Of White Trees and Blue Roses
I own nothing. This all belongs to GRRM, and I'm just playing with the story he gave us.
~X~
Chapter Four – Dragons, Fish, and Other Creatures
Walking silently behind his father as they imposed themselves upon another Lord's castle, the servants scurried here and there, panicking as their master was away. But who could deny the king? Who, indeed?
If anyone tried, Rhaegar worried about how his father would respond. Of late, the Targaryen tendancy toward an unstable mind was already beginning to manifest, and he'd seen his father's increasing obsession with fire. Rhaegar was not so blind that he'd not noticed King Aerys' growing fascination and regard for pyromancers.
If he fancied himself a dragon like Aerion, then let him drink himself into oblivion and be done with it, he thought, but instantly Rhaegar regretted it. Whatever he was becoming, the king was his father, and as a son, Rhaegar must show him some affection.
Besides, if his father died, Rhaegar would have to ascend the throne, and he had bigger things on his mind.
The army of ice and the burning sword. The prince that was promised. The dragons will soon return to this earth. The dragon has three heads. A song of ice and fire.
Though they were on their way to Harrenhal to compete in a tourney as excessive as the castle itself, Rhaegar was reminded that he was not a warrior by nature. As a child Rhaegar had been bookish, and preferred to read or practice his harp rather than pick up a training sword. It was the books that had changed that.
Reading prophecy after prophecy in the Great Library, Rhaegar had come to realize the truth. Both across the sea and in Westeros, whether from a believer of the seven, the old gods, the god of light, or another deity, each had a theory of what was to come.
The long night, the Others, and the battle for balance between dark and light.
When he had pieced together what he had read, the boy Rhaegar had despaired, but then he'd convinced himself that he must be the hope of man, of survival. He'd put down his harp and picked up a sword, not through choice but out of duty.
Now, with a reputation as a fearsome warrior, he could lead his armies against foe that was coming, though he now knew that it wasn't he that was the prince that was promised.
I have a son, Aegon—the prince that was promised as the comet had shown, but the dragon has three heads. There must be three.
If fire was his father's obsession, then the coming army of death and ice was Rhaegar's. Ice and Fire. Fire and Ice. The world had become unbalanced and it must be restored, else it would be consumed by one or the other.
It filled most of his waking thoughts to the point where he barely had mind to give the various petty squabbles and battles of those who lived south of the wall. When the Others came, they would not care which High Lord claimed ownership of a stretch of coastline, or a wood, or a castle—they would take it regardless.
His wife had not long birthed Aegon, and she was still weak, but she had made the journey regardless. The maesters had told them both that she would never bear another child.
But there would be three dragons when they return—and a dragon without a rider could be a dangerous and uncontrollable beast.
He had thought about his younger brother, Viserys, but when he'd asked seers whether there were dragons in his future they'd replied that the only dragons he would see in his lifetime would be made of stone.
Still, his mother still had her moon blood, and there was no reason why she might not conceive again. Maybe another daughter, a Visenya, an aunt to ride dragons with Aegon and Rhaenys?
The puzzle consumed his thoughts constantly, even now as he followed his royal father and tried not to notice how ill he treated his subjects.
Careful, Father, I may need these people come the next winter.
~X~
Catelyn Tully finished brushing her long auburn hair in her room, and took care that her outfit was just so.
"Cat. Cat, he's here!" Her sister, Lysa burst into the tent, her face flushed.
For a moment, Cat couldn't breathe. She knew he would be here—it was his intention to enter the lists, but to know that he had arrived was a different matter. Brandon Stark, her future husband, was here.
"Where? Show me."
Lysa led her out of the tent at a quick pace. "The Starks are approaching the castle now. I saw their banners—a white field with the grey direwolf."
Her heart pounding and her eyes searching for one knight amongst many others, Catelyn was led through the many corridors of Harrenhal, the largest castle ever built—large enough to house so many of Westeros' nobility and their families that there were much fewer tents than usual pitched outside for a tourney of this size.
Some said that this tourney would have many songs written about it, and that it would be the greatest tourney ever held. If Cat caught a glimpse, a word, or a dance with her future husband, then it would be, she thought.
It wouldn't have been the first time they'd met, but that visit had resulted in her childhood friend being banished from Riverrun. Petyr Baelish, or Littlefinger as he was more commonly known, had challenged Brandon Stark, heir of Winterfell, to a duel for Cat's own hand.
She'd tried to reason with Petyr, to make him see that this arrangement had been made between two Great Lords as a political alliance, and that after seeing her betrothed Catelyn was more than happy with the choice that had been made, but still her friend had persisted—and had scars to show for it. He may have been killed, but Catelyn had pleaded for his life, and her noble spouse-to-be had relented.
They had reached the walls, and Catelyn jostled for position amongst the many men and women who had gathered there to watch the pageantry and spectacle of the arrival of lords, knights, and their entertainment.
And that was when she saw him, sat on top of a grey destrier, looking as dashing and handsome as she remembered.
His light-brown locks fell straight to his chin, and he had stubble on his jaw—just the right amount, Catelyn thought. As he dismounted, she appreciated his height and warrior's build, and wished that she could go over to him, to speak to him or to hear him laugh, but that wouldn't be seemly.
There will be plenty of time. Our paths will no doubt cross even in a place as vast as this, she thought and allowed herself to swoon. Only a year to wait and we will be man and wife. The hot flushes that always assaulted her body at the idea took over—they might be a good reaction, as the North was said to be cold.
Lady Catelyn Stark of Winterfell. The name felt right upon her tongue, as if it had always been her destiny, and Cat smiled.