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 Twenty One – A Year in Westeros, Part 3 – King's Landing
By the time the wagon containing his wife and children rolled into King's Landing, Rhaegar had realised that there was no convincing Elia that all that had happened with Lyanna Stark had been purely in the interest of protecting the identity of the two mystery knights.
Elia had never said a single accusatory word, but it was in the disappointed look in her eyes as they took breakfast together, the absence of a simple caress when she passed by, and the way she'd grown silent and withdrawn.
Once upon a time, Rhaegar would sit with his wife and discuss the discoveries of the day, the things that puzzled or excited him, and she would offer her opinions and advice. Now a wall of silence had grown between them, tall enough even to rival the walls of the Red Keep itself.
Out of frustration, Rhaegar no longer pleaded his case. Elia would only agree with all that he said, calmly and with a straight face, but there was something in the way she said that she believed him that told Rhaegar the damage had been already done.
She knew that her husband's obsession with prophecies consumed him, and Elia could also see that she wouldn't be the mother of his third child. It didn't matter that Rhaegar swore on all he held dear that he'd not touched the Stark girl in any inappropriate way. His princess believed in the prophecies as strongly as he did—in her eyes he had as good as impregnated Lyanna Stark already. That it had not happened at Harrenhal did not matter—fate had already planted the seed.
That did not have to be the way of things, Rhaegar told himself, but when he tried to prove to his wife that it need not come to pass, that she might still be the mother of his third child, she rejected him.
Sadness in her eyes, she'd whispered, "You know as well as the maesters that this body will never bear another child. To try might be the end of me. You may need your three, but I have my two, and they need a mother's love. " Since then the doors to her chambers were firmly locked of a night.
More and more, Rhaegar found himself sleeping with his face on a book, surrounded by candles that were on the verge of burning down to nothing but a gnarled heap of wax.
He could not even take comfort in his innocence, as the guilt of the slight he'd given his wife weighed heavy, and what was more, he was very aware that Lyanna was not only exceptionally bold and brave but very fair indeed.
During the darker days, when Rhaegar missed his wife's company the most, he often found himself recalling the day he'd watched the mystery knight remove her armour, and how he'd been unable to turn away from her state of undress as she climbed back into her gown. Or when she'd stumbled into his arms under the laughing tree shield, and for the briefest of moments it felt as though they would kiss.
No, he wasn't innocent, Rhaegar decided. The horse stabled below was testament to that. Though Direwolf was far from being the strongest or the swiftest beast he owned, she was now his mount of choice. She was an intelligent animal and seemed to know his mind—he could see now why she had made a good tourney horse.
Still, keeping her had been unwise, and though no one would recognise her now she was decked in Targaryen livery rather than the mismatched pieces belonging to Harrenhal's mystery knight, her name was incriminating for other reasons. Whenever he asked for Direwolf to be saddled up, eyebrows would raise, though no one ever said what was on their mind. Everyone knew the sigil of the Starks of Winterfell.
He had made a bad move, sacrificing the needs of his country and of his family to give a dubious honour to a beautiful young girl, whose deeds he could not explain publically. It was a blemish on his honour that he would have to bear for a long time, as this was kind of tale that many a bard liked make a song of.
The dream of the direwolf knight in ice armour took on a new meaning. The wolf knight and dragon Rhaegar had destroyed each other, but what of the rose growing in the snow, blooming amongst the tangle of ribs and thigh bones? Was this how it was meant to be?
There are greater things to consider than a little personal discomfort, Rhaegar told himself. The dragon had three heads...and any child of Lyanna Stark would be strong and fierce.
Was he trying to convince himself that Lyanna would be the mother of the third dragon just to satisfy his own desires, or was this truly what fate had decided?
Prince or not, he doubted that Lord Stark would break the betrothal to Lord Baratheon to give his daughter's hand to a man who was already married with heirs. Polygamy had not been practised by his family for many years, and he doubted that its sudden reintroduction would make any friends, especially not in Dorne or amongst Elia's family. Neither would Storm's End bear the slight well.
The matter played on Rhaegar's mind constantly, and as distracted as he was, he intervened too late when Tywin Lannister resigned his position as Hand of the King. Even in the final hours before his departure, Rhaegar had tried to convince him to stay, but his father had set Tywin's mind to stone.
Jaime Lannister, the young boy in white, could not inherit Casterly Rock now that he had joined the kingsguard. It left Tywin Lannister with only a daughter and a deformed son who he kept secreted away at his family's ancestral home out of sight, his wife having died in childbed.
Rhaegar's father paraded his new prize around King's Landing like a hunter with a stuffed lion's head—as symbol of his victory over the Hand that ruled his kingdoms for him for twenty years. Truth be told, it was all of Westeros that had lost that match.
At a council meeting, replacements had been discussed. Someone had suggested Lord Stark was a measured and competent man, and it had to be said that he was certainly the most capable of the names put forward.
At first, his father had begun with gentle mocking, suggesting that his son had already spent enough time wooing his friends in the north, and that maybe the rest of Lyanna Stark's family wanted crowns of their own... not made of flowers. Growing more and more angry, King Aerys had started yelling that there was a conspiracy, that the Starks wished to help his son onto the throne before it was rightfully his, sweetening the deal with the promise of a young, healthy wife.
The meeting was adjourned with the king screaming that he would burn any traitor that dare suggest that Lord Stark or Prince Rhaegar should be Hand. In the end, King Aerys named Lord Owen Merryweather, an amiable man but a flatterer and a fool.
The thought of his father and such a man running the kingdoms filled Rhaegar with dread, and as such he threw himself into keeping the damage they caused to a minimum, giving himself a welcome distraction from his own domestic situation, though it amounted to the same net result—many nights sleeping with a pillow of parchment beneath his head.
Once such night, Rhaegar was pouring over copies of letters Maester Pycelle had seen fit to give him, just so the prince could "be aware" of his father's demands, and maybe "calm the waters" by sending a raven of his own.
His eyes finally growing heavy in the final hours before the dawn, he slumped forward, quill still in his hand, and for the first time in long months, dreams filled his mind.
He was sat at the council table, listening to the Hand and Master of Ships arguing over the costs of repairing the fleet versus the cost of building entirely new ships, when a rat ran onto the table. Rhaegar's hand darted out and he grabbed it, but no sooner had he done so before another three took its place. He called out for the guards to bring a dog and their swords, and they did, but for every rat that fell more appeared.
Still, the other men around the table went about their business as if they couldn't see the chaos around them, Rhaegar seemingly the only one concerned about the rats that swarmed over man and furniture alike. Maester Pycelle was rambling, telling an old tale of the day he first taught the prince to read, the rest of the council continued to debate the matter of the disrepair of the fleet, and his father picked up a candle, staring entranced at the flame for a while, before throwing it down on the tablecloth, setting both it and the rats on it alight.
It was only then that Rhaegar looked around and saw that the room had grown dark, becoming pitch black beyond the circle of orange flickering light created by the burning table.
Rhaegar felt his heart pound—though he could still see his fellow council members, he couldn't hear the noise they had been making only moments previous. It was as if the coming night had sucked all the light and sound from the world, leaving behind nothing but emptiness.
Drawing his sword, Rhaegar felt the temperature drop, his own breath becoming white mist as it left his lips.
"I'm not afraid," he yelled. "I know what you are."
Hearing an insect like crackle, echoed by whispers that felt too sinister to be just the breeze, Rhaegar put his back to the table, to defend his father and the others even though they remained blissfully unaware of the coming danger.
A crow landed on the high back of his father's seat. It startled Rhaegar and caught his attention—with a second glance he counted three eyes.
"What good is knowing the danger if you're not ready to face it?" it said, and then cocked its head to the side. The bird paused a while before spreading its wings and flying to the corner of the room. Where it melted into the blackness, a door opened, almost blinding Rhaegar.
Pausing for a second, Rhaegar debated staying to defend the farce that was the council, continuing in the dark oblivious. The lure of the crow's door was too much, and sheathing his sword, Rhaegar ran to it.
Stepping through, the freezing dark was gone instantly, and instead he felt the warmth of the sun beating down on him. Looking around, he found himself on a hillside of rocks and red dust, and a little further ahead stood a single, simple tower, surrounded by a high wall, standing sentinel over the red hills around it.
Rhaegar made his way towards it, passing under the gate with its raised black iron portcullis. In the distance he heard the ring of sword on sword. Making his way in that direction, his path weaved around raised stone flower beds, alive with roses of many different types and colours.
Around the far side of the tower, he came across two knights sparring in an open courtyard, enthusiastically trying to outdo the other with speed and swordsmanship. Rhaegar paused a while to watch the exchange, as both seemed to be skilled. The realm will need many good fighters, once the long night arrives, Rhaegar thought, remembering the dark council room.
The shorter knight, wearing highly polished armour that flashed and glittered like ice, removed their helm, and Rhaegar was shocked to see a flushed and smiling Lyanna Stark, her dark hair cascading over the glistening armour.
With a feeling of dread, Rhaegar looked over at the other knight, only now recognising the black armour decorated with rubies. Before his helm was unfastened, he knew the face that was hidden beneath. It felt unnatural to see himself as if he was looking at another, watching as dream Rhaegar drew close to dream Lyanna, tilting her chin and lowering his head for a kiss.
Once they broke apart, dream Lyanna laughed and said, "Is the maiden meant to kiss the dragon in this tale?" Dream Rhaegar's only reply was to initiate a much more heated embrace.
Horrified, Prince Rhaegar looked on, half reminding himself that this was only a dream and that this would never come to pass, half longing for such seclusion and simple affection as he was witnessing that it almost overwhelmed him.
A raven flew out of one of the topmost windows, settling on nearby stables and cawing for attention before flying into the door at the base of the tower. Wanting to escape the scene unfolding before him, Rhaegar followed, stepping into the dark once more.
Inside, a winding stair curled upwards, doors opening off it on the right. The first door opened by itself once he passed by. Unable to contain his curiosity, Rhaegar saw a riverbank, peaceful until two knights burst through the trees, half stumbling into the flow, water up to the knee joints in their armour. Both seemed weary, as if their battle had been raging for some time.
For a moment, Rhaegar thought something seemed familiar, but his viewing was interrupted by the insistent cawing of the three-eyed raven on a window sill just a short way up the stair. Rhaegar continued his ascent.
The next door on the route opened, and inside Rhaegar saw the throne room he knew so well, only sat on the iron throne was a teenage boy, his hair white and eyes purple. He wore well-used gold armour, and on his head sat a thick golden circle, decorated with dragon scales and rubies. Rhaegar wondered if he had seen a similar crown once when he was younger, belonging to a old Targaryen king.
By the boy king's side sat a dark-haired woman, older than him but beautiful, dressed in Dornish fashion and wearing a thin circlet of gold and rubies, complementing the king's. The prince wondered whether he might be watching his own children, Aegon and Rhaenys. To the other side of the throne sat one of Rhaegar's friends, Ser Jon Connington, though he had now grown old and haggard, his once red hair dusted with grey.
The boy got to his feet, his voice ringing out clear and confident, the surrounding courtiers seemingly already pleased with what he said before he'd even finished. This new king was popular.
"The realm has bled but the throne now belongs to its rightful owner. Like every other person in Westeros, I'm tired of fighting. It is time for peace." The boy king, Aegon so it seemed, raised his hand to stop the murmurs.
"I promise that, like my father would have were he here today, to find a way to provide food and shelter for all of my people. The harvest has been and gone, stores looted and farmland razed to the ground. The only way we will survive the coming winter will be to work together as one—no more fighting—so I ask all kingdoms to send a representative..."
The raven called again for him to continue upwards, and reluctantly Rhaegar pulled himself away, wondering what it was that he had just witnessed. It was a sudden drop in temperature that stopped his thoughts in his tracks.
Pausing, he looked at the raven, who cawed and flew a little further away as if asking him to carry on.
Gripping the hilt of his sword in readiness, Rhaegar found a door shrouded in darkness at the very top of the tower, the winding staircase coming to an end. Fearful as to what he would find, Rhaegar slowly pushed the door open, finding a snowy wood of pine trees at night.
After looking through for a moment, Rhaegar stepped forward, drawing his sword and looking around. The wintery scene chilled him to the bone, and not just through the icy weather.
Through the trees ahead, he could see the flicker of a campfire, and instinctively made his way, looking around for the escape of the tower door but finding that it no longer existed.
As his boots crunched a trail towards the light, he thought that he heard the voices on the wind once more in the distance. Beyond the Wall? he thought, judging by his surroundings. That was where the Others would rise. Who would dare make camp and so brazenly burn a fire here and now? Rhaegar asked himself.
For a second, the prince thought he caught a glimpse of a black figure riding a stag, but whatever it was disappeared quickly.
Apprehensively, wondering whether this was still a dream or whether he truly had been transported to another place through the raven's door, he entered the clearing. In a circle of weirwood trees, dark, wine-coloured leaves littering the white snow, he saw a dark, cloaked figure crouching near the fire. As Rhaegar approached, the man got to his feet, aware of his presence yet he not turning to face him.
Glancing at the fire, Rhaegar then realised it wasn't a log that was burning, but a dark sword, flaming despite being stuck in a snow drift, the snow not melting but streams of red flowing from where the sword rose from it.
The dark figure turned finally, and Rhaegar looked at the face, wondering if it was familiar. A young man of the night's watch, it seemed, judging by his all black attire. He said nothing, only stared at Rhaegar with weary eyes.
"Who are you? Why are you here?" Rhaegar asked, but ceased his questioning the moment he saw that the boy had been weeping. Amongst the tears, Rhaegar finally saw that the boy's eyes were red, the unnatural colour bright enough that when it reflected the flaming sword they almost glowed.
With an expression of anguish, the man in black looked at the snow drift, now surrounded in pools of burgundy, and then spoke with a northern accent.
"Night gathers, and now my watch begins.
It shall not end with my death.
I shall take no wife,
Hold no lands,
Father no children.
I shall wear no crowns and win no glory.
I shall live and die at my post.
I am the sword in the darkness.
I am the watcher on the walls.
I am the fire that burns against the cold,
The light that brings the dawn,
The horn that wakes the sleepers,
The shield that guards the realms of men.
I pledge my life and honour to the Night's Watch,
For this night and all nights to come."
Rhaegar listened to the man repeat the words of the oath that recruits took when they officially became men of the Night's Watch, though they seemed subtly different from what he recalled. Approaching, he looked at the flaming sword, wondering how it burned. Could it be that the chosen one, the prince that was promised, Azor Ahai, the saviour of human kind, or whatever you wished to name him, would actually be a simple man guarding the Wall in the North?
This boy is of noble birth, the prince realised as he looked at the good quality of black leather beneath the old black cloak. The burning sword protruding from the red and white drift was a blade of Valyrian steel, Rhaegar realised, seeing the familiar shade and the pattern where the metal had been worked and folded many times. Not a cheap blade lightly given. At the end of the hilt flames licked over a stone wolf's head, neither blackening or damaging it.
"You're a Stark!"
The Night's Watchman shook his head. "No, I am Lord Snow."
Snow—a name given to bastards born in the north. The raven cawed, and without warning, Rhaegar was back in his room. It took a few seconds for the veil of sleep to lift and for the prince to register the insistent knocking on the door.
Getting to his feet and rubbing his eyes, he found a frantic Ser Arthur Dayne, his face almost as white as his kings guard cloak.
"Come quick—your father is in Elia's quarters. He has her and he's threatening to burn her!"
"Elia?" Feeling a wash of cold dread flow over him, the prince grabbed his sword belt, fastening it as he left the room.
"No, no," Arthur shook his head. "Ashara." He then sprinted away down the corridor, Rhaegar following close behind.
They heard shouts as soon as they drew near to Elia's rooms. Oswell Whent looked sick standing guard outside, but relaxed into relief as Ser Arthur and Prince Rhaegar arrived, falling into line behind them.
"What is this?" Rhaegar looked around the room. Women and girls were crowded in one corner, Elia holding Aegon to her chest, and at her feet one of her ladies-in-waiting had fallen to the ground, her lip bloody and a companion crouching beside, holding her tight. In the centre of the room, King Aerys had a girl with hair as white as his own, and was holding her awkwardly by the arm. On either side of him stood Ser Gerold Hightower and Ser Jaime Lannister of the kingsguard, their eyes pleading with the prince to diffuse the situation.
"What is this?" the king yelled. "A Stark spy in our very midst. One of your wife's ladies-in-waiting, no less." He pushed the blonde girl forward—Ashara Dayne, younger sister of Rhaegar's friend, Ser Arthur Dayne. "Or maybe you were aware of it?"
Rhaegar caught her before she could stumble forward, and she clutched him tightly. Her eyes were puffy and red, still wet with tears.
"A spy, father? For the Starks? Why would you think that?"
The king pointed a gnarled finger in Rhaegar's direction. "Don't think I don't know that you have them in your pocket. No doubt you placed her here with your wife on purpose. To poison the princess to make way for a new wife, I dare say."
"You wrong me. You wrong the girl. There is no plot by the Starks."
"I am right!" the king screeched, sweat rolling down his brow making him seem almost feverish. "You mock me by claiming otherwise. I know what you call that horse of yours. Direwolf—the sigil of House Stark—parading it under my nose." The king stepped forward, his accusing finger still pointed at his son. "And this—"
He made a grab for Ashara before anyone could react, reaching for her neck. Before the prince could pull him away, the king had the broach fastening Ashara's cloak in his hands. The cloak slipped from her shoulders and pooled on the ground.
Ashara sobbed while everyone else stared open-mouthed or gasped. Now it was no longer concealed, the way her stomach protruded at odds with her otherwise tiny frame.
Could it be that Brandon Stark's younger brother wasn't so noble the second time around? With the knowledge of who was the likely father, Rhaegar was the first to recover.
"Maybe it wasn't the Starks that placed her here. Maybe it was Tywin Lannister," he suggested in a soothing voice.
"Tywin Lannister?" The king's brow furrowed.
"The Daynes call House Martell their liege lord. When you slighted Lord Tywin by marrying me to Elia, you gained the allegiance of Dorne. Maybe he means for you lose them? Maybe even turn members of your own kings guard against you? Ser Arthur here is Lady Ashara's brother."
This new conspiracy intrigued King Aerys, who suddenly became quiet and thoughtful. Yet the words he whispered were still, "Burn her."
"If we burn her, then we lose Dorne. Imagine how Tywin Lannister will laugh..." Rhaegar spoke quietly, giving the king time to form a mental picture. "No, we must frustrate his plans."
"How do we do put an end to this mischief without losing Dorne?" His father's voice was almost reasonable.
Rhaegar gently took the direwolf broach from the king's hands. "We send Lady Ashara back to Starfall in disgrace. Then we find out who it was that put the child in her belly and promise to make them marry her."
"Yes..." Aerys agreed. "And if they will not or cannot, we burn them. It must be that Stark, the middle son. He danced with her at Harrenhal the whole night."
Rhaegar passed the broach back to Ser Arthur Dayne, who picked up his sister's cloak and wrapped her in it.
"I will accompany Lady Ashara myself, to make sure Lord Dayne doesn't take offence by the fact this happened while his daughter was under your care."
Placated, Ser Gerold and Ser Jaime followed the king from Elia's quarters, leaving those within to finally exhale in relief.
Rhaegar turned to Ser Arthur; the colour had returned to his face, though this time it was an angry red as he looked at his pregnant sister. Rhaegar quickly counted the months since Harrenhal in his head to be sure.
"We should leave tonight. Help your sister pack her things. We will take Elia's wagon as we may not make it to Dorne before the baby arrives." Rhaegar then approached his wife. "I may be gone some time. By the time I travel to Starfall in the south and then Winterfell in the north, it might be some months."
"I will expect you when you return, my prince," his wife answered cooly. "I am not your keeper." I know you will linger at Winterfell, her tone said, and I know why.
Kissing baby Aegon's forehead, he then did the same to his wife, before Rhaenys appeared from behind the skirts of one of his wife's ladies.
"Take me with you, Daddy," she squealed. "I don't want to stay here with Grandfather. He scares me!"
Rhaegar ruffled her dark hair. "If I took you with me it would break your mother's heart. You must promise me you will stay and help her with your little brother."
With a pout Rhaenys promised.
Later that evening, a small caravan of guards surrounding Elia's wagon made its way from the Red Keep, and through the streets of King's Landing. Ahead of the creaking wooden structure, containing Ashara and a midwife, Wylla, rode the prince, Ser Arthur Dayne, and Ser Oswell Whent.
It was early evening the following day when they made their first camp. Over dinner in the prince's expansive tent, Rhaegar and his kings guard discussed their route while Lady Ashara eagerly ate the fayre in front of her. Now she was dressed in a way that befitted her condition, she seemed ready to birth her child at any moment.
When the prince said that he would see Lady Ashara settled at Starfall before riding for Winterfell, where he would say that the king demanded that Eddard Stark wed the mother of his child in order to placate the Daynes, Ashara suddenly spoke up.
"Eddard Stark is not the father of my child," she said clearly.
All eyes settled on her until the confused prince asked, "Then who..."
"Brandon Stark," Ashara whispered quietly, her shame and hurt apparent.
"But he's betrothed to one of Hoster Tully's daughters," Arthur cried.
"And due to be married any time now. My father had received an invitation to Riverrun the last time he wrote me," Ser Oswell stated.
"If you break the betrothal then you simply upset the Tullys to placate my family." Arthur scratched his head. "What now?"
Prince Rhaegar thought hard. "We will still request that Eddard marry Ashara, to make amends for his older brother's actions."
"No," Ashara disagreed strongly. "He is a good man—kind, honest, and noble. He shouldn't have to suffer for how Brandon treated me."
"Suffer?" Arthur got to his feet until Ser Oswell calmed him down. "Dozens of men would kill to marry you."
"Maybe once," Ashara said wistfully, "but do you really believe we left King's Landing before anyone heard the story? I'm a fallen woman."
"Eddard Stark danced with you at Harrenhal—"
"I don't want to marry anyone." Ashara's loud voice filled the tent. "Not Eddard Stark or anyone else who might take pity on me. The man I want can't and won't have me, so I will be satisfied with the piece of him that he left me with."
Everyone stared as her hands caressed her stomach, her face determined.
Prince Rhaegar waved the matter away and continued with his supper. He was exhausted after two nights of poor sleep, and keen to retire to his bed. If Lady Ashara was determined not to marry, then so be it, if her parents agreed. He wouldn't force the matter. No doubt the king would have some new insult irking him by the time he returned to King's Landing.
They made it as far as the Red Mountains before it seemed that Ashara was imminent to give birth.
"There's an old lookout tower not far from here," Ser Arthur said to the Prince. "You might remember it. We stayed there once when we were boys. It might be a good place to wait."
Prince Rhaegar nodded, and then froze as a moment of recognition hit him. A single tower overlooking rocky red mountains, surrounded by a wall containing a garden of raised stone flower beds. A dream that he'd spent so many hours contemplating during the journey suddenly burst into life.