Day 1
What am I doing here? What do I even say to him? The questions hung over Rhaegar's head like an executioners blade the entire day. Some would answer with prayers, parting words of love for the deceased parent, expressing the hope they were someplace better. Nothing was so simple with Aerys Targaryen.
The last of the days mourners had long since departed, midnight drew near. The throne room was quiet. All around him and his father's body scented candles burned from dozens of tall candelabras. They and near forty braziers banished the night into the furthest corners. The red stone appeared to glow under their light. Great banners bearing their families' sigil hung along the walls, between the mounted dragon skulls. The Kingsguard who otherwise stood vigil close to the bier were absent, Rhaegar had asked them to leave for this private visit.
It was just as his father detailed in his will. If anyone wished to pay their final respects to the king, they would do so at the heart of his power, beneath the Iron Throne. There the body would lay for two more days, giving the nobility and smallfolk alike a chance to come pay their respects and share their grief.
Most of the courtiers were more relieved than anything. Rhaegar noticed the absence of fear in their faces or how the tightness around their jaws and stiffness in their walk had vanished. The only ones bothered were Aerys' lickspittles who bowed low and spewed niceties to curry favor with the soon to be king. Rhaegar's only answers were cold smiles and curt agreement.
The only lord who was of immediate concern to him was Tywin and he was among the first to pay his respects. Though stripped of all lands and titles on Aerys' word, none of the kings remaining supporters felt the need to enforce the proclamation.
Tywin approached the bier with his usual, imperious bearing, he had done well in masking the wear of the black cell. A gold threaded lion embroidered over the left breast of his otherwise crimson tunic roared while a short, black cape flowed down from his right shoulder. Black, polished boots shined and reached almost to his knees. His cold, green eyes appeared more severe with his golden hair combed and slicked back.
Those same eyes looked over the king once, twice ere he knelt and gave a prayer to the Seven, no doubt cursing him to one or all of their hells. Then, without another glance at the body, he rose to address the royal family.
"Your Grace," Tywin said, kissing the queen's offered hand. "I must apologize for my daughter's absence, recent events have left her tired. She sends her most sincere condolences for your loss."
"Tell Cersei I am most grateful," The queen inclined her head. "And that she may take as long as she needs to rest. These are very... trying times for us all."
"Indeed, losing an old friend is never easy," He brazenly lied, moving onto Rhaegar next. "I do believe more fortuitous days lie ahead for us all. A chance to begin again, wouldn't you agree, Your Grace?"
Rhaegar politely smiled and shook his hand, agreeing with the sentiment. A fool could guess the meaning behind his words: the lion would soon demand compensation for the wrongs done to him. Refusing to do so would court further disaster with the Lannisters.
It was a parting gift from the late king, one reason among a thousand that made the genuine displays of grief over his passing from the lowborn of King's Landing impossible to stomach. It was a despair born of ignorance. If they understood what his father had truly become, what he was about to do they would mourn him almost as little as Rhaegar's mother did. The work of the silent sisters on Aerys' corpse only furthered their illusions.
The fine heavy plate of steel he wore was intricately engraved with the Targaryen sigil across his chest down to the last scale. The besagues resembled shrunken black dragon heads. Red inlays on his gauntlets, greaves and breastplate broke the otherwise black color.
The bastard sword that lay upon his chest was without a scabbard. A trio of dragon heads adorned the tips of the slanted cross-guard. The largest was at its center giving the impression of a sword exiting its mouth. Its handle was thick and black, segmented into rings and the pommel was naught by a large, red jewel.
The sisters folded Aerys' hands over the center of the steel, its talons shrunken to ordinary finger nails. His long, tangled white hair was neatly cut and arranged only to reach his shoulders, the polished black, three pointed crown, each ending with the head of a dragon gleamed in the candlelight. They'd even managed to hide the scar where one of the dozen blades cut through his throat.
What caught Rhaegar's eye most of all was his father's expression. It was the visage of a man utterly at peace. A wise king resting at last. It was unsettling.
For as long as Rhaegar knew him, Aerys was always in motion. He laughed heartily and could speak for hours of vengeance when worthwhile. When he planned something, they were grand designs made known throughout the entire Red Keep ere he lost interest in them.
Sometimes these moods changed with great speed. In the span of a single evening, he would be the heart of a gathering and then the dark cloud hanging over it. He was a man prone to fear too. It was never more obvious than when one of Rhaegar's many lost siblings passed before their time.
Duskendale made him eternally fearful. His thinning frame was perpetually tense, ready to flee at the first sign of danger. His suspicious gaze constantly wandered around every inch of a given room. The mad fire in them was enough to bring terror to most men's hearts.
Now it's over, he can't hurt anyone anymore. That fact alone should've brought him immense relief. It didn't. In the three days since he was first thrown into black cell, the dejected restless born of that terrible place still clung to him like a leech.
He's dead. Rhaegar repeated the fact over and over. He's gone forever. By week's end what's left of him will be naught but ash. He closed his eyes and let out a long, suffering breath, his fingers curled into fists. So why, why does he still bother me?!
He stood there for a time and listened to the gentle crackling of burning wood. His heart pounded like a war drum in his chest. "Damn you," Rhaegar seethed and looked again at the body. "Even in death you bring nothing but trouble."
The king said nothing.
"Is this what you wanted, to die screaming like a madman impaled on your own throne?" He snarled.
It was almost the truth. His ever dutiful mother wore her black mourning gown and hid her indifference to Aerys' demise with a thick, mesh veil when in public. Elia played the role of the distraught but thankful gooddaughter. She even managed to say a kind word or two about the king when approached by someone out to curry favor through false sympathy.
Only Viserys' tears were genuine. The boy had never experienced any hardship. Their father shielded and spoiled him too much. He didn't even understand what death was until Rhaegar and his mother both spent the better part of an hour explaining it to him. It took two more to calm him.
"How could you?" Rhaegar said. His fists shook uncontrollably. "You burned people alive... raped your own wife and for what, because your bloody cock couldn't work otherwise?! Mother was always dutiful, always faithful, even when any other woman would have cut your throat while you slept! She even protected you from my wrath you miserable, ungrateful bastard!"
He could not say how or what stopped him from striking the body. "What of me, what did I do to earn your hatred after Duskendale? For not cutting Tywin's head off when he callously spoke of your rescue? Was that all the reason you needed to cut ties with your own son?!"
Faster than Rhaegar could stop them, tears flowed down his cheeks. His hands laid atop the bier's left side, his head lowered until his silver hair fell over his brow and obscured all but the body. Rhaegar could not say how long he stood there, shaking, quietly sobbing. All his practiced calm, indifference and dignity crumbled before the flood of guilt, anger and regret.
The king said nothing to this. How could he? He was dead, only the gods would ever know his reasons or excuses. It was just a pity Aerys couldn't have taken all the woes and misery he'd caused with him. Healing those was a task left for those he had wronged.
"For the affection I once had for you, I will perform my duty as your son for a few more days," Rhaegar hoarsely said. "I will pretend to mourn you, I will burn you atop the pyre as per Valyrian customs and then I will inter your ashes with our forebearers."
Then, he leaned closer and whispered conspiratorially into Aerys' ear. "But I will not fully respect your will. After Harrenhal there is no man, god or devil that could ever force me to burn you with wildfire and a dragon egg. You will never be a dragon."
Rhaegar found a great deal of satisfaction from that final, hateful promise. He drew back, gave the body one last, hateful look then stepped away to let his majesty rot away in peace. He shed no more tears and lost no more sleep that evening over Aerys Targaryen.
Day 2
Midnight was close when Rhaegar snuck out of his bedchamber. Half lit or pitch black hallways and corridors greeted him as he traversed throughout the Red Keep to his destination. This didn't bother him, years of secret meetings with his allies and possible additions to that inner circle had made him quite experienced in the art of skulking.
However, this was no meeting with Arthur or Barristan about the troubled, now ended reign of his father. It wasn't Rhaegar sneaking out to read old tomes and scrolls left buried within Maegor's holdfast. It wasn't even him slipping out of the castle entirely to get drunk and sing to the smallfolk with Jon at his side.
With a sheathed sword hidden underneath the thick, black cloak, Rhaegar quietly made his way through the halls grim-faced as if marching to a duel to the death. If only it were that simple.
Perhaps it was just his mind playing tricks on him, but each step to his destination seemed to make the shadows thicker. The air became colder, a slithering unease crept up and down his spine.
His mother awaited him outside the door, still wearing her black mourning gown absent the thick mesh veil. Her face was pale, ghost-like in the small candlelight, her hands quivered imperceptibly. She didn't even notice his approach. All she did was stare hauntingly at the entrance to Aerys' bedchamber.
"There is... there is something I must do there," she told him that morning before they broke their fast. "I planned to wait until... he was ash but it can't, Rhaegar. Meet me at his bedchamber at midnight, bring a sword with you and tell no one else of this."
It was a strange request to be sure. That room had been hell for her, a place where Aerys truly rescinded any right to be anything but a monster. Why would she want to ever go back there and why bring a sword?
"Mother," He quietly called out, stepping into the candlelight. When she didn't move, he gently shook her left shoulder. "Mother? I'm-"
She recoiled at the touch with a gasp, a fleeting look of sheer fright passed over her face. It took a span of two heartbeats for her to calm down. "Rhaegar, I'm sorry, I was only..."
"It's alright," He said, trying not to show the growing discomfort he felt about this. "I've brought the sword as you asked."
She glanced at the door then back at him. "I know you find this all strange, worrying even. I'm not sure it will sound any less so when I explain it but..."
He stood and waited while she gathered her thoughts, or courage.
"The bed, I-I want it destroyed," Steel entered her voice. "That was where he... where it always happened. Just the sight of it became enough to..."
Rhaegar watched her shudder, her hands opened and closed in and out of fists. An old, black hate several years old and still furnace was hot reignited. I should throw what's left of him into the sea. Let the so-called dragon feed the fish. He was sorely tempted to try it and damn whatever anyone thought.
However, he did care about how others would see it, particularly his mother. She was always mindful of her duty as queen and what one should and shouldn't do in such a position. She was a firm believer of the Seven as well, the knowledge her own son had shouted and narrowly came to striking a dead man would appall her. Even this small bit of revenge must have embarrassed her.
"I need to do this," She recomposed herself with a steadying breath. "It's all I can do now for some measure of peace."
"You don't have to justify anything to me," Rhaegar assured her. "Just say the word and I'll do anything else to aid you."
"I know," A brief, genuine smile brightened her face. "Thank you, my boy."
He smiled back, nodded and waited until she was ready. Then, together they gripped the handle and went inside. Save for the beam of moonlight illuminating the northern side from the open balcony, the room was pitch black. Not that it mattered, Rhaegar remembered where everything was.
The air still smelled of burnt wood and soot. All eight of the flower pots that once stood in pairs throughout the room were long since replaced by ten barrel high, braziers. Each night, Aerys commanded them and over two dozen torches aligning the walls to burn from dusk till dawn. A marble floor replaced the old tiles, turning even light footfalls into the thunderous sound of trampling horse hoofs. No carpets remained to lessen the effect.
On the opposite side of the balcony, situated atop a wide, raised platform was the bed. The nearest nightstands, the chairs and the three desks got shunted to the corners of the room to allow for four braziers to encircle the bed.
Rhaegar left his mother's side to light the closest sconces. The red, three-headed dragon seemed to glow in the fire atop the black sheets. They stared at it wordlessly as though it were some slumbering beast none should dare awaken. Geralt had said things and places of great cruelty and malice could become tainted by it and pass the misfortune on like a disease. How much of it lingered on the bed made Rhaegar's stomach twist in revulsion.
With considerable forbearance which betrayed none of what she must have felt, his mother ended the thick silence. "Give me the sword."
The castle forged steel was out in an instant. It was a shorter sword Rhaegar had used before he was fully grown, lighter, easier to control and to hide beneath a cloak. The queen took the offered weapon with a slightly tremulous hand. Her fingers tightened and loosened about the pommel, her eyes fixed on the blade itself.
"Don't swing," Rhaegar gently helped her adjust and reverse the grip. " If you 're not trained, the blade might fly out of your hand. Keep your legs evenly spaced, when you push it out, don't do it too hastily or you might pull a shoulder."
She nodded and stepped closer to the bed. For the span of a few heartbeats, she didn't move. Rhaegar offered to help her with the first blow when her arms laboriously rose then rammed the blade through.
She gasped so loudly he feared she'd managed to hurt herself. It was naught but a surprising exhale. His mother again froze, kneeling by the side of the bed, her breath ragged. Then, with a surprising ease, she dislodged the sword out and sent bits of tattered sheets into the air.
It only became easier the longer she practiced. Rhaegar stepped back and simply watched as the blade fell again and again, tearing painfully and audibly through the accursed bedding like a hide torn from flesh. He listened to his mother's gasps turn into snarls of long held hate and rage, incomprehensible half-wails and curses against one who would only face justice from the gods now.
She had turned the sheets, wood and pillows into a butchered mess when her strength seemed to fail. Feathers became scattered five feet in every direction of the bed, the three headed dragon became a mangled thing of twisted features.
She faced away from him, the sword hung pointed down to the floor between her right fingers, her shoulders slumped and her breath heavy.
"Mother?" He called out to her, but there was no response. "Mother, are you-"
At the sound of his footsteps, she snarled, spun and raised the sword overhead. Rhaegar stopped and stared at the sight before him. Out of everything he'd seen and heard that night, the ending became most vividly carved into his memory like a dreadful scar.
Her braid, always immaculate, had come partway undone. Curls of silver hair pointed wildly in every direction, her tired arms trembled with the aloft sword from fright and anticipation of an attack, her eyes, glowing from the nearest torch sconce burned with a mad fire.
"Mother," He said with a quivering lip. "Mother, please."
She starred, teeth barred the blade shaking like a leaf in the wind. Rhaegar came closer, tears welled in his eyes, hope and terror fought in his heart.
"Mother, its me, its your son..." Gods, please don't let madness take her too...
"... Rhaegar?" She whispered, blinking away the mad fire in her eyes. Her face relaxed, the blade held high thunderously fell and reverberated against the tiled floor. His mother herself would have too if Rhagar hadn't caught her on the way down. "Rhaegar, I'm-"
"It's alright, it's alright." He whispered, holding her, the tears and gasps of relief flooded unabated out of him. His mother hugged back, kept whispering apologies cried alongside him anew.
They said nothing for a time, there was no need to. They simply remained in each other's arms, drawing relief and comfort until the hour of ghosts passed and the first rays of dawn tinged the sky purple. Rhaegar helped his mother back to her chambers, the experience had left her weightless and tired in his arms. However, when he saw the look of exhausted satisfaction on her face when she fast fell asleep, Rhaegar smiled and kissed her good night.
Sleep would come to him much later. A great deal of unwanted furniture had to get thrown out into the sea and he wished to do it personally.
Day 3
He couldn't say why he chose to see Rhaenys that afternoon. The last hour had passed in a daze, Rhaegar felt as though someone had ripped his soul out and his body remained to wander the world aimlessly without it. There were any number of other places he could have gone to, other people he should visit and speak with yet on the grave matter he'd learned about yet there he stood above a sleeping baby's crib.
Rhaenys' little chest went up and down with each tiny breath. Her mouth hung just slightly open, letting a trail of drool run down her face and stain the purple sheets covering her from the neck down. Silver and brown hair already graced her head.
She was a beautiful, slumbering little princess, a babe without a care or regret in the world. Rhaegar almost envied her if he didn't know how doomed Rhaenys was.
Her first words were already silenced, her first steps taken away. She would never learn the joys and pains of reading, studying and horse riding. Never become the joy or terror of the Red Keep, make friends or perhaps find love. All those wonderful and terrible possibilites would never come to pass. Only he was to blame, he had failed her and everyone else long ago.
Rhaegar might have shed tears, if the ice shard in his heart hadn't left him numb and cold. "I'm sorry little one..."
"Rhaegar?" He looked up across the room and saw Elia standing at the door, surprised and confused.
Rhaenys stirred at the sound of her voice and wailed meekly. Elia was by her side in an instant, her high necked long black gown fluttered through the air as if pushed up by a gust of wind.
"There there, don't be upset little one," Elia took Rhaenys into her arms, she smiled and offered their daughter a thumb. Rhaenys chewed at it at once, mollified.
Rhaegar watched them closely. The happy glint in their daughters eyes, the way Elia gently swayed in place, humming a tune he didn't recognize. How many more times would they enjoy this? How long until there was naught left but a cold dead wind in these halls?
"She's magnificent, isn't she?" Elia asked him, unknowingly twisting the ice chard growing in his chest. "Magnificent and healthy, I foresee many a love-struck boy in her future."
"There isn't a future for her or any of us."
The statement and it's hopeless utterance shook her anew. Her tanned, graceful face bathed in the sunlight shining behind them from the window froze as if run through. Her large dark eyes widened, her thin lips parted.
"Why would you-"
"A raven arrived from Harrenhal one hour ago," Rhaegar interjected. "Arthur, Oswell, Geralt,... they all survived the ordeal. They've broken the curse, Lord Whent has already retaken control of the castle and prepares to rebuild Harrentown."
Feeling the strength drain from his legs, Rhaegar sat down atop Elia's double bed. His breathing became more hitched, his gaze unsteady.
"A greenman came to them from the Isle of Faces. A messenger to warn them, warn us all of something terrible that's been ravaging the lands Beyond the Wall..." Rhaegar's fingers clutched at the purple, silk sheets. "The Others have returned, Elia. They're back and they mean to destroy us all."
Words long held back came pouring out of Rhaegar like a raging river. Knowledge he had only shared with his closest friends or allies, those who didn't share most people's skepticism of sorcery or visions of the future. He told her of his nightmares since childhood, of a wintery and destroyed King's Landing by blue-eyed shadows. The song of ice and fire, the prince that was promised, the dragon that must have three heads he explained with nothing held back.
"Now my worst nightmares have come to life," Rhaegar concluded with finality, staring at somewhere far away. A quiet Elia sat next to him, Rhaenys blissfully slept in her arms. "It's only a matter of time before they march on the Wall, another Long Night more terrible than the first..."
Rhaegar's face fell into his hands, he felt exposed, like a fresh, unwrapped wound. Elia said nothing, only Rhaneys' gentle breathing kept the silence at bay.
"You must think I'm mad, don't you?" Rhaegar gave a bitter, humorless laugh. Why wouldn't she? My father was mad, my mother briefly lost her sanity last night, why should I be exempt? Maybe I'm the maddest of them all...
"If you had told me this half a year ago, yes, I would think you mad," Elia replied with a surprising honesty. Her voice, however, wasn't colored by skepticism. "However, much has happened since the witcher saved me. Paths to other worlds, monsters, wraiths and curses..."
He looked at her out of the corner of his eye.
"I understand why this frightens you so, if the monsters of my deepest fears appeared before me, I would feel the same. But," She looked at him, sympathetic but determined. "All is not yet lost, Rhaegar. You are king, all the power and authority that entails are yours to use against the Others."
"My power is less than you realize," He bitterly wiped away what stung his eyes. "House Targaryen has fallen in the eyes of the great lords. My great-grandfather's reforms and failed betrothals earned their ire. My father's flights of fancy then madness have left the whole realm thinking of Tywin as king in all but name. Of course Lord Lannister isn't pleased with that, he wishes for me or Viserys to marry Cersei all while positioning himself in a grand alliance with the other great houses."
He relayed to her what Varys told him back in the black cell.
"Now I see," Elia muttered, twisting her lip. "He yearns for a Lannister Targaryen match with one child while another secures a place with the Starks, Baratheons and Tullys."
"My father's last act of stupidity ensures Tywin is owed a great compensation. He won't be placated by simply getting reinstated as Hand."
"Then you must offer him a Targaryen betrothal."
The bluntness of the statement took him by surprise. Rhaegar looked to find Elia smiling.
"Not with Viserys and Cersei, that must never come to pass. Offer him an agreement to wed his first granddaughter with our first son."
"Our son? Elia, are you-"
"No but there is time and I'm not as frail as I was before."
Rhaegar couldn't help but notice. In the immediate months since Rhaenys' birth, she became bedridden, her dark skin turned unnaturally pale and thick lines of weariness marred the space around her eyes and mouth. All of that disappeared. The young woman he'd met two years ago sat next to him.
Rhaegar became almost distracted the sight of her, not helped by the scented perfume of Dornish red roses from her hair. "It won't be enough, he'll want something immediate, a show of respect and trust between us."
"Then offer one of the Lannisters a place among the Kingsguard. Ser Harlan's place remains free and has been for months now."
A place among the Kingsguard was indeed a great honor he knew. Men of high and low birth alike could aspire and become respected members of the order. Putting a Lannister among them would show Tywin he intended to keep his word and leave someone blood bound to the future queen as protector.
"Tygett Lannister," He thought aloud. "I've met and fought against him in several tourneys. A stern man and fearsome warrior, Tygett fought on the Stepstones too. Gerold, Barristan and Lewyn have told me how he'd felled several men and a Knight of the Golden Company when he was but ten years old. They'd have knighted him several times over if not for that." He was unwed too, and in rather poor relations with his oldest brother.
"Doesn't Lord Rickard have a third son as well?" Elia's conspiratorial smile grew. "Knights among the northmen are rare, this is true, but none of them would refuse an offer for their son to squire for one of the Kingsguard."
"No," Rhaegar admitted, surprised and reluctant by where this conversation headed. "No, they certainly wouldn't."
"There is the small council too," Elia nudged closer. "Hoster Tully, Jon Arryn, any number of lords can be offered a place on it. Unless you mean to keep your father's troupe of sycophants?"
"Not bloody likely," Rhaegar growled. "I'd sooner drink wildfire than suffer any of those bastards a second longer."
Elia answered with a long but quieted laughter. Rhaegar couldn't help himself, he joined her. For a while longer, they spoke and schemed about what they could do to strengthen Targaryen and Martell ties with the rest of Westeros.
"Use this war to your advantage," Elia said when the sunset outside drew nearer. "The great lords doubt you? Make them feel foolish for thinking so. Show them that when Westeros is threatened it is only to a strong, Targaryen king they can look to for victory and prosperity. Do this and all your predecessors' failures will vanish like empty words in the wind."
Just as she finished, Rhaenys stirred again. Elia's words, humming and gentle rocking failed to calm her, the babe's crying grew louder.
"D-Do you want me to try it?" Rhaegar offered despite his trepidation.
Holding a child always put him on edge, ever since little Daeron passed mere hours after Rhaegar held him, a bizarre but strong antipathy towards it took root in his heart.
Elia must have noticed it in his face or voice. She gently, slowly put Rhaenys into his arms. She was heavier than Rhaegar thought, soft and warm to the touch and not calming down at all.
"I'm sorry," He couldn't see which of them he meant it for. "I'm... I'm not very good at this."
"Try singing to her," Elia smiled encouragingly despite the growing, piercing wails of their child. "You're no novice in that regard as I recall."
True enough. He had sung to her at their wedding, eliciting tears and cries of joy from her and many of the women present. They didn't need to encourage more crying of Rhaenys but it couldn't hurt to try.
So he did, it was a song he made but hadn't finished. It was about a dragon, a noble one who united all the lands and brought peace to them. For a while, Rhaenys seemed not to hear or dislike it. But slowly, gradually, the words reached her and soothed her frightened heart. By the end of it, the babe was giggling and smiling, her tiny arms clutching at the nearest strands of his silver hair.
"It seems you've got a new admirer." Elia's shoulder and arm brushed his own as she gently shook Rhaneys' tiny leg dangling in the air.
"Yes, it seems I do." He grinned at their giggling daughter. The weight of what was to come still lingered in his mind but somehow, it seemed less hopeless than before. I'll win this war, little one, Rhaegar silently promised the carefree child. You will have a future, I promise.