PROLOGUE
281 AC – Year of the False Spring, Tourney of Harrenhal
Aenar Targaryen sat with his back against the thick trunk of an old oak, the sounds of Harrenhal's tourney faint but ever-present, drifting on the breeze that filtered through the trees. Cheers rose now and then, a dull roar like distant thunder, followed by bursts of music and shouted names he barely cared to make out. He glanced up from where he'd tossed his cloak on the grass beside him and wondered for the hundredth time why he'd even come here.
Another cheer erupted from the lists. Probably Rhaegar, once again reminding the realm how very perfect he is. Aenar stretched his legs, rolling his shoulders to work out a knot. Not for the first time, he felt relieved to be the second-born, spared from all those lofty destinies that seemed to hound his brother.
Rhaegar was there to perform and be adored, and Aenar was here to…well, not much of anything. Oh, he's a fine swordsman, no question—trained by Ser Barristan and Arthur Dayne, right alongside his brother. But this tourney? He'd sooner watch grass grow.
But that suited him fine. Tourneys were just elaborate dances for knights too starved for real conflict, the kind of show that made lords and ladies forget the stench of war and the growing whispers of madness in King's Landing. He closed his eyes, leaning his head back and letting the muted noise wash over him, not minding the distance one bit. He'd seen enough men mangled by their need for glory.
Somewhere behind him, a group of children shouted and laughed, and he cracked one eye open, watching them run by, mock-jousting with sticks. Aenar took in the scene with a quiet detachment; even here, even now, when he tried to distance himself, it seemed everyone was desperate for their moment of glory.
After a time, though, a twinge of curiosity started to gnaw at him. He could just as easily stay out here, but the urge to at least see what exactly all the fuss was about grew steadily more persistent. Maybe he'd catch a glimpse of Rhaegar's latest "noble" feat, or perhaps he could watch the lords clamor over who would bend the knee the deepest. He sighed, hauling himself to his feet. Better to be annoyed than bored, he supposed.
After dusting off his cloak, fastening it with a brooch bearing the Targaryen sigil—small enough to avoid attracting too much attention, but unmistakable if one looked closely, he made his way back through the woods, the noise of the tourney swelling louder with each step. As he neared the outskirts of the grounds, he passed a group of hedge knights sharing a flask, their eyes lighting up as they recognized him.
"Seven blessings, my prince," one of them slurred, bowing a bit too low and nearly tipping over.
Aenar raised an eyebrow. "Drink a bit more, Ser, and you'll be blessing the bushes, not me."
The man's companions chuckled, nudging him, but they kept their eyes respectfully averted. Aenar managed a faint smile before moving on. He'd noticed that people tended to keep their distance, unsure of how to address him, the younger prince who somehow always seemed to fade into the background. It suited him. Rhaegar could have the spotlight for all he cares.
As he walked toward the main tents, a small, wiry stable boy scurried past, nearly colliding with him.
"Watch it," Aenar muttered, stepping aside.
The boy froze, realizing who he'd nearly run into. His face went pale, and he started to stammer out an apology, "M-my apologies, my prince, I didn't—"
"Save it," Aenar cut in with a dry smile. "If every prince you almost trampled demanded an apology, you'd spend half your life at it."
The boy blinked, then managed a small, relieved smile before scampering off, calling over his shoulder, "Good fortune, my prince!"
Aenar snorted, murmuring to himself, "As if I'd need luck here."
As he passed through the stands and into the crowd, the energy of the place settled around him, crackling and charged. Laughter, shouting, the clinking of wine cups, all blended into one chaotic symphony. Nobles and commoners alike gathered at the lists, eyes fixed on the jousting field with a hunger that baffled him. He caught fragments of conversation as he made his way through—a pair of merchants haggling over the price of a carved dragon figurine, a knight boasting about his last match, two women whispering conspiratorially about who'd been seen speaking with whom.
Aenar shook his head at the murmur of gossip and innuendo. As if it mattered.
Just ahead, a voice called out to him, "Prince Aenar! Is it true, then, that Prince Rhaegar has yet to be unhorsed?"
Aenar turned to face the questioner, a grizzled knight with a patchy beard and an eager gleam in his eye. "Wouldn't know, Ser. I was enjoying the quiet for once," Aenar replied. "Can't say it's easy to keep track of all the heroics from the back of the crowd."
The knight tilted his head, looking Aenar over. "Strange, though, not seeing you out there yourself. A Targaryen should be in the lists, don't you think?"
Aenar shrugged, his tone dry. "Well, if my aim was to get tossed into the mud for show, perhaps. Besides, Rhaegar's already put on a fine enough spectacle for the both of us."
The knight chuckled, nodding knowingly. "Aye, but you know Prince Rhaegar—a demigod among men. None can match his form, they say."
Aenar offered a tight, barely-there smile. "Quite. That's my brother for you—born to win hearts." He allowed a hint of irony to slip through. "And tournaments."
The knight gave him a hearty clap on the shoulder, laughing as if they were old friends. "You've wit enough yourself, lad. Keep your humor close. You'll need it when you're older."
Aenar raised an eyebrow, half-amused, half-annoyed by the familiarity, but let it slide. "That, Ser, might be the best advice I've heard all day."
He ducked around a cluster of chattering noble ladies, catching the last part of their conversation as he moved past.
"—and just look at him. Prince Rhaegar in all his glory. No wonder they call him a dragon reborn."
Aenar stifled a sigh, feeling a spark of irritation flare up. It was always Rhaegar this, Rhaegar that. Always his brother who was the golden son, the one who could do no wrong. Aenar was used to being the quiet one in the background, the one who didn't play into the tales of prophecies and rebirth. But there was something suffocating about it here, at this tourney where every glance and every whisper seemed directed at his brother.
As he finally approached the lists, he spotted a flash of silver hair in the distance—poised on horseback, his brother in full armor. Rhaegar, the ever-gracious heir. But even from here, something about Rhaegar's expression was different, focused in a way Aenar hadn't seen before. There was a look of almost stubborn determination in his eyes, the kind that sent a chill down Aenar's spine.
The crowd hushed, and as Rhaegar turned his horse, Aenar realized with a start that his brother was heading straight toward the stands where the ladies sat.
The crowd's anticipation hung thick in the air, a charged silence settling over the field as Rhaegar guided his horse toward the stands. Aenar felt his pulse quicken despite himself. His brother had just won the tourney, yet here he was, acting as though the true climax was still to come. Aenar scoffed quietly, folding his arms as he watched. He knew exactly what Rhaegar was about to do—or at least he thought he did.
Elia, Aenar thought, already picturing the graceful way his sister-in-law would lower her head when the crown of roses was placed in her lap. Elia Martell, the woman who'd borne Rhaegar's children, always patient, always understanding. Rhaegar would give her the crown as a final show of devotion, of unity between Dorne and the Crown, especially with every noble house here to witness it. It was the sensible, respectable choice. Anything else would be madness.
But something in Rhaegar's face didn't align with Aenar's expectations. There was a kind of fierceness there, a single-minded intensity that gave Aenar pause. He watched his brother's eyes sweep over the stands, not toward Elia—not toward Elia at all, he thought with confused frustration—but past her, his gaze fixed on a spot just beyond, where the Starks sat in quiet dignity.
Aenar's arms fell to his sides, his casual stance stiffening. His stomach clenched. No, he thought, watching his brother's gaze settle on Lyanna Stark. The girl was seated there, half-hidden in the shadow of her family, her dark hair a wild contrast against her pale gown. Even from this distance, he could see the confusion, but—to his curiosity—unexpected elation in her expression as she realized Rhaegar was looking straight at her.
Aenar's mouth went dry. "What are you doing?" he whispered under his breath, his voice swallowed by the rustle of the crowd. His eyes darted to Elia, who was seated gracefully, her hands folded in her lap, unaware. Aenar wanted to reach out, to somehow stop this before it spiraled any further, but he was frozen, watching as Rhaegar, in one smooth, deliberate movement, extended the crown of blue winter roses toward Lyanna Stark.
The silence pressed in, thick enough to make him almost miss the court's usual mindless prattle. Almost.
Fuck you, Rhaegar.
And, my first chapter ever! Hoped ya'll liked it! Any advice is appreciated in the reviews =)