sorry i took so long. busy busy busy. i hope you are still with me and like it. feel free to review!

~oOo~

He stood upon the great stone balcony and looked out onto the sea. The moon did not shine tonight, making the oncoming waves that crashed against the rocks below. The constant breeze from the ocean felt damp and cool against his skin and the air was heavy with the scent of salt water. It was almost impossible to tell where sea met sky, creating an inky black veil of endless darkness around him, constantly moving, never at rest. Relentless.

Much like his dreams.

A light tug at the bottom of his breeches caused him to glance down to see a small dark shadow swatting at his feet.

Rhaegar looked back out, his eyes going to the sky. The absence of the moon caused the stars to show themselves like beacons in the night, the darkness unable dim their light. On a night such as this he could easily locate the constellations, even without of the use of his Myrish-eye. The Moonmaid shown overhead while the Ghost and the King's Crown were off to the west. But there is one group of stars that always commanded his attention, one set that pulled at his being. He looked to the south where he quickly found the tail and followed the line of stars till his gaze finally rested upon a great blue star. The eye of the Ice Dragon, showing the way north.

He felt the familiar dull ache in his chest that always came whenever his mind drifted north. Whenever his thoughts turned to her. And his thoughts always turned to her, to the point of distraction. The guilt gnawed at him mercilessly.

Rhaegar winced as sharp little teeth nipped at his toe. He reached down and scooped up the small ball of black fur that had been attacking his feet.

"You should be with your mother," he chided softly.

Large yellow eyes blinked lazily at him in the dark.

He leaned against the balcony and held the kitten in the crook of his arm, scratching it under the chin absently as he now stared into the dimly lit chambers. Somewhere, in the mound of shadows on the bed lay Elia with Rhaenys curled up beside her. Elia's pregnancy progressed steadily but not without a toll. Her health was becoming increasingly fragile as she progressed. At this rate she would more than likely be bedridden for the remainder of her pregnancy, or so the midwives said, and even the maester's agreed. So Rhaegar had made it a point to see to all of her needs personally. He had spent every night in her chambers, in case she should wake.

Elia had pleaded with him to return to his own chambers of course. She knew that he did not sleep well in hers as their daughter took up most of the space in the bed for herself. But Rhaegar would not have it.

It was the least he could do.

And despite her protests, Rhaegar knew that it pleased her when he did such things. And her happiness was paramount, especially now. Especially since she was carrying his son.

And he had no doubt that the child she carried was a boy. The omens were too strong, his dreams too dark, too vivid.

He dreamed of a young man who stood before the coming storm unafraid and untouched by the ice that consumed all in its path. It seemed as if he could take on another shape and he held in his hand a sword that looked to be made of flames one moment and blood the other. A great three eyed raven perched upon his shoulder and a bleeding red star was his crown. The boy seemed to constantly be beset upon the Enemy, smoke rising from his wounds as he fell, only to stand once more, ghosts walking in his wake as the shadow of a three headed dragon breathed fire all around.

His son, The Prince that was Promised. It was his son, and Rhaegar feared for him.

Sometimes Rhaegar dreamed he could see shapes hidden in white mists that stalked his son as he moved. Their eyes shown like emeralds, pale, cold, and fierce. And his son stood alone against them, a broken sword in his hand.

Other times Rhaegar would dream that his son stood with a great army behind him, strengthened by those closest to him as he walked in the shadow of the three headed dragon once more.

Yes, thought Rhaegar, the dragon must have three heads.

But then, it was not just of his son that he would dream.

He would find himself walking in the woods where all of the trees stared out at him with countless bloody tear streaked eyes, their angry mouths twisted into a grimace. They were hidden in the shadows, just out of his eyesight. But he knew they were there. He could feel them staring out from the dark, judging him.

The snow fell heavy on the ground, covering his tracks as he walked. And the air was so cold, it felt like thousands of tiny needles in his chest when he would take a breath. He continued to push his way through the white that whirled around him, till he came to a wall covered with winter roses. Hundreds of blue blooms opened to him as he approached, and the snow took the form of a great white wolf that howled into the wind.

And then he would wake, gasping and shivering from the cold he could still feel upon his skin.

One of these dreams was prophetic, of that he was certain.

Rhaegar could argue that perhaps his dreams of her were not so prosaic in their purpose. He had done some reading on the history of House Stark. Previously his own knowledge did not go past what he knew of the Hour of the Wolf and the Pact of Ice and Fire. It was one of the oldest houses in Westeros, with roots tracing all the back to the Age of Heroes and the First Men. Perhaps even as far back as the Dawn of Days. It is claimed their line is ancient.

It is said their blood is magic.

The maesters scoffed at this of course. The only recorded histories of that time were from septons who took their accounts thousands of years after. A maester would never lend credence to such a thing.

Rhaegar would not discredit the stories so readily. While the maesters were knowledgeable in many things, he had always been disappointed in their eagerness to write away any and all histories regarding prophecy and divination. It has been his experience that things can be learned from even the most banal of sources. He often wondered what he would find wandering the halls of the Citadel, rifling through the ancient texts that the maesters deemed of no importance. The few books he had collected over the years are nothing compared to how much knowledge was hidden within those venerable walls.

Perhaps there was something he missed within those tales and myths..

Could there have been some purpose other than his own vain desire that caused their paths to cross? It was a song of ice and fire after all.

Or perhaps it was nothing more than shameful lust. Something as simple as selfish longing. It seemed the more likely cause. She monopolized his thoughts to the point of torment. He would hear her name upon the wind. The memory of her eyes haunted him every time he looked out to the sea. It was only logical that his obsession would infect his dreams.

He had even been so foolish as to send a raven in the hopes of hearing some word from her. It had to have reached her by now. It was his own personal raven, he had trained it himself and was one of the few beasts with the skill to carry messages to multiple locations and could even seek out specific persons. This particular raven was the one he often sent to the North in search of his great-uncle who had taken the Black. It knew the North well.

It also knew Winterfell.

But he had heard nothing. He had sent it several fortnights ago and still he heard nothing. And why should he? She had said herself that he sought the impossible. He was married and she was promised. It was not for her to be some prince's concubine. She was too proud and to ask such a thing would be reprehensible and an insult to her. She would be a great Lady of the Stormlands. And to some extent it suited her, Lady Lyanna of Storm's End.

No, that was not right.

Lady Lyanna Baratheon of Storm's End.

His chest suddenly felt hollow and empty, followed by a familiar burn as his jaw clenched with jealousy.

He found himself turning into a petulant child whenever his mind turned to it. And although it shamed him, he would withdraw into bitter melancholy moods that had him seeking solitude in the Windwyrm or wondering the garden in the night while the castle slept.

Or while most of them slept anyway.

Arthur always seemed to know when Rhaegar was restless, and would often sit with him in those moments. Always Arthur looked at him as if waiting for him to speak though Rhaegar rarely did. It did not seem to deter Arthur though. Infuriatingly patient his friend was.

But Rhaegar said nothing. Nor would he. There was nothing to be said. Her lack of any response was answer enough for him. And what did he think he would do if she did? This was a child's game and he was not a child. For him to seek to steal away a woman who was promised to another man, another Lord, was not something he would do.

It was something his father would do.

And that was something Rhaegar could not abide.

No, Elia was his concern now. The child in her womb was his obsession. Their well-being was all that mattered now. Her health and the health of their unborn child crucial. The fate of so many depended on this. Even without the prophecy, his dreams alone had shown him as much.

There was no other future. There was no place for his desires there. He needed to focus on his son and the task that was to be laid out before him.

Rhaegar pushed himself away from the balcony and walked back towards the bedchambers. Upon crossing the threshold he bent down and set a loudly purring Balerion down upon the ground and scooted him along. Balerion, he thought with a smile, the scourge of Dragonstone.

Rhaegar looked down upon the sleeping figures in the bed. Yes, this is where he should be. Elia grew heavier every day. Soon his son would come into the world and, if his interpretation was right, the world would have great need of him.

He walked to the chaise that Elia would sometime lay in so she could see the sun and the sky as she rested and set himself down. He smiled as he thought of her reaction to seeing him sleeping here again. She would most certainly put up a fuss no doubt. He wondered if perhaps he should see to having a craftsman make a larger bed. Wouldn't that be quite the scandal.

He had just settled himself comfortably in, when the sound of flapping wings caused him to start. He sat up and looked out at the large balcony but saw nothing but darkness. He held as still as death as he listened for the sound once more. The sound he heard was not the flapping of wings, but low and guttural. A slow gravelly caw that came from the black night.

"Jenny," it rasped.

Rhaegar rose from the chair and walked slowly to the balcony where he held his arm out into the night. The sound of wings came once more from the dark as the large raven landed on his outstretched arm, a piece of parchment tied to its leg.

~oOo~

Arthur walked brusquely down through the great hall and towards the tower that housed the princess's chambers, servants ducked quickly out of his path as he made his way, his face grim.

The princess had been laboring for three nights now. The entire castle was on edge. The prince had not left her side, not even to eat.

It was said that the princess would not survive another night. It was said the child would be stillborn.

Arthur began to make his way up the winding black stone steps. The sun shone bright in the sky, creating beams of light through the long narrow windows along the stair well. Dragons were carved into the walls, snaking along the stairs with Arthur as he climbed. They became more noticeable the higher he went as the windows were wider than below. That was something that had come after the Royal family moved into the Dragonstone. The princess preferred the royal chambers brightly lit and airy, filled with sunlight. And so the windows were widened. No small feat, but his grace was not one to deny her. And Arthur had to admit it was a far more pleasing atmosphere compared to some of the rooms below. Sheer silk tapestries fluttered lightly in the ocean breeze, brushing against Arthur's cloak. Even the air seemed lighter up here.

Arthur came to the top of the stairs and made his way down the hall. He slowed as he rounded the corner and came into wide entry room of the princess's chambers. There he saw Oswell standing before the door, silent and still against the frantic sounds coming from the other side of the door. His fellow brother looked over at him as he approached.

"Any change?" Arthur asked coming to a stop before him.

"No."

"His grace …"

"Has not come out."

Arthur looked at the chamber door with a grim sigh. "Nor will he I suppose."

He and Oswell were the only kingsguard that were permitted to come up here. They had been taking turns in their duties over the course of the princess's ongoing labor.

"Emissaries from the Red Keep have arrived?" Oswell asked.

"Not yet. But they will."

"Ah how I do love watching their webs catch the light as they weave," smirked Oswell.

"Take care not to become entangled," warned Arthur.

"What could I have that would cause interest in me?" Oswell smirked.

"Him," Arthur replied looking at the door. "You have him. His trust, his ear, his confidence. Never forget that, for the spiders have not."

Oswell's mouth pressed into a thin line as Arthur spoke, understanding the truth in his words. The prince was a solitary fellow, even when he was not lost in his thoughts or moods. And while His Grace was not one to turn away the council when they came to him with concerns about the realm, he did not seek them out either. It was not an easy thing, gaining the prince's confidence, though many would try.

And since Harrenhall, many had tried.

Arthur did not know if Rhaegar still obsessed over lady Stark. Many moons had passed since that fateful day and while he had never made any mention of her to Arthur, he knew something still plagued him. Rhaegar said he is in love with the girl then he is, and for a brief moment, he followed his heart.

But the prince will also always do what his duty demands, no matter what the cost. And right now, his duty was here.

And Arthur was the only one who could see it was tearing his friend apart.

Arthur had known the prince since they were both young boys, barely touching manhood. He had been sent from Starfall to squire for a knight under Ser Willem at the Red Keep, and the prince, well the prince had just felt the need to train with a sword one day. The prince had insisted on training and living with the rest of the squires, wishing to remain in the White Sword Tower and sleeping on the floor, but that could not be tolerated. His father insisted he remain in his own quarters, fearing for his heir's safety. But whenever the prince could defy his father on this he would, and often Arthur would wake to find his grace had returned in the night

Still he was always the first to the practice yard and the last to leave. Often it was Ser Willem or Ser Gerold who would train with the prince as many of the other knights were hesitant to strike their lord. But the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard and the master-at-arms had no such reservations. If his grace wished to train then train him they would. And they did. Thoroughly.

Arthur had come to respect the prince's resolve on this. No matter how many times he had been taken down, he would simply rise and start again, that famous singular focus of his coming into play. In time he had become quite the proficient, and Arthur felt no small amount of pride at being one of the very few who could best him. And the prince appreciated Arthur's willingness not to hand him an easy victory. Arthur would take advantage of an opponent's weakness and the prince was one to learn from that. Often Arthur would find that his grace would not make the same mistake twice. They challenged each other. It brought out their strengths. It also allowed them to show their weakness.

During the time when the prince would stay in the tower with the rest of the squires, Arthur would often find himself sitting up with his grace talking into the night. It was Arthur who spoke first. Answering questions about his family and childhood. Of Starfall and the sword of the morning. He spoke to the prince of both his desire and fear of carrying the title. Of being deserving of such an honor and his shame in coveting it so. He could not help but think his fear made him less worthy.

The prince though, had disagreed.

"But that fear is what makes you worthy," he said. "Nothing of value can come without a sense of fear. Whether it was a fear of failure or a fear of loss mattered little. If you did not fear losing a thing then what was it worth? If you did not fear failing at a thing, then why try?"

Arthur had simply laughed and asked what could a prince fear failing at, and then immediately regretted the statement for the prince took on a sorrowful faraway look that caused a sudden hollow feeling in Arthur's chest.

He said nothing though, only giving Arthur a sad little smile.

It would be another fortnight before Arthur would work up the nerve to ask the prince about his fears and then another fortnight after that before the prince would answer.

Arthur liked to believe that they had become brothers on that field together. He took great pride in having earned the prince's trust, for that was perhaps the greatest honor any knight of the realm could hope to earn.

But he took greater pride in calling Rhaegar his friend. And right now his friend was in pain, and Arthur could feel it as surely as it was his own.

"Do you hear that?" Oswell hissed softly under his breath, pulling Arthur from his thoughts.

Arthur stood still as stone and realized he heard nothing.

The two men looked at the door and waited. Before long the soft mewling cries of a baby could be heard as the door opened slowly and the midwife stepped out.

"It's a boy," she said softly.

Any feeling of joy or relief was quickly suppressed though for the midwife stood pale and silent as Arthur took notice that her shift was covered in blood.

"The princess …" he hesitated. The midwife looked at him with sad wet eyes.

"Call the septon," she said, her voice quivering, "and tell them to pray that the gods will see fit that she will last the night."

~oOo~

Arthur made his way up the stairwell through the stone drum to the top floor where the painted table lay. He muttered a silent curse against the builders for making so many damn towers with stair to climb and then said a silent prayer to the seven, thanking them for making this worst thing for him to have to deal with at the moment.

The princess had made it through the night, barely, but she made it. While the babe had been born healthy and strong, the labor had been hard on an already weakened body. The loss of blood had been substantial and the maesters and midwives had managed to work together without conflict throughout the night as the entire castle prayed. And though the gods seemed to have heard their prayers, their mercy did not come without cost, for while she could get with child again, it was certain she would not live through another labor.

The prince had stayed by her side throughout, only left her chambers to change or see to their daughter. Otherwise he remained with the princess, playing songs on his harp to entertain her and soothe their son. It has been several weeks now, since the labor, and the princess's strength has slowly returned. And now the prince has called for he and Oswell to meet with him.

Arthur did not give too much thought as to the reason the prince called them. More than likely he wished for them to begin the preparations to take the young prince to be presented before the court at the Red Keep. And although Arthur had not had any opportunity to talk with Rhaegar, it seemed to him that the prince had found some purpose in his step again, especially now that it had been determined that the princess would be alright.

But there was also an intensity in that step that gave Arthur pause.

He came to the great doors of the chamber to find Oswell waiting before them. Arthur looked at him curiously.

"What are you waiting here for?"

"You," Oswell replied.

"Whatever for."

"Because I didn't want to face the news that we are going to Summerhall alone," he said flatly.

Arthur shook his head and pushed open the doors to see Rhaegar standing at the far end of the painted table, the northern end, staring intently. Arthur looked at Oswell.

"I do not think that will be the case."

Arthur turned and closed the doors behind them and fell behind Oswell as they began the long walk along the table to where Rhaegar stood. The prince seemingly took no notice of them at first. He just continued to look at the table, his gaze locked on an area of the table that was painted with white and greys. Arthur did not need to see the castle that was painted there to know what he looked at.

They came to a stop at the end of the table and waited.

"Did you know that there was once an alliance between Houses Stark and Targaryen," he said when he finally spoke. "A promise between them that a Targaryan princess would marry into the Stark family. A pact of ice and fire, it was called."

Neither man said anything. Sometimes it was hard to tell whether the prince was talking to you or himself. Rhaegar slowly came around the table and began to set three chairs out before them.

"Elia is well, her strength returned," he said as he waived Arthur off from helping him with the ornate chairs. "She has given me a strong son and an heir but," he pulled another chair around and set it down, "while our second child almost killed her, a third most certainly would." He set the third chair down with a loud thud that reverberated off the wall and through the room. "And the dragon must have three heads," he said, so soft that Arthur almost wondered if he spoke at all as he watched Rhaegar move around the chair and set himself down.

"I must ask something of the both of you. Something that you may not approve of." For the first time since they had entered the room he looked at them, his eyes hard and filled with unspoken purpose. "Which is why, what I am going to ask of you now I am not asking as your prince, but as your friend. So that you may walk away free of any guilt. But know that I am resolved to do this, whether you are with me or not." His gaze softened then and the corners of his mouth crept up into a small sheepish smile. "Although, I prefer that you are with me."

Arthur looked over to Oswell who looked back at him. After the briefest of moments, they both removed the white cloak from around their shoulders followed by the chest plates engraved with the seven sword sigil of the kingsguard, laying them carefully onto the table, and took a seat across from their friend.