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 Seven – The Dragon and the Direwolf
As his squire helped him into his armour, Rhaegar Targaryen stood in silence, lost in his own thoughts.
The night before he'd had another dragon dream—it had been vivid and haunted him once he awoke.
Dragon dreams always disconcerted him as he was only too aware of the knife's edge between inspiration and insanity in the Targaryen line, and how many of his own kin fell to the wrong side because of their obsessions. He had only to look at his father's deterioration for an example that hit too close to home.
The king was entranced by fire, and paranoid that his throne would be taken from him—Rhaegar often saw suspicious eyes trained in his direction. Who was king and how good or bad of a ruler they were was nothing compared to what was to come, Rhaegar thought to himself. Dragons would return, as would the ice demons and walking dead in the north. That is all I care about—not crowns.
In his dream he'd been a black dragon, coiled around a tower; he knew the very one—a simple place near the Red Mountains on the way to Dorne. He had watched a shining silver knight appear in the distance riding a white horse, or at least that was what he had thought at first. When the knight got closer, Rhaegar saw that he was slight of form, the armour was made of ice not metal, and the horse was, in fact, a freakishly large wolf.
A direwolf—the sigil of House Stark, Rhaegar had noted. When the Others and wights attacked it would be the North that faced them first.
Dragon Rhaegar unwound himself from the tower, and belched forth a stream of fire in the knight's direction. Holding up his ice shield, the knight waited for Rhaegar to fully exhale his breath of flame, and then charged with his icicle lance.
On the third charge, the ice lance had pierced dragon Rhaegar through the chest, but as it passed through his flesh, Rhaegar had melted the knight and charred the wolf with his last burst of dragonfire.
The third charge, Rhaegar realised. Always the same number—always three. Why had he fought the ice knight? Was it just a dream or was there more to be learned? Rhaegar knew that dreams often made sense of the thoughts a man had when awake.
After the dragon had fallen to earth, landing on the burned wolf, he'd felt himself rot away until charred wolf bones tangled amongst black dragon ribs. A blue rose had grown amongst them, and then the dirt of the Red Mountains had turned to snow, freezing the rose and burying the bones.
What did it mean? Rhaegar found at least twenty possibilities, none of which seemed correct. The problem with potential prophecies was that it was easy to make it fit a set of circumstances, but the true meaning only became apparent in the fullness of time, after the opportunity to change fate had passed.
Rhaegar had lived most of his adult life trying to bring prophecies to life, and trying to find sense in dreams and the ramblings of seers. This was his obsession—the legacy of his Targaryen bloodline.
Once fully armoured in his black plate studded with rubies, Rhaegar tried to bring his mind back to the present moment, and allowed himself to be led to his charger—draped in black, with flashes of yellow, orange, and red.
Leaving off his helm as he rode to the tourney field with his entourage in tow, Rhaegar waved to the onlookers.
They must love me enough to follow me, even when the Others strike fear into their hearts, he thought. They must trust my judgement.
There was a roar as he entered the field, his followers making their ways to the stands to watch the jousting. Rhaegar bowed to his father and his princess wife, seated in the centre of the stands. Elia smiled and blew a kiss, but his father only scowled.
His squire handed him his helm—black with a flowing streamer of orange, yellow, and red—but before he placed it on his head he looked at the faces in the crowd. The familiar faces of Elia's ladies in waiting looked back, and those of his friends, Ser Arthur Dayne and Ser Richard Lonmouth. Either side of the king stood Lord Commander Gerold Hightower and Ser Oswell Whent.
He saw Jamie Lannister, standing tall and proud as he wore the new white cloak his father had pinned on him earlier—the young blond knight was now the youngest member of the kingsguard. Rhaegar wondered how long before the boy realised that the "honour" that the king had bestowed on him was, in fact, a slight towards his father.
Another slight, Rhaegar thought as he saw Jamie's twin sister, Cersei. Tywin Lannister, the King's Hand, had intended Cersei to be a princess, but when the time came to announce her betrothal to Rhaegar himself, King Aerys had used it for another opportunity to punish Tywin for his success and popularity. Instead, the king had announced that Elia Martell of Dorne was to be his daughter-in-law.
Near the king sat various Lord Mace Tyrell of Highgarden, Lord Robert Baratheon of Storms End, Lord Arryn of the Vale, and his Stark ward...
Rhaegar remembered his dream and gave the northman a closer look. He knew that Lord Stark's heir was a keen jouster and expected him to compete in this very tournament, and yesterday he had run across the youngest Stark, green yet dreaming of honour in battle and a future as a knight. But what of the middle son?
The prince realised that he knew nothing about Eddard Stark. He knew of no betrothals, no details of his prowess with weapons, and had no idea of his personality—just that he was the second son of Lord Stark, the ward of Lord Arryn, and companion of young Lord Baratheon. Would he be the wolf knight in ice armour, or would it be his brothers?
His eyes found the rest of the Starks—Lord Rickard, young Benjen Stark, and presumably his sister, Lyanna, a pretty maid destined to be the future Lady of Storm's End and if rumour was correct, a spirited wolf herself. A young companion who Rhaegar was unfamiliar with sat with the Starks.
Then Prince Rhaegar's opponent appeared on the field—tall Lord Yohn Royce, resplendent in the bronze armour that had earned him the name "Bronze Yohn." The armour was ancient, and decorated with runes said to protect the wearer from harm.
Would they protect him from wights, the Others, or dragonfire? Rhaegar thought not and grabbed his helm, pulling the visor down over his face. He waited as Bronze Yohn did the same and then reached for his lance.
There was a moment's pause as he waited for Lord Royce to arm himself, and then he dug his heels into his horse's sides.
Galloping forward, Rhaegar lowered his lance at the last moment, hitting the bronze shield square and true, visibly jolting its bearer. Slowing his horse at the end of the rail, Rhaegar knew that he had unseated the knight by the sound of cheering and that there was no lance waiting for him to collect and charge again.
Lifting his visor, he saw the bronze knight lying on his back in the dirt, before he rolled over clumsily.
In the stands, Catelyn Tully cheered and looked around for her sister. This morning when they'd awoken she'd complained of being ill as she so often seemed to be of late. It was a shame—Catelyn missed having her sister with her when she'd watched her betrothed defeat one of the Whents.
She had been so proud—if he was champion of Harrenhal, then it would be her, Catelyn, that would be crowned the Queen of Love and Beauty at the tournament. As his future wife it was unlikely that he would insult her by choosing anyone else.
Her dreams had seemed a little less likely after she'd watched the display by Prince Rhaegar. Brandon had seemed almost clumsy in comparison.
Lysa would have loved the jousting, and the prince was so handsome. Her sister had almost wailed as he'd sang the previous evening; Cat had been moved but not to the same extent, and wondered why Lysa had seemed so overly emotional of late.
Maybe she just missed Petyr?
Truth be told, Cat missed him too. Right now he would have been sitting by them, whispering in their ear the chances that each knight had against the other. In her head, she could hear him saying that Brandon Stark would not fare well against the prince.