Rhaegar supposes he should feel anger, he should feel slighted, cheated, insulted even. Yet looking at Elia he can summon nothing but vague sympathy. He doesn't love her – he never did – and the chance of it growing between them has burned away long ago. (And Lyanna still fills his dreams, with her far off gaze and slightly awkward mannerism, which reminds him more of a girl than of a woman.)
Aegon sleeps in his mother's arms, his pale-lilac eyes closed. "And Rhaenys?" His daughter is all her mother, dark eyes and dark hair; it would be impossible to tell if she is his or Arthur's. So he asks.
"She is yours," Elia responds, rocking her son gently. Her golden skin seems almost waxen in the dim light, she's still too pale, still to weak. Rhaegar nods his head slowly. He doesn't sit up from his chair.
"I've left Lyanna with Arthur," he says, almost casually. "When I come back, I shall free the both of us." Because Elia deserves to be happy as much as he. It is only then that he makes to depart. "Rhaenys remains with me. (He's so very sure that Lyanna will accept his daughter with open arms, and raise her alongside whatever children are born to them.)