A/N: Chap 18 review responses are in my forums as normal. This and chap 18 are largely concurrent, and originally were reversed. During final edits, I switched them to be slightly more chronologically consistent. Travel time in Westeros is...time consuming. I debated deleting it, but it provided necessary information on what was happening in Kings Landing during the months after the battle, and why Telos' worry about Aemon was justified. Plus, I love my OC Lady of Whispers character. We'll get to see more of her later.
Chapter Nineteen: Sisters Sons Their Sib Betray
Rhaegar dreamed of drowning.
Within his chambers in Maegar's Holdfast, behind heavily guarded walls and gates that kept him far from the world of King's Landing, Rhaegar dreamed he was on a ship to Hardhome. He was a knight now, resplendent in his black plate armor. His cousin Lord Steffon stood at the tiller, larger than life and laughing as the ocean spray struck his bearded face.
"No better life to be had, lad! No better life to be had!"
The waters were cold and gray; the black sails billowed with the wind, making the crimson, three-headed dragons embroidered into the sails dance. The nineteen other ships of the royal fleet crested the waves bravely as they sailed north to battle the wildling barbarians that threatened the Seven Kingdoms.
Rhaegar's heart soared in the dream as Lord Steffon smiled his approval. "We've made a knight of you after all, my prince! On to victory!"
But like so many of Rhaegar's dreams, this one turned suddenly black and frightening. The sky exploded overhead, billowing out concentric waves of black cloud as if heaven had suddenly sprung a leak and hell itself spilled down. The young prince's ears rang with the screams of alarm. His cousin Lord Steffon Baratheon called out desperate orders to heave the ships landward.
The black clouds began to spin, and then reached down with massive fists of black funnel clouds. "Hang on, lads!" Lord Steffon continued to cry out orders and encouragement even as the huge waterspouts tore into the fleet. Rhaegar felt the wind blast him so hard he could not breathe. He flew like some rag-doll through the skies until he struck the water hard enough to make his head ring.
The plate pulled him down–he desperately sucked in air, only to pull water instead. He reached for the surface even as his armor pulled him into the dark.
A face formed in the water; two glowing blue eyes as if all the ice in the north had gained form, stared down at him. It's time to wake up, Rhaegar. I'm sorry.
Rhaegar woke with a cry.
In his own bed, Jon woke with a stuttering shout. "What! What izzit! Rats? Izzit the damned rats!"
The boy then flopped back into his bed, turned over, and went right back to snoring. Across the room, Rhaegar's other companion made a quiet snorting noise before slowly sitting up. "Another dream?" Arthur asked quietly.
The faintest hint of dawn caused a dull red glow along the edge of the shudders facing east. Rhaegar knew there would be no more sleep. "Same as the others."
Arthur Dayne of House Dayne rolled out of bed. He moved like a cat, Rhaegar thought. Quiet and smooth. The young man crossed the exquisite Myrish carpet, pulled aside the drapes of Rhaegar's four poster bed, and climbed in before leaning against the lower left post.
Nearby, young Jon Connington continued to snore loudly.
"Lord Steffon left with twenty ships and two thousand men," Arthur pointed out reasonably. "He killed four men as a squire during the War of the Ninepenny Kings. The only ones who have anything to fear are those wildlings."
A loud knock sent Jon once more flailing. "Rats! Rats!" He fell from his bed, becoming entangled in his curtains before coming, wide-eyed, to his feet.
The door opened; Rhaegar expected his mother. Instead, a knight in shining steel plate with a long white cloak draped about his shoulders entered. Ser Barristan Selmy went helmless that morning. He had seven years on Rhaegar and his three companions, but in that seven years accounted himself a hero of the realm and one of the most respected of the Kingsguard.
"Ser Barristan? What is it?"
"My prince, a delegation is coming from the Wall with news. His grace has decreed he shall hear them in the Great Hall."
"When?"
"The moment they arrive, my prince. Come on, lads. Time to clean up and dress."
The three boys scrambled to do just that. Technically Rhaegar served as a paige to his father, but in truth as the crown prince he had no formal duty other than his tutoring. Arthur and Jon both served as paiges to the Queen, but their primary duty was to try and coax Rhaegar away from his books or harp.
As such, they wore the typical stockings, linen blouses and finally the woolen short jackets common to the palace paiges. Rhaegar's alone was also embroidered with the Targaryen dragons at his breast. He strapped on his knife; he'd not earned a sword and was still undecided if he even wanted to try. His friends dressed quickly enough.
Food arrived as they finished dressing; Arthur made Eloise the serving maid blush with a wry joke, before she tossed a grape at him and left. As they ate, the fourth and newest member of their group knocked on the door.
"Brandon!" Jon roared the name happily. "Come in here, wolfpup. We have food!"
Brandon Stark was two years younger than the three boys at ten and one. He moved about the palace in a state of perpetual unease that Rhaegar did his best to help. It was no easy thing to be a hostage; nor to be the son of a man the king distrusted.
The northern boy came and sat around the table, but didn't touch the food until Rhaegar handed him a meat pie. He took a bite and looked around the table. "Eloise said people are coming from the North. Is my lord father coming?"
"Maybe," Rhaegar said. "But I'm sure Lord Stark's mission is a challenging one. It's only been three months, and they're fighting on the other side of the world."
"Do you think I can go home?"
"What, and leave all this behind?" Jon waved his own meat pie enthusiastically. A slip of eel flew out. "Why'd you want to go back North? I know what we need—we need to get you out of the Keep is what! Take you down to the Street of Silk to look at all the pretty ladies!"
The younger boy's cheeks bloomed red at the idea. A shadow passed by the door; Rhaegar looked over Brandon's mess of dark hair and saw his mother.
Queen Rhaella still looked pale and weak from her last miscarriage. Lines had begun to form at the corner of her small mouth that made her look like she was frowning even when she was not. She held a velvet shawl over her silk and cloth of gold dress.
"Mother?"
The other boys scrambled to their feet and bowed. Brandon almost lost his balance doing so.
"Your Great Uncle Aemon is in the keep, my son," the queen said distantly. She glanced at the younger Brandon. "Arthur, love, be a dear and show Brandon to the Godswod. I think our young wolf might like some fresh air."
Rhaegar fought back the urge to question his mother. Arthur, besotted by the woman, bowed deeply. "Yes, your grace."
She moved on, and in her wake Rhaegar watched her retinue follow. None of the ladies of the court looked particularly happy as they glanced in at the boys.
"What does that mean?" Brandon was young, but he was still alert enough to know when something was wrong.
"It means the queen cares about you, Brandon," Rhaegar said. "Arthur, go. Take some meat pies."
Arthur did just that, leading the wide-eyed Stark boy from their chambers. When the two were gone, Jon cursed. "Maiden's tits. What's that about?" He'd heard the term from one of the soldiers in the Keep, and it had become his favorite new expletive.
"Let's find out."
Rhaegar led his friend from the room. It did not surprise him to find Ser Barristan in the hall beyond, guarding the crown prince. "What's the word, Ser Barristan?"
The young kingsguard pursed his lips. "Only that the Lord Commander of the Night's Watch arrived with a small party, including the Maester of Castle Black."
"Then let's be quick."
Rhaegar knew the Red Keep as well as any of the servant's children; he'd spent most of his life there. The keep was a city in and of itself, with thousands of staff to keep it working. Most adored him, and he wasn't afraid to occasionally use their doting to get a late night snack or extra candles to read past his bedtime.
But the adoration of the castle staff could not bridge the distance between Maegor's Holdfast and the Great Hall. He did not want to arrive at court sweating and out of breath, so he didn't run up the serpentine steps. But his walk was faster than most. The rattle of Ser Barristan's armor accompanied the boys.
Beyond the curtain wall, he could see the city of Kings Landing waking up to the day. The stench of so many people crowded together was a distant, academic thing that just brushed his nostrils.
When they finally reached the Great Hall, Rhaegar felt another surge of worry when he found that most of the courtiers of the court were gone. Instead, he found his father the king sat upon the Iron Throne in full regalia, with a crimson cloak about the shoulders of his cloth-of-gold tunic and vest. The crown caught the sunlight from the windows behind him.
The king sat on the edge of his throne, his back straight and his jaw clenched. He glanced at Rhaegar but did not summon him to his side as he sometimes did. Ser Gerold, Prince Lewyn Martell, Ser Gwayne and old Ser Harlan stood on either side of the dais which held the throne, all resplendent in the white cloaks of the Kingsguard.
Lord Tywin stood just down and to the right of the throne, draped in his Lannister crimson and black. He wore the Hand's pin at his breast, but his face was as cold and set as Rhaegar had ever seen it. Grand Maester Pycelle stood opposite Rhaegar, speaking in a subdued voice to the master of coin, Lord Qarlton Chelsted.
The only member of the small council within easy reach of Rhaegar that he had any trust in was Lady Malantia Velaryon, the ancient Lady of Whispers and herself a distant cousin. The prince drifted close.
"M'lady," he said with a courteous nod.
"My prince," she said. Lady Malantia smelled strongly of old leather and slightly off lavender. She leaned on an ornately carved stick with a beautifully cast golden seahorse at its tip. "Brace yourself."
"You have news?"
"Aye, my prince. But it is not for me to speak of it. Your great uncle comes."
The doors of the Great Hall swung open to reveal a small party of men dressed all in black. The leader was a small, sun-kissed Dornishman with an immaculately trimmed beard and the sharp features of a hawk. Beside him walked an aged man who wore the black of the Watch, but whose neck was ringed in the many links of an aged and learned Maester. Five other Night's Watch followed. They were flanked by another of the Kingsguard that Rhaegar thought might be Ser Jonothor, and twenty gold cloaks.
The party came to a halt twenty paces from the throne and all bowed. Uncle Aemon's chain clinked in the abiding silence of the Great Hall as he did so.
When Lord Tywin stepped forward to speak, instead of the king himself, Rhaegar knew that this was not just an audience. Something terrible must have happened.
"Stand you now before His Grace, Aerys Targaryen, Second of the name!" Lord Commander Gerold's voice boomed out over the hall, as if he were addressing hundreds. "King of the Andals, and the Rhoynar and of the First Men; Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm. Before your king, swear you now upon the Seven to speak the truth and nothing else."
"We so swear!" The Lord Commander of the Night's Watch had a high-pitched voice, piercing and exotic with his marked Dornish accent. The others complied.
Lord Tywin Lanniser walked with his hands behind his back. "You are Lord Commander Gellip Qorgyle, recently elected the 996th Lord Commander of the Night's Watch?"
"I have that honor, Lord Tywin."
"We have had many rumors reaching our ears, Lord Commander. It is time for the truth to out. Explain before the king what happened to the armies of the North."
The Dornishman did not hesitate. "On behalf of the Night's Watch, I received Lord Rickard Stark and the northern army of over five thousand men. He arrived under the king's warrant to destroy newly built Wildling settlements North of the Wall and scatter the wildlings back into the ice. I was informed that Lord Steffon Baratheon led an equal force of ships with the intent to do the same to the newly rebuilt wildling settlement of Hardhome."
"Were you previously aware of these settlements, Lord Commander?"
"My lords, your grace, I was only a week at Eastwatch-by-the-Sea before I was voted by the brothers of the Night's Watch to be Lord Commander. And I was only at Castle Black three days when word of Lord Stark's approach reached me. Before the Seven and the Iron Throne, I swear I had no previous knowledge of the wildlings."
Tywin paused in his steps as a thought occurred to him. "Lord Commander, while I have every confidence you've acquitted yourself as a man of honor, you number only twenty and two years to your name and are new to the Black. I have to wonder why you were so quickly elevated to such a venerated office."
For the first time since his arrival, the Dornishmen showed doubt. He glanced at the silent, still Maester at his side before looking down. "My lords, your grace, though I did not know it at the time, I have learned that I was elected because no other wanted the post."
Even Tywin seemed surprised. "That is somewhat difficult to believe."
"The brothers of the Watch believed the position was cursed."
Pycelle made a scoffing sound. No one else laughed. "Was it?" Tywin finally asked.
"I begin to wonder, m'lord."
The king shifted slightly. Tywin turned to look, and then nodded at the unspoken message. "Lord Commander, describe before your king what happened."
"It happened thus, my lords, Your Grace. Lord Stark declared his allegiance to the Iron Throne and personally led his army into the forests north of the Wall. I accompanied him with fifty of my finest rangers and a hundred Brothers. It was a clear day, and once we left the cold of the Wall itself, the forest proved to be good weather. It remained so until the entire train of the army was within the forest itself.
"It began to rain. At first, just a drizzle, but soon it poured down in sideways sheets. Lord Stark rode on bravely, ready to fight regardless of the weather, but when it began to pelt us with hail the size of your palm and visibility disappeared, we began receiving arrow fire from the surrounding forest."
"If the visibility was so bad, how could the wildlings know where to fire their arrows?" Pycelle's question rang in the air. Lord Tywin stifled an irritated frown.
"A fair question," the Hand allowed.
"My lords, your grace, by the Seven I swear that the storm was only as wide as the army column. Just yards away where the wildlings stood and fired upon us, there was no rain, nor clouds at all."
Tywin came to a complete stop. On the throne, Rhaegar's father almost rose to his feet, only to settle back. Pycelle looked as if he were about to have a heart attack. Closer to the prince, however, Lady Malantia merely nodded to herself.
"What happened next?"
"We died, my lords, Your Grace. Lord Stark was lost in the storm, so I called for shield formations. It worked for a few moments, until the wildlings deployed ballista. Then, through the holes torn into the shield walls, a giant beast called a direwolf attacked and broke the formation. I received an arrow wound and slipped in the mud. Though I called for a retreat, it was too late. Of the force numbering over five thousand, only three hundred survived to be captured. They remain as prisoners of the wildlings. I was sent back to warn against any future attacks."
"And Lord Stark?"
"Dead, my lords, Your Grace. I saw his body with my own eyes. He died bravely for his king."
"But you did not."
Rhaegar's stomach felt like it dropped down to his knees. His father's first words since he'd arrived pierced the air like a Braavosi water foil. Thin and sharp.
Lord Tywin went still and lowered his head to stare down. The Dornishman blinked as if slapped. "Your Grace, the battle was lost."
"Lost to primitive wildlings," the king said. "Using fanciful stories and old wives' tales to justify your cowardice and incompetence! Nay! You should have died like Stark, rather than come back like some foul, flea-ridden cur begging for scraps! But don't fear, Lord Commander. I shall give you a means to overcome your shame! On the morrow, this man is to take the walk of shame! To the Great Sept and back, let him atone for his cowardice! And when he returns, we shall purge his cowardice from him with fire! Take him!"
"Your Grace, it isn't so!" Gold cloaks rushed forward and grabbed the stunned Lord Commander. "I led in person! We had no chance! Your grace…" He fought and pulled against the hands that secured him, screaming for mercy as they dragged him away.
Rhaegar's father stepped down from the podium, staring angrily at Aemon. The other Night's Watch men cowered back, but Aemon remained still. "What of you, Uncle? You, my grandfather's brother. Did you know about these wildlings?"
Rhaegar had never met his great uncle in the flesh, but he had several letters they had exchanged over the past few years. He was older and more frail than Rhaegar would have thought. But in that moment, he saw a spark of Targaryen bravery. Aemon did not flinch away from the king.
"I know that the wildlings had no designs on the Seven Kingdoms. They have no standing army, nor lords to command them. Each village chooses its own headman by common vote. They were no threat to any man of the Seven Kingdoms."
"They murdered the Warden of the North and five thousand of my men!"
"Your grace…dearest nephew. They defended their own lives from our attack against them."
Aerys slapped Aemon. The sound of it echoed in the hall. Aemon did not cry out nor defend himself when the king slapped him a second time. "Our cousin is dead, you old fool! Lord Steffon is dead. Did you know?"
"I learned of it before coming south," the old man admitted. No sign of his beating could be heard in his tone even if his cheek was a painful red.
Rhaegar's eyes watered as that particular truth struck close. He had many memories of bouncing on Lord Baratheon's knees, or playing with the proud lord's young son Robert. For him to be lost in truth made all his nightmares painfully real.
"You say the Wildlings are not a threat, but they destroy twenty ships and thousands of men?" The king was virtually shaking now.
"It was not the Wildlings that destroyed the ships, your grace. That was the work of Telos alone."
"TELOS!" Rhaegar jumped in place at his father's scream. The elderly Mistress of Whispers placed a place on his shoulder, as if to hold him. "Telos! Telos! Even from my grandfather's time, the name! Tell me this, old man! How should we kill Telos? Unless you would be accounted traitor, tell us how to kill this wildling witch!"
Maester Aemon stood in silence, his eyes rimmed with unshed tears as he stared at Rhaegar's father. The oldest living Targaryen did not speak at first, not until Aerys stalked back angrily to his throne.
"With my own eyes, I have witnessed Telos of the Trees heal a mortal wound. A wildling boy, gored by a boar in the forest. A fearsome puncture of his stomach not even the finest Maesters could have cured. She prepared a poultice, and spoke words that made my head ache. The poultice took on a glow of light, like a green flame, and in less than one minute the boy was healed."
The Maester spoke quietly enough that everyone had to strain to listen. Nor was he finished.
"I have seen with my own eyes Telos summon rain, and send clouds away when it suited her. I have seen her bless fields that then produced crops beyond belief. No woman has ever died in childbirth while she was near, nor any child lost.
"When raiders came from the frozen shores to harass her people, I saw her call the animals from the trees, the wind from the air and the roots from the earth to strike those raiders down to a man. She bears eyes like cold stars in the sky that grant her vision beyond the horizon. I have known her for twenty years, and in all that time I have not seen her age a single day. You ask, nephew, how to kill Telos? I could sooner tell you how to kill the tide or strike down the sun. Telos of the Trees is no mortal woman, and no mortal man will be her end."
Aerys sank down to his throne, only to jerk one hand away. Rhaegar saw blood staining the king's sleeve. He'd cut himself on one of the partially melted swords that made up the iron throne. "You say many words, uncle. What I hear is a man who has chosen to betray his own kin. Consider that in the black cells before you join the Dornishman in flame. Take him."
The old Maester did not struggle. Rhaegar began to surge forward to speak for his great uncle, but Lady Malantia held him back with surprising strength for her age. "Say and do nothing," she hissed under her breath.
Aerys did not stay. Clutching his bleeding hand, the king swept angrily out of the Great Hall. When the king was gone, the Mistress of Whispers leaned over to him. "Walk with an old woman, my prince?"
Rhaegar tried to hide his shaking hands by clutching them together. He looked up at Lady Malantia before nodding. He noticed that Grand Maester Pycelle and Lord Qarlton walked after the king with Lord Tywin.
"Steffon is dead?" he asked once they'd stepped from the great hall onto the serpentine path. She was leading him slowly toward the godswood, clutching her cane with each step.
"A Summer Islander captain docked just two days ago," she said. "His crew told a terrible story. My little birds whispered a warning for him to be away before the king could question him directly. He was trading directly with the wildlings at Hardhome."
They reached the godswood, which was a little cooler in the sweltering heat of the morning. Lady Melantia sat with a tired sigh and looked up at the pacing prince. "Tell me about your dream, boy."
"What?"
Melantia, like most of House Velaryon, was as Valyrian as Rhaegar was. Her hair, now as white as snow, was once the color of sunlight. Her eyes were a velvety mauve color, as opposed to the darker purple shade of his own. "What do you know of my dreams?"
"What else do you think the servants talk about, my prince? You had one this morning, did you not? Tell me."
It should not have surprised him, really. The Lady Melantia was the Mistress of Whispers, and had served in the role since his grandfather's reign. "They've been the same for a few weeks, now. I'm a knight on Lord Steffon's ship. We're sailing north, and suddenly the sky turns dark overhead and a terrible storm strikes me and sends me flying into the water. Two blue stars look at me in the water and tell me to wake."
"You've had the same dream more than once?"
Rhaegar nodded before sitting down onto the carved stone bench beside her. "Father won't kill Uncle Aemon, will he? That would be kinslaying!"
The old lady looked down at her feet. "I have become cautious in my old age, I fear. I knew how deeply your father loved that Baratheon boy-child. How much you did as well. Since your father locked your mother up here in the keep, I have feared his anger. And so I gave my information of Lord Baratheon's death to Lord Merryweather."
"Why?"
The old woman reached out again, taking Rhaegar's hand in hers. "You are kin to me, my prince. I have so enjoyed watching you grow. Like my own children, lost now to the Pretender's war. The path before you is a hard one, I fear. There will be many people who will try to pit you against your father."
"I don't understand."
"Neither did I, not until I saw the proof before my old eyes. Lord Merryweather is dead, my prince. When he gave your father word of Lord Baratheon's death, the king declared him a liar, a traitor, and ordered him beheaded there on the spot. I think Ser Gerald is still shaken from it, but he did his duty. And I begin to wonder how long it will be before I have no choice but to present unhappy news myself."
Rhaegar wanted to shout at her, just like his father did to Uncle Aemon, but he didn't. "Why? Why did he do this?"
"I cannot say, my prince. The young man who inherited the throne is not the King we saw today. What I do know is this. You are the future of the kingdom. You are the heir of the Targaryen dynasty. You must be strong, my prince, but also wise. Don't throw yourself into unwinnable battles, when the war is all that is important."
She blinked down at him sadly. "Thank you for walking with me, my prince. You should be about your day."
Prince or not, Rhaegar still recognized a dismissal when he heard one. He nodded to his old cousin before making his way worriedly down the serpentine pass. He spotted Jon nearby, but didn't want to speak to any of his friends right now. He thought of young Brandon Stark, now orphaned. He thought of Lord Steffon and how much he admired and loved the man. He'd wanted to learn to fight from the man, someday.
Someday. Always someday.
He walked face-first into armor, and then bounced back onto his rump and blinked up to see Ser Willem Darry staring down at him in alarm. "My prince! Oh, I do beg your pardon, my lad! Here, let me help you up."
Ser Willem was the new master-at-arms of the Red Keep. His brother Jonothor was a Kingsguard. A great, red-headed bear of a man, Ser Willem had won several recent tourneys before accepting the post. Even Ser Barristan spoke highly of his martial prowess.
Someday. "Ser Willem, will you teach me to be a knight?"
The knight blinked down at him in momentary confusion. The confusion ended with a genuine smile that reminded Rhaegar very much of Lord Steffon's. "My prince, I can think of no greater honor."