her breath. "You and your bloody dragons," she says, and he's surprised by what she does next – she charges forth and knocks his hand out of the way, hissing as her own hand grazes the flame as well. He looks up, shocked and concerned.
"Don't burn yourself, love."
She tries to glare at him, but he can see there's too much fear in her eyes for it to be very effective. "Rhaegar, please – I'm your wife, and I love you. What is this about?"
I love you. Has she told him that before? He doesn't think so, he's sure he would remember that. Should he say it back? "It's nothing to worry about, dear," he insists, and offers out his palm to her. "Look. No burns."
She frowns as they both look back down at his hand. There is a small red mark there, but it's not a burn. He's probably just flushed from the heat. I am the dragon. Fire cannot kill a dragon. For a moment he thinks of Aerion Brightflame drinking wildfire, and he wonders if Elia knows that story, but he shakes the thought away.
Elia sighs, slowly closing her small hand over his own. "Rhaegar, you're frightening me."
Rhaegar thinks of his mother, and the look of fear in her eye that was always there, but now she cannot even pretend to hide. His heart aches. "I'm sorry," he says, his stomach churning. "I didn't mean to."
She smiles and shakes her head. "Nevermind. You've stopped now, haven't you?" She does not know what to do. "Come, let's... put Nyssie to bed. And go to bed ourselves."
He still feels guilty for scaring her like that, so he does as he's bid, telling Nyssie that you have to let a dragon free at night if you want it to grow up strong, but Balerion will come find her in the morning, he promises (his daughter's pet is no dragon, just a silly kitten, but Rhaegar can't fault a little girl for pretending). When Elia leads him back to his rooms, her nerves seem to be soothed. But he wants to be sure. While she is facing away, he silently presses his delicate fingers forward, to tickle her ribs. She jumps and turns back to stare at him. "What was that for?"
"I wanted to do it," he smiles at her. When he does it again, she giggles and bats his hands away playfully. "You're cute when you laugh."
"Oh, are you a Dornishman now, charming me with your words?" The Dornish do love their sun and heat. He tries a third time, and she takes hold of his wrists with surprising strength and pins them by his wrists, before pushing herself up against him for a kiss. "Strange man. Very strange man," she murmurs against his lips.
There are worse things, he thinks.
She pulls his wrists until they both fall onto the bed, him on top of her, and she's so skinny he's half-afraid he'll crush her, but nonetheless the blood rushes dragonhot to his prick as he feels her arch against him. He moans into her mouth as she takes him in her hand, stroking him quick and light, teasing him, and it's not until she starts to push her skirts up and out of the way that Rhaegar remembers.
"Wait, Elia, no," he says, pushing her away, panic flooding his senses. "We can't."
She frowns at him. "I am your wife. And it's been months, I miss it." She's pouting now, and she looks so sweet when she does that, but Rhaegar can't give in, and damn him he was a fool for even coming to bed with her, what was he thinking? "Tell me, why shouldn't we?"
"The maesters," he says. "They told me, if you have another child, you'll..."
Elia considers this for moment. "If you're that afraid, you could simply pull out and spill on my belly."
He shakes his head. He's heard women say they did that, but found themselves with child anyway; Father's mistresses, most often, just before he had them beheaded so as not to let their bastards ruin his good name (back when Father kept mistresses, back before Mother had to bear the brunt of all his monstrous perversions). "It's too much of a risk," he says.
She sighs. "We need to have another child anyway. Didn't you say, the dragon has three heads?"
Rhaegar stops, his blood goes cold. "How do you know about that?"
"I am not as oblivious as you seem to think me," she says. "I listen to you mutter to yourself. I look over your books when you're done with them. I might not understand, but I do know."
No. He doesn't want to drag her into this. Logically, he realises that she is his wife, and his chances of keeping her away from it were always pitiful. But this can only ever bring her pain – bring her death even. "Elia..."
"Besides, we should try for a second son in any case," she continues. "One heir is not safe, you know it is not. There is Viserys, of course, but he is not a strong boy, and your father's sheltering will not make him any stronger. If something happened to both him and Aegon, you would have to go all the way to the Stormlands to find another heir, you'd pass the crown over to the Baratheons. Your family's legacy is worth more than that."
"But what if it killed you?" he asks. "What if you died in the birthing bed?"
"Then I'm sure you'd find a second wife, a stronger one, who'd be able to give you stronger children."
Tears spring unbidden to his eyes. He wants to slap her, and he hates himself for that impulse. "Damn you, woman," he hisses. "Do you think you mean so little to me I would give up your life for a second son?"
He wonders if he would have done it for a first son, for an heir, for the Prince who was Promised. He supposes he almost did. Then his head hurts.
Elia looks up at him a long moment, and then sighs. "I think I am your wife," she says. "Women die in the birthing bed, like men die in battle. Do you think, if your father called the banners tomorrow, I would expect you to cower behind the walls of Dragonstone, just to keep you with me? No, I would expect you to do your duty. As I will do my own."
Rhaegar is horrified. He thinks of his mother, who has had her clothes torn off and her skin ripped to shreds a thousand times, and born it with little more than a bitter smirk and another glass of wine, all for the sake of duty. I will never love her, he realises. She is kind, and she is beautiful, and she is brave, but I will never love her. I will always be the man she married because she was told to, and she will do what she thinks is right by me until it leads her to her grave. How could I love a woman who would let me murder her for duty's sakes?
"Come, Elia, let's not speak of this," he says with a shaky grin, even though his tears have yet to dry up. "If we – if we must, we won't do it tonight," he says, and when she frowns, he leans down to kiss and suck at her neck. She groans and arches against him. "You've missed pleasure, haven't you? Well then, let me rectify that," he says as he moves down over her body, until his head settles between her legs. He's gone completely soft in any case.
Once they are done, Elia falls asleep quickly, worn out by his attentions. Rhaegar is restless however, as he cannot make the questions flee his mind, questions of what he should, must do. He turns to look into the flame for comfort, but his candle has long since burnt out.
The man is just a poacher, not even really a man, not even twenty years yet. He says he has no wife or child, although Rhaegar isn't sure if that's true or if he's simply lying in case the king would track them down and punish them out of spite. It would be a terrible waste of time that, but Rhaegar wouldn't put it past his father.
The poacher awaits his sentence on his knees, looking less frightened than you might expect. He's probably already resigned himself to his fate. He looks less frightened than Rhaegar feels. Mercy, he thinks. Please, mercy. The poor boy is half-starved. Father never even hunts in the Kingswood anymore; too easy for someone to arrange an accident. None of us would have eaten that deer anyway. Mercy, please, mercy. He wants to say all that aloud, but he knows that would only make Father's punishment even crueller out of spite. He can only hope.
Mother waits by Father's side as he deliberates with his pyromancers, face an empty mask. Everyone knows her fate waits in the balance also, at least for tonight.
Eventually Father makes a decision, pyromancers stepping back to reveal him once more, nails curled in on themselves, hair tangled around his legs, yellow teeth baring into a savage grin. He makes Rhaegar sick.
"Well, boy, I have decided on justice for your crimes," he says. "You've shown great bravery here today. I think I shall give you an opportunity: to prove your worth, to save your life." The poacher's face, already looking half like a corpse's, shows a glimmer – confused and mistrusting – of hope. Rhaegar shares no such sentiments, and Father's grin spreads wider. He looks like he's about to swallow them all whole. "A chance to test yourself against the champion of House Targaryen."
The court goes silent all at once, the sound of hundreds of men biting back their cries and protests. All of them know what this means. Subtly, Mother digs her nails into her thigh, face never flinching. She knows it better than anyone. Rhaegar looks across the court, but of course no-one will speak against it, no-one ever does, for Father could have any man who dared killed. Any man but one.
"Father, no," he says as he steps forward, and when that grin drops away as Father turns to give him a withering glare instead, Rhaegar wants to run and hide and cry. But he cannot, he must do this, for he is the only one who can. "I will not be party to this."
"I don't recall asking your opinion, boy," Father spits, yellow bile landing by his feet. "I am not dead. You are no king yet."
"As your son and heir, I beseech you: listen to what I say." He knows the words by rote, although he knows Father never has done, unless it's to do the opposite of what he's said. "There is no need for this. Cut the poor boy's head off and be done with it. Please don't be cruel."
Father sneers, and Rhaegar sees the boy's eyes go wide with terror as the throne room is illuminated green; the pyromancers have gone to work, and the poacher realises what the mad king's punishment for his crime is. "Are you afraid of fire, boy?" asks Father. "It is the strength of our house. The king must not be afraid to dispense a king's justice."
Rhaegar is not afraid of fire – real fire, pure fire, red fire. But Father's fire... "I am not afraid," he says, but he is, he's terrified. On Dragonstone, he tries to stay away from executions when they must happen, which perhaps makes him craven but he hates killing and he hates the thought that one day he might stop hating killing, and so he keeps away from it as much as he can so every time will be as raw and as real and as horrible as the first.
(The first time he killed he had gone to play in an inn in Flea Bottom, that everyone knew was a brothel as well, and Old Tess the inkeep tried to turn away a customer who refused to take a no for an answer. Tess said he'd raped one of the girls and beaten her so badly she lost an eye, and he laughed and said he'd paid so it was hardly rape, and if she'd only done as she was told he wouldn't have had to hit her. He laughed and laughed and did not stop until Rhaegar removed his hood, revealing the shining silver underneath. A sword was brought to him and did not know what he was doing until the man's bloody head lay at his feet. Afterwards, he stared down in horror, and Old Tess looked terrified. Arthur was with him that night, and another man of the kingsguard, and yet Rhaegar has never spoken of it to anyone, not even Elia.)
"You are," says the king. "That's all you are. The Prince Who Was Promised. You're just a scared little boy."
"Father, don't–"
"Father?"
Rhaegar looks up. There on the balcony he sees a little head of black hair darting around the crowd's ankles, tripping people over, little black kitten under her arm. Elia's supposed to be keeping an eye on her, but Elia might have suddenly been taken ill, as that's been happening to her more and more often as of late. She grins when she sees him, and she must not understand, she must just think the fire is a pretty colour. "Father!"
He tries to speak, but words turn to ash in his mouth before he turns back to the king, silently pleading. Father pauses a moment, then smirks, and nods towards his guards and then to the flames.
"Father, please," Rhaegar says as the poacher's pulled to his feet. "Please, no, not like this. Please don't do it, please." Tears stream from his eyes helplessly, and he feels like he's three years old again.
"I will not have my laws mocked."
"Please," Rhaegar sobs. "Nyssie's watching–"
"Good," says Father. "Time she learnt what happens to traitors."
Rhaegar stops. He means me. He looks up to his mother, whose face remains still, but who has started to shake ever so slightly. He looks around at the court, meeting the eyes of stony-faced men and women who weep more discreetly than he does. Help me! he wants to cry, but he knows none of them can, and it is not him that needs help it is that poor poacher, and his poor mother, who will suffer for the death of a man she's never met, and he should be helping them but he can't, he can't even breathe right now, and why can no-one ever help?
He looks up at Rhaenys. I cannot stop it, he thinks. Forgive me, Nyssie, I cannot stop it, I cannot help, I cannot spare you this. I am so sorry I brought you into this. Forgive me, Nyssie, gods, forgive me–
She looks scared, she looks confused, and she keeps looking back and forth between the poacher and the fire like she knows something terrible is about to happen but she really doesn't understand what. Suddenly, she's lifted up into the air. "Your father's a little busy at the moment, princess," comes a voice, young and smooth and cool, wrapped in a white cloak, and Rhaegar looks up to see Jaime Lannister, Lord Tywin's son, one of Father's stupider moments of spite, only seventeen years and tucking Rhaenys against his chest, shielding her face. "Don't look. Your father will come see you soon, but don't look."
At the very least, the man does not take as long to burn as some do. He's skinny, and so his suffering is over soon. Once you've stood there long enough, it's hard to see what was once a man in the flames at all, and it almost starts to look pretty again. Rhaegar hates himself for that thought. Once the wildfire finally burns out, there is only a pile of ash left, but Rhaegar thinks it will take longer to be rid of the sound of screaming.
As soon as he can he runs up to the balcony, grabbing Rhaenys out of Jaime Lannister's arms. "Thank you," he tells the man as he presses thousands of kisses to his daughter's hair, face still stained with tears and snot. "Thank you, thank you, thank you."
Ser Jaime looks uncomfortable, and Rhaegar understands, he knows that he's hysterical. "I didn't really do anything, in truth," he says, and Rhaegar remembers it is him who will have to stand guard outside his mother's bedchambers tonight, but give way for the king, for the queen is her king's property. Rhaegar almost wants to tell Ser Jaime he does not blame him for that, but he isn't sure if it's true.
Nyssie looks up at him, and then to Ser Jaime, still seeming horribly confused. It makes Rhaegar want to sob again, and he closes his eyes. "You must think me terrible," he whispers, not sure who he's talking to.
"Why in the seven hells would I think that?" asks Ser Jaime.
Rhaegar opens his eyes, and Jaime and Rhaenys are both looking at him awaiting explanation, so he supposes he owes them one. "He is my father," he says.
"That's hardly your fault," says Ser Jaime.
"I've not managed to get rid of him," Rhaegar explains. "I'm the crown prince of the realm, the heir to the Iron Throne, people think I'm their saviour... and yet I have not done a thing to stop him."
"What do you think I expect you to do?" asks Ser Jaime. "Even the crown prince can't just kill the king."
"Any man can kill the king," muses Rhaegar. "So long as he is not too craven to face what comes after." Which I am.
Jaime Lannister goes still, and Rhaegar is flooded with shame when he realises what a sort of thing he just said, treasonous enough that any other man would lose his head for it. "Your Grace," he says. "Excuse me, I have duties to attend to." Ser Jaime is little more than a boy, and Rhaegar cannot drag him into his pathetic fantasies of finally being rid of King Aerys. But Rhaegar didn't mean it as a treason. It is not the king he dreams of killing. It is his father.
He takes Nyssie back to her rooms, and she seems quietened by the experience of the day. It's not until he's tucking her into bed that she asks the question. "What happened today, father? What did grandfather do to that man? Why were you crying?"
Rhaegar hesitates, and he wants to lie to her, but he doesn't feel like she would believe him if he tried. "The man... he was a poacher. Your grandfather had him executed for the crime."
She frowns. He knows she knows he never has poachers executed back on Dragonstone, not that there's much to poach on Dragonstone, but poachers are overwhelmingly starving men stealing game he wasn't going to hunt anyway (he hates killing), and so Rhaegar always has them sent to the Watch, where they will get a meal every day if nothing else.
"But why were you crying?" asks Nyssie.
"I..." Rhaegar struggles to answer. Because I am weak and craven and after all these years have not learnt any other way of living. "Your grandfather... he's sick, little Nyssie. Very sick. And sometimes, when he's sick, he can be very cruel. Crueller than a king should be. Cruel to his subjects, cruel to his wife... cruel to me."
Nyssie looks to at him a long moment, and then suddenly her eyes go wide and she clutches Balerion close to her chest. "W-what he did to the poacher," she stutters, "he – he wouldn't do that to us, would he?"
Rhaegar feels like his heart just dropped through his stomach. "No."
"Are you sure?"
He is no kinslayer, he would have once said, but Rhaegar knows his father is a monster, and he has no idea what he's capable of. She smells Dornish. Father would murder Nyssie just to spite him, and then claim the babe wasn't even his to justify it. "He wouldn't dare," he says. "He knows if he ever came anywhere near you I'd slit his throat myself."
Rhaenys frowns. "But he's your father."
"And you are my daughter; I'm sure if I had to make the choice, the gods would understand." In fact he is not sure of that at all, but it doesn't matter. Nyssie still looks unconvinced, and so he tilts her chin up to look at him. "Listen to me. You are my baby girl. I will always protect you. I don't care what I have to do, what laws I have to break, what hells I have to condemn myself to, I will keep you safe."
I sound mad, I need to stop, I'm frightening her, but then after a moment, Nyssie smiles at him. "I love you, Father."
He smiles back. "I love you too," he says, and he pulls her against his chest and holds her close, too close, he might be suffocating her, like if he can only keep her near enough no-one else will ever be able to touch her.
He holds her close until Balerion yelps and scratches him.
"So, you've got the babe you wanted."
The stink of vomit fills the room. In truth, Rhaegar's known Lyanna was with child for months, but she's finally admitted it to herself. He should be happy. The dragon must have three heads. They just need to hold on through this war, and once the babe is born, he'll be able to let her go home and make things right with Elia and–
But as he watches her be sick over a bucket in their tiny Dornish castle, panic rises through him. I have a Rhaenys, I have an Aegon, I will have a Visenya, he thinks. But Rhaenys died, she fell from her dragon and plummeted to her death, what will happen to my girl? Rhaenys and Visenya's children hated each other, they usurped one another, Maegor the Cruel was born of them, will my babes be the same? Will Lyanna's child plot against Elia's children out of ambition; will Elia's children plot against Lyanna's out of spite? The dragon must have three heads, what if those heads bite each other off?
What if I have not saved my family, what if I have destroyed them forever?
Lyanna groans as she wipes her mouth with the back of her hand. "I could drink moon tea just to spite you," she mutters.
Rhaegar feels like he might faint from terror. No, gods no, you can't; I need this babe, but I cannot force myself upon you – I am not Maegor the Cruel, I am not Aegon the Unworthy, I am not my father...
She clearly sees the look upon his face, and after glaring at him for a moment, she calls her own bluff and scoffs. "Don't worry," she says. "I'm too much of a coward for that."
"You're the bravest woman I've ever met," he says.
"What, don't they have women in King's Landing?"
Rhaegar doesn't speak to his brother often. He wants to, but he doesn't want to visit King's Landing, and of course Father would never let Viserys go to Dragonstone. Even when Rhaegar is in the capital, Father does all he can to keep him away from his little brother, for he doesn't trust Rhaegar with his treasured second son any more than he trusts Rhaegar with anything else. You really think me a kinslayer? Rhaegar sometimes wants to scream, sometimes wants to sob, but he knows only a madman would care what another madman thinks of him.
Still, their mother wants her sons to be as close as they can, and so behind Father's back she lets them meet, if only for a few minutes.
"Rhaegar!" Viserys cries as he sees his brother come through his door and wraps himself around his legs. "Where have you been, I've missed you!"
"I came as soon as I could," he says, ruffling his little brother's hair, although he knows it is not true – he could have visited the capital right after Aegon was born, but Elia was sick and Aegon looked just like a Targaryen and Rhaegar was terrified of what Father might do. "You know how Father is."
"Father's stupid," Viserys mutters, and Rhaegar and his brother might not have a lot in common really but they both agree on that. "You have to tell me everything alright, everything on Dragonstone, about the gargoyles and the merlings and if there are any interesting criminals you've killed–"
"I might not have time for all that, Vis," Rhaegar smiles, trying not think why Viserys would want to know about executions. The boy pouts up at him.
"You will," he insists. "I'll make you. If anyone tries to drag you away I'll have my guards hit them until they stop."
Rhaegar laughs. His brother is a spoiled brat alright, but he's rather cute about it, demanding and commanding like he's king already, like he'll ever be king. Rhaegar doesn't think his baby brother would really do what he just said, but he hopes the boy grows out of such words before the day he actually might. "You shouldn't say such things, Viserys," he says. "Being in command of men, any men, is a great responsibility. You should not use it just to make yourself happy."
Viserys pouts again and looks down at the floor. "Sorry," he mutters, finally letting go of Rhaegar's legs.
"That's alright." Rhaegar goes to sit on Viserys' bed, and thinks. He knows his mother wants him to be a good influence on his brother while he can, and an idea springs to mind. "Hey, you know what we should do?"
"What?"
"You should go out to the city with me." A pause, and then Viserys snorts with derision. Rhaegar frowns. "I mean it, you should. I'll find a cloak or some such to hide your hair. I'll keep you safe, I promise. It'll be fun! Come on, I'll even teach you how to play the harp if you like."
"I am a prince of the realm, why would I want to spend my nights with commoners?" Viserys sneers, and Rhaegar can feel his heart sinking.
"They are our people, Viserys," he says, and his brother looks dubious. "It would do you well to get to know them, what they want, what they dream, how they feel." Their great-grandfather Aegon spent a lot of time among the smallfolk, back when he was squire to Ser Duncan the Tall, and he is a last Targaryen king anyone says anything nice about.
"That's what we have a Master of Whispers for," says Viserys, and Rhaegar digs his nails into his thigh. He hates that eunuch Father brought over from Lys, who knows more than can be possible, and Rhaegar sometimes feels like the man must be able to read minds. Nothing frightens him more than that. "You don't need to concern yourself with their feelings. You're their king, they owe you their respect. Debase yourself to flattery and you'll never get it."
My father's words, from my brother's mouth. "Compassion is not flattery," he insists. "If I do not care for my people, why would I even want to be king?"
"Because it is your birthright," says Viserys. "As are they."
What has that monster taught you, baby brother? "A true king does not demand respect, he earns it." Viserys scoffs, and Rhaegar can feel a strange mix of rage and grief swelling in his breast. Perhaps I am too late. Perhaps he is already Aerys III. "Come on, Vissy," he says, feeling uncomfortably like he's pleading. "Father never lets you out of this bloody castle. Don't you want to do it just to see the look on his face?"
"No?" Viserys sounds genuinely confused. "Father wants to keep me safe. Why would I want to make that more difficult for him?"
Father wants to keep him safe. A sense of envy that he cannot help floods Rhaegar; he's never known why Father dotes upon his second son when he only seems to see his firstborn as a traitor waiting to happen. But that's not the point. "I want to keep you safe too," he says. "But you'll never be safe if you don't learn to be better than him."
"'Better than him'?!" Viserys shouts, scandalised, and Rhaegar jumps to his feet. It's not until he's up that he realises he's afraid of a boy no more than seven. "That's the king you're talking about; if you were anyone else I could have you killed for that!"
But you wouldn't, would you? Please tell me you wouldn't. "I didn't mean that," Rhaegar lies. "I'm just trying to help you little brother, that's all."
"I don't need your help," says Viserys, and he does, Rhaegar knows he does, but Viserys doesn't. "I'm not going out and getting myself killed by commoners and I'm not disobeying Father and that's it."
Why can't Rhaegar just make him listen? His mouth quirks into a painful smile. "But you said Father was stupid," he whispers.
Viserys gasps at him. "He's still our Father! You should show him more respect!" Rhaegar wants to scream. Why?! What has he ever done to earn it?! When has he ever been a father to me?! "No wonder he wants to make me heir instead; you'll never be a king, you'll never be half the king he is – ow!"
Rhaegar does not realise he's struck his brother until he sees the boy clutching his face, staring up in shock. "You – you hit me."
As the reality of the situation sinks in, Rhaegar starts to shake. " I – I'm sorry, I didn't mean–"
"You hit me!" Viserys repeats as he stands straight again, shock replaced by fury.
"Vissy, please–"
"Get out!" Viserys suddenly grabs a little clay dragon Rhaegar got him for his fifth name day off his bookshelf, and throws it at him. He barely jumps out of the way in time and it smashes against the wall. "Get out, traitor, get out! I hate you! I hope I never see you again! I hope Father kills you!"
Rhaegar flees, and as he does he has to make his way through the guards Father keeps on his brother's door day and night. He knows they know. And he knows that, even if Viserys does forgive him for this, they never will. It's not worth their lives.
I hit him, Rhaegar thinks as he runs through the castle with no idea where he's going. Why? Because he didn't want to come sing with me? How could I do that? Mother trusted me. He's my baby brother, I'm meant to protect him from everyone, protect him from Father. But I hurt him, because he insulted my pride. I can't do a thing like that. It's what Father would do.
He wants Elia, but she's back on Dragonstone. He wants Arthur, but he's in the Kingsguard, he'll be with Father. He wants his mother, but he can't bear how she'd look at him if she knew he'd hurt her little boy.
It's Jon he ends up going to, and he's taking a late afternoon nap in his chambers when Rhaegar bursts in, but when he sees Rhaegar's state he gets up immediately. "Your Grace? What's wrong?"
"I hit Viserys," he blurts out, shaking and on the edge of tears.
Jon stares at him for a second, and scoffs. "Frankly, good," he says. "Gods only know I've wanted to do that a few times. The boy needs someone to smack him into line, you're just the only one who can get away with it, I suppose."
"No, no, you don't understand–" Because maybe Jon's right, maybe a slap or two won't do Viserys any harm at all, but Rhaegar can't be the one to do it, he can't–
Jon frowns as he gets up and approaches Rhaegar. "What then? What is it?"
Rhaegar tries to explain, but the words don't come, and soon he gives up and collapses against his friend's chest instead. Jon jumps in surprise, but quickly brings his arms up to awkwardly circle Rhaegar's shoulders. "Hey, hey, it'll be alright."
It won't, it never is, but Rhaegar says nothing. Perhaps Jon remembers that day he met Elia, and that is why it is so awkward; maybe Rhaegar is taking advantage of Jon, or maybe Jon is taking advantage of him, but either way he leans against the man's breast and cries like a helpless child.
"You needn't run from me," he says once the knight tires enough that Rhaegar can catch up. "I know my father ordered you dead, but trust me, I have no intention of bringing you to his clutches. I only followed the order so he wouldn't send someone else, someone he could have killed for letting you go. You can relax, good ser."
The mare this knight rides finally comes to a stop, looking exhausted, and the Knight of the Laughing Tree turns to look at Rhaegar, although he cannot see anything through the man's plate. "Then why are you still following me?" he asks, muffled by his helm, suspicious.
Rhaegar hesitates. That is a good question. In truth, he was as captivated by the fight as anyone, this mysterious figure taking care of three men, or boys really, but bullies; boys who ought to be dealt with. It is rare enough that all the attention is on someone other than Rhaegar at these things, and it is something of relief. "I'll admit, I'm curious," he says. "What you did today was... impressive. I thought I might like to talk to you, that's all."
A moment's hesitation, and then the knight reaches up for his vizor, and tosses it aside with a clang as it knocks against his shield where he dropped it in a tree. Rhaegar sees a muss of dark hair emerge from the metal, which means little to him, but then he sees a fair maiden's face beneath it. He blinks. "Lyanna Stark?"
He's seen her before, briefly, at the feast last night. He thought she was pretty, but she was with her father and brothers and he had Elia by his side, so he forgot about her quickly. Like this though, in her warrior's armour and with her face red from battle, Rhaegar knows he shouldn't, but he can't help but think she's the most beautiful woman he's ever met.
She tries to maintain her composure for a second, but then she blushes and breaks into a shy smile. "Prince Rhaegar," she says. "I'm sorry we didn't get to speak at the feast last night. I saw you playing your harp though, you were wonderful."
Rhaegar hears that all the time, but somehow it feels more real coming from her, like she might actually mean it. Like she might say it even if he were any old singer, drunk and ugly and fat with half his teeth knocked out. "I'm sorry too, my lady," he says. "Although I am not half so wonderful with my harp as you are with your lance."
She blushes deeper. "I wouldn't say that Your Grace," she says. "And anyways, I am not as good with my lance as you are with yours."
Rhaegar flinches a little. "Maybe not, but I'm only good because I have to be," he says, and he knows that's not something he should let on. "I much prefer the harp. I've never enjoyed fighting like you seem to. That will make you a much better warrior than me, some day."
Lyanna still seems disbelieving. "I must admit, you seem remarkably unsurprised. I thought when anyone saw a girl in this get-up they might faint from the shock."
Rhaegar has to laugh. "What, do you think me so craven a girl in armour is all it takes to frighten me?" he asks, and thinks of Cersei Lannister only for a moment. "There are stranger things in the world."
She smiles at that. "If you say so, Your Grace," she says, and from beneath her the mare whinnies. "Should we find somewhere to sit and talk? I think these two are getting tired of carrying our fat arses around."
They find themselves among the trees, enveloped so thoroughly in the shadows that they can barely see one another, let alone be spotted by anyone else. Lyanna strips off her armour and wears only her smallclothes, which makes him blush, even though her northern underthings cover more than most lady's dresses in King's Landing. Lyanna is shameless, and she laughs at him. "I would have thought a handsome prince like yourself would have seen a thousand maids without their clothes on," she says.
He shakes his head. "Only my wife." Not that he's not had offers, of course; there have been thousands of them, from women and from their fathers, knowing all that can be earned from being the prince's (and some day, the king's) mistress. But all of them have filled him with a sense of dread; all of them have made him think of sweet Hanna, screaming and pleading for mercy as Father's guards dragged her off to the black cells. Besides, could he dishonour Elia so?
For a long time they just lie there, in the dirt and leaves, talking about nothing and everything, earth getting in his hair until it's almost as dark as hers. "I'm not sure why you're so impressed," says Lyanna at some point. "They were only three knights, and not even very good ones. You could have done the same thing in your sleep."
Yes, but would I have dared? "Because you didn't have to," he says. "No-one would have expected anyone to risk their life just to chastise three squires, and certainly no-one would have expected a maid to do it. But still, you went out there and did it, because you couldn't let that injustice stand. You couldn't let them get away with being cruel."
"It's not – it's not that impressive," Lyanna insists. It is to me. "I wasn't even brave enough to show my face."
"You know, somehow I can forgive you that."
She has a wineskin, although Rhaegar has no idea how she got it, and they share the drink as they lie there and talk. He has not eaten since the morning, and so he can say he is a little drunk when he suddenly pulls her close and kisses her.
He expects her to slap him, to push away and ask if he thinks she's a whore, and he expects he will be horrified with himself, that he will apologise a hundred times for impugning her honour so, that he will not know what madness overtook him. But instead she groans against his lips, and opens her mouth before pulling him closer.
Rhaegar is so stunned he almost breaks the kiss just so he can gape in shock, but that only makes Lyanna push in deeper, plundering his mouth with her tongue, winding her hands through his silver hair and she's greedy with him but he sort of loves her for that, and he can feel himself getting hard already, for it's been awhile – in truth he's been avoiding Elia's bed for fear he will forget himself and want to spend inside her, and for fear she will let him – and he snaps away with a spark of fright.
"Lord Baratheon," he says, for she is not his to take, she has already had her lord chosen for her as he has had his lady, and he knows it's stupid for him to be making excuses when he was the one who began it, but Lyanna simply scoffs.
"Robert can go fuck himself," she says. "He says he loves me, but he's had his way with every woman in the Vale and already gotten a bastard on at least one of them. Besides, could he really be surprised that any woman who got Prince Rhaegar into her bed wouldn't say no?"
Rhaegar almost shudders, but he knows she doesn't mean it like that; she means any woman in the Seven Kingdoms would want to sleep with him. She presses her lips back against his and gods, he wants her so much, he wants her more than he can remember wanting anything in his life, but he knows that it's wrong, because Elia; he is not like his father, who must have fucked a hundred women and murdered half of them. It is wrong, it must be wrong, unless–
It is her, Rhaegar realises as she rolls on top of him, moaning softly as she grinds herself down on the swelling in his breeches. She is so brave, so strong, so wild. She is meant to bear me the third head of the dragon. It all makes perfect sense now; the gods sent him after her for a reason. He remembers the words he read when he was just a child. He is the prince who was promised, and his is the song of ice and fire. It must be, yes, it must be. If Elia can't...
He rolls them over, and Lyanna gasps a little but her legs spread for him willingly. Reckless and greedy himself, he presses his hand over her centre and feels the wetness seeping through the thin cotton covering her. She mewls and arches up against him, before grabbing at his prick, rubbing it fierce and hard through his silk breeches and Rhaegar has to bite his lip so as not to spend there and then in her hand. She is wild and she makes him wild; she is a wolf and she makes him want to be her bitch. He remembers what he once asked of poor Jon, on one of those days where he couldn't feel anything, but now he feels too much and he would like to ask the same thing of her, although he has no idea how such a thing would be possible. Once he would have asked Elia, but that thought makes his heart hurt and so he shakes it away.
Rhaegar did not mean to take this so far, he realises, and it seems like Lyanna did not either, for she breaks away, a measure of maidenly shyness overtaking her. "Your Grace," she says, "I am still a maid, I – I've never–"
He hushes her with a kiss. "It's alright, my lady," he whispers. "I will not dishonour you." Not yet.
She seems confused, but when he catches her eye to ask her permission to remove her underthings, she allows it. He pushes them to her ankles and she looks even more puzzled when he follows them downward. When he stops with his face above her wet cunt, Rhaegar realises she has no idea what he's about to do. She's barely fifteen, he thinks with a pang of guilt, but his mother was about the same age when she bore him, wasn't she?
Lyanna shrieks when he buries his face in her, and immediately locks her legs around his neck to force him closer. It was Elia who taught him how to do this, for growing up with his mother and father the thought a man might want to use sex to pleasure his woman before himself was foreign to him, but he learned to love it, having her sigh and moan and giggle as he worshipped her with his mouth. Lyanna is different. She does not sigh and moan and giggle; she writhes, she wails, she screams, she sounds like she could not care less if every man in Harrenhal hears her. Rhaegar loves her for that.
She is still screaming when she finishes, thrusting against his face until he almost suffocates, and Rhaegar finds himself spending harder than he can remember in his life into the dirt. "Run away with me," he whispers against her thigh as she recovers, "be my queen." He cannot tell if she hears him.
After a moment, Lyanna speaks. "Princess Elia," she says, still getting her breath back. "You only married her because your father told you to, didn't you? You don't really love her?"
Rhaegar hesitates. In truth, he doesn't really know anymore. But he needs Lyanna to fulfill his destiny, and so he will let her believe whatever she needs to.
"I only married her because I was told to."
When the crown of blue roses lays in his lap, he tries with everything he has not to shake with nerves. He does not dare meet sweet Elia's eye, although more than anything he wants to turn and beg her forgiveness. My dear wife, you've always been so good to me, and this is how I repay you. Forgive me. Gods, please, forgive me. He will dishonour them all if he does this, but Rhaegar has learned, there are things that matter more than honour. My son is the prince who was promised, and I suppose that makes me king. This is my duty; the dragon must have three heads.
Some would say he need not do this, humiliate his wife so, that he could just disappear with the Stark girl without even speaking to her in public – but no, he can't have her just vanish and reappear with some bastard that could be his, maybe, but no-one could really tell. He needs them to know, he needs everyone to know. Rhaegar's always loved his stories, and he knows it will take more than a dalliance behind his wife's back to hatch a dragon. It must be love, the sort of things singers will write about for a hundred years hence. For her at least, it must be love.
When he lays the crown in Lyanna's lap, she seems more stunned than anything. She must have thought he would simply enjoy himself with her and then forget her. Everyone seems stunned, and Rhaegar cannot bring himself to look at any of them. He wants to just look at Lyanna, how beautiful she is, how strong, but he finds himself distracted. His eyes drift up to the royal box, where his father sits.
The man looks like a monster, hair and beard grown down to his knees, ragged and matted, nails protruding from his skin like talons. He is only here because he was told Rhaegar meant to use the tourney to be rid of him, and perhaps it was true. When Rhaegar whispered to Lord Whent that he itched for a tourney, the chance to fight again, it was with the fantasy that if he could only get all the lords of the Seven Kingdoms in the one place, that somehow, they would be able to deal with Father. He thinks Whent knew it as well; surely everyone knows Rhaegar doesn't really care for such things. But as soon as he was gone he realised how foolish it was, for even if every lord in Westeros chose his side, and Rhaegar wasn't sure they would, he had no idea how to go about deposing the king without simply getting them all executed. And so he went to the tourney like it was any old tourney, tried to forget he had ever dreamed something so stupid, and merely looked confused if anyone tried to whisper hopeful treasons at him.
Father looks like a monster, but he has done ever since Duskendale, so Rhaegar is used to it. It is the gleam in his eyes that is frightening, and it says oh, the trouble you're in now. And they say I'm mad.
For the first time in years, Rhaegar's father smiles at him.
Once they finally reach the tower in Dorne, Lyanna wants to fuck to celebrate. Rhaegar can feel his kingsguard judging him, but he can hardly refuse. He and Lyanna are wild together, biting and clawing and scratching like both their sigils, but there is love beneath it all. They are not just a wolf and a dragon, they are people too.
After they're finished Lyanna is so worn out she falls asleep in a second, but Rhaegar, despite feeling just as tired, finds himself restless. He finds himself dwelling on Elia and Aegon and Nyssie and everything he forced himself not to think about the whole way from Winterfell. Lyanna is curled into his side, and yet she no longer feels as close as she did just a few seconds ago. The more exhausted he is, the less he feels like he'll be able to sleep.
Eventually he does drift off to sleep, but even when he does, he dreams. He's in the desert, barefoot in rags, sun-soaked sand almost burning his feet. Baelor the Blessed did this, he remembers, walked across Dorne humble before the Gods. The maesters argue about who really won Dorne into the Seven Kingdoms, one Daeron with his military prowess, another Daeron with his skillful diplomacy, but Rhaegar's always liked to think that really it was Baelor with his grand gesture. And perhaps I have lost it again with my own.
Rhaegar trudges forward, parched, but he cannot give up. I am the dragon. Fire cannot kill a dragon. The gods want him to do this, they want him to get through this, they must.
He does not see the army coming until they are right behind him. He turns around and sees all the might of Dorne behind him, Nymeria herself at their front, ready to ride him down. No, he wants to say. I didn't mean to. I was trying to save her. She'd have gotten herself killed if I'd let her. I have to; the dragon must have three heads.
There's no time to explain though, there's no time to plead, there's only time to run. Rhaegar does his best but he trips over his bare and bloody feet, and the Dornish catch up to him in seconds. With no other options, no chance of escape, Rhaegar opens his mouth to scream.
When he does though, the strangest thing happens. No sound comes out, but instead, a flame comes out. Nymeria jumps back, startled, and when one of her soldiers is brave enough to move toward him, Rhaegar simply breathes again, and the man barely escapes before he's set alight.
Rhaegar laughs when he realises his victory, little drops of fire spitting off his lips. I am the dragon. Fire cannot kill a dragon. They're all staring at him like he's a monster, but it doesn't matter, all that matters is they cannot touch him. No-one can touch him: not the Dornish, not the gods, not his father, no-one. Not if he could burn them alive if they came anywhere near him. No wonder Father loves his pyromancers so. I can take a second wife, like Aegon the Conqueror. I can take other men's brides, like Maegor the Cruel. I can murder my father, like Aegon the Unworthy. Who is going to stop me? Rhaegar smells roast suckling pig, freshly killed, and thinks someone must be preparing a feast for the king he will someday be.
Then he feels a pain in his hand.
He looks down and realises in horror that it was not pig he smelt – but he read once than human flesh tastes something like pork. No, it cannot be, he thinks as he watches his hand catch alight, the flame running down his arm. I am the dragon. Fire cannot kill a dragon. His rags are burnt away in seconds and the pain goes from a sting, to a burn, to the rawest agony he's ever felt. He looks up at Nymeria, pleading for help, but it is sweet Elia watching him now and she smirks to see him in so much pain. The flame starts to turn green. Rhaegar screams, and when he does more fire spills from his mouth until he is covered in it, until he can't see another thing. Fire cannot kill a dragon, but perhaps it does not need to kill him, perhaps it can just keep him there in agony, forever.
He screams as he burns, and he burns as he screams.
