A Crown of Ash and Silver
Harrenhal: 281 AC:
Rhaegar Targaryen
The muted roar of the crowd outside mingled with the distant clinking of steel, but inside the tent, it was stiflingly still. Rhaegar Targaryen stood at the entrance, his hand resting on the edge of the tent flap. His violet eyes lingered on the gaunt figure seated in the stands: King Aerys II, his father. Even at this distance, Rhaegar could see the wild glint in Aerys's eyes, the erratic flick of his hands as he motioned to courtiers who dared to get close.
This was supposed to be the beginning of something new, Rhaegar thought bitterly, but here he stood, paralyzed by doubt. He turned abruptly, his cloak snapping behind him, and faced the two men who shared in his dangerous secret.
Arthur Dayne, ever composed, stood with his arms folded, his silver cloak gleaming faintly in the dim light. Beside him, Oswell Whent looked more restless, his sharp eyes fixed on Rhaegar. It was Oswell who had made this possible, who had worked with Rhaegar's elder brother, Walter, to turn the Tourney of Harrenhal into something much more than a show of arms. A gathering of lords loyal to the idea of a brighter future; a great council, if only in spirit. A chance to plant the seeds of rebellion against Aerys.
"I shouldn't be here," Rhaegar muttered, his voice trembling slightly as he raked his hand through his silver hair. "This is madness. He'll see through it, Oswell, he'll burn us all before we can draw breath."
"Have faith, Rhaegar." Arthur reassured, "The Lords are here because you are. You are the hope they want to see."
Rhaegar shook his head. "He's here, Arthur!" He snapped, his tone desperate. "He hasn't left the Red Keep for years, yet he is here. Someone must've told him what we were planning."
Arthur Dayne watched him carefully, his calm demeanor like a stone in a storm. "We've been discreet, Rhaegar. None but those closest to us knew the true purpose of this tourney. If Aerys suspects... it wasn't because of carelessness on our part."
"It doesn't matter how discreet we were," Rhaegar snapped once more, spinning to face them both. "Someone spoke. Someone let slip what we intended. My father doesn't move unless he smells blood or treachery. And now he's here, watching, waiting. Do you not see the danger? If he even suspects what this gathering is meant for—" He cut himself off, running a hand through his hair in frustration.
Oswell stepped forward, his expression tight with worry. "I don't like it any more than you do, my prince, but we need to stay focused. If he's come, it's because he's paranoid, not all-knowing. He hasn't seen the council. He hasn't heard the pledges. For now, we're still in the shadows."
"In the shadows?!" Rhaegar's laughter was hollow and bitter. "He's already looking for me, Oswell. For us. It won't take much for him to drag us into the light, and when he does, his pyromancers will be the last thing we see."
Arthur spoke again, his tone firm but reassuring. "And what do you propose, Rhaegar? That we abandon everything? Months of planning? You've put too much into this to back away now. If we act as if nothing is amiss, he may believe it's nothing more than a tourney."
Rhaegar's pacing slowed, his breath uneven as he locked eyes with Arthur. "And if he doesn't? If this was all for nothing? If my father knows, we're already dead... our plans, our house, all of it."
The three men stood in tense silence, the distant cheers and clatter of jousting armor outside a cruel reminder of the facade they were forced to maintain. Oswell spoke at last, his voice low. "If someone betrayed us, we'll find out who. But for now, the lords are gathering, and they've come for you, Rhaegar. If you falter now, it's not just your father we'll have to fear. It's the realm itself."
Rhaegar exhaled slowly, his hands shaking at his sides. He glanced once more at the flap of the tent, where Aerys sat oblivious to their whispers but not their actions. His voice, when it came, was quieter, more resigned. "Then let us hope the lords' faith in me is not misplaced."
Soon, the muffled sounds of the tourney outside grew sharper, cutting through the oppressive quiet of the tent. Rhaegar's pacing stopped abruptly as a trumpet blared, and then the herald's booming voice rang out across the grounds.
"Prince Rhaegar Targaryen, prepare to face Ser Barristan Selmy in the final joust!"
The tent seemed smaller now, the walls pressing in as Rhaegar froze, his fists tightening at his sides. He'd known this moment was coming, had felt the weight of it long before his name was called. But hearing it spoken aloud, for everyone to hear, made his chest tighten. This was no longer just another joust. This was a stage. A performance. A test.
Arthur stepped forward, his brow furrowed as he glanced at Rhaegar. "It's time, beat the old man the same way you beat me," he said, his voice steady.
Oswell nodded, his expression grim. "You must show strength, my prince. Aerys is watching, and so is everyone else. No hesitation."
Rhaegar forced himself to breathe, his mind racing. The plan. The council. Aerys's presence. The match against Barristan wasn't just a display of skill, it was a symbol, a demonstration that the realm's future lay not with a mad king but with a prince who could lead.
Rhaegar turned, his jaw tight as he met Arthur's calm gaze. "It's not the lance I fear. It's everything after."
Arthur placed a hand on his shoulder. "You've faced greater tests than this, Rhaegar. Barristan will respect your skill. And the lords will see what you're capable of."
Rhaegar nodded, his movements stiff, before stepping forward. The cheers of the crowd outside grew louder with every step. When he emerged into the daylight, the eyes of the realm fell upon him.
And among them, Aerys's gaze burned the brightest.
Rhaegar stepped out into the sunlight, the cheer of the crowd a dull hum beneath the weight of his thoughts. His horse stood ready, a magnificent beast as black as the Void itself, its coat shimmering like polished obsidian. The warhorse shifted restlessly, the armor it bore gleaming faintly in the pale daylight.
Two figures flanked the horse, his squires, Myles Mooton and Richard Lonmouth. Myles, tall and broad-shouldered, held the reins with practiced ease, his posture exuding quiet confidence. Beside him stood Richard, his chestnut hair catching a glint of the sun, his quick grin belying a nervous energy as he hefted Rhaegar's lance with both hands.
Rhaegar's armor was a testament to craftsmanship. Forged black as midnight, its surface shimmered faintly, absorbing light rather than reflecting it. Intricate dragon scales twisted along its edges, and at the center of its chest blazed the Targaryen sigil: a three-headed dragon wrought in rubies, burning like molten fire beneath the sun's rays.
"Your horse, my prince," Myles said, his voice steady.
"And your lance," Richard added, handing it over with an air of reverence. "The crowd waits for you."
"It seems they do, Richard." Rhaegar easily smiled, "It is to be Ser Barristan?"
Richard eagerly nodded. "It is, my prince. I will not jest, I am looking forward to seeing you compete with one another."
"A story for the ages, my prince." Myles giddily added,
Rhaegar amusingly smiled as he mounted his horse, "A story for the ages, hm? Well, I'd best give the scholars something to write about then."
For a moment, he looked down at his squires, the loyal knights-to-be who shared this moment of his ascent. "Thank you," he said simply as he took his helm from Richard, his voice even. But his gaze betrayed the storm within.
Placing his helm over his head, every step of his horse felt heavy as he made his way toward the jousting lists, and the cheers of the crowd grew louder. And among them, hidden in the throng, his father watched like a shadow, waiting for a sign of betrayal. The crowd roared in anticipation, their cheers echoing off the towering walls of Harrenhal. Rhaegar guided his midnight-black steed into position, the massive warhorse moving with a silent grace that belied its strength. He held his lance steady, its polished shaft gleaming faintly in the sunlight, though his grip betrayed the tension coiled within him.
The world seemed to shrink as he raised his eyes, focusing on the far end of the lists. There, his opponent waited, already mounted and poised. Ser Barristan Selmy, the Bold. Even in his shining polished armor, Barristan looked calm, unyielding, a picture of knighthood and mastery that left no room for doubt. His helm glinted sharply in the light, casting fleeting reflections that seemed almost to challenge Rhaegar from a distance.
Myles adjusted Rhaegar's stirrup while Richard Lonmouth murmured quiet words of encouragement and advice that barely reached his ears. Rhaegar nodded distractedly, his mind racing, his thoughts split between the immediate challenge and the turmoil surrounding his greater plan.
He looked ahead once more, his fingers tightening around the lance. Barristan's horse pawed at the ground, restless, waiting for the call to charge. In this moment, Rhaegar knew that every movement, every strike, every choice he made could shape not only this match but the perception of his strength, and the future of his house.
The herald's voice rang out again, cutting through the noise. "Prince Rhaegar Targaryen! Ser Barristan Selmy! This is the final joust! At the ready!"
Rhaegar steadied his breath, his armor heavy on his shoulders, the rubies of the three-headed dragon on his chest seeming to pulse with each beat of his heart. He lowered his lance, pointing it toward the man they called the Bold, and waited for the signal.
The trumpet sounded, sharp and clear, signaling the charge. Both men urged their mounts forward, the thunder of hooves echoing like the heartbeat of a dragon. Rhaegar tightened his grip, focusing only on Barristan's silver figure growing larger with each second. The world faded around him; all he saw, all he felt, was the approaching clash of lances.
Rhaegar was unsure who had hit who first, but he felt Barristan's lance crash against his armor like a thundering bull. As he attempted to steady himself in his saddle, he could see the splinters of his own lance fill the air, marking his own strike as true. Yet, as he looked behind him, he could see the Bold unmoved, his own lance a splintered mess. It'll take the truest strike Rhaegar could muster to bring a man of his calibre down.
The thunderous applause had barely begun to fade when the herald's voice cut through the air again, calling the knights to their marks for another tilt. The crowd stirred, eager for the continuation of this legendary match, their excitement climbing to a fever pitch. Rhaegar tightened his grip on the reins as he guided his black steed back to the starting position. Myles hurried to his side with a fresh lance, its polished shaft gleaming like sunlight striking water. Beside him, Richard adjusted the straps on Rhaegar's armor, checking the placement of the rubies embedded in the three-headed dragon sigil at his chest.
"You handled the first round well, my prince," Myles said quietly, though his tone betrayed the weight of the moment. "The crowd is with you."
Richard nodded, his chestnut hair falling over his brow as he handed Rhaegar the lance. "And so is Barristan, it seems," he added with a faint grin, glancing toward the silver knight waiting at the opposite end of the lists. "He respects you, but don't let him gain the upper hand."
Rhaegar accepted the lance, his gloved fingers curling around its length as he met Richard's gaze briefly. "So it seems."
The herald stepped forward once more, raising his arm high. "Knights, prepare yourselves for the second tilt!"
Rhaegar adjusted his grip, his mind clearing of everything but the task ahead. The crowd swelled in a cacophony of cheers and murmurs, the tension palpable, electric. As the trumpet blared, signaling the start, Rhaegar spurred his black steed forward, the lance steady in his grip, aimed true. The lists seemed shorter now, the gap between them closing with the force of the charge.
Barristan surged ahead on his white stallion, his lance angled with deadly precision. Both knights bore down on each other, their armors gleaming under the sunlight. The second clash came with the force of a storm. Rhaegar's midnight-black stallion surged forward, meeting Barristan's white mount in a blur of motion and power. The sound of their lances striking shields was deafening, splintering wood flying in every direction as the two knights collided.
Rhaegar felt the impact ripple through him like a tidal wave, the force of Barristan's lance slamming into his shield with brutal precision. His arm burned from the sheer effort of holding the shield steady, and for a split second, he felt his balance waver. The world tilted as the force rocked him back in the saddle. His warhorse staggered slightly under the strain, its hooves scrabbling for purchase on the churned earth.
The crowd gasped, a collective intake of breath as the Targaryen prince teetered on the edge of being unhorsed. Rhaegar's grip on the reins tightened instinctively, his knuckles white beneath the leather of his gloves. He clenched his thighs against the saddle, every muscle in his body straining to hold his position. The weight of his armor pressed down on him, adding to the precariousness of the moment, but he gritted his teeth and leaned forward, willing himself to stay mounted.
Somehow, through sheer force of will and the steadiness of his warhorse, he regained his balance. The world righted itself as Rhaegar settled back into his seat, though his chest heaved with the effort. His shield bore the deep gouge of Barristan's lance, the Targaryen sigil now marred by splinters and cracks. Yet, he remained astride, and that alone sent a ripple of relief through the watching crowd.
At the opposite end of the lists, Barristan pulled up his stallion, his silver armor gleaming even as he lowered the splintered remains of his lance. He inclined his head slightly, acknowledging the prince's impressive recovery.
The crowd erupted into cheers, their awe palpable as they celebrated the spectacle. But Rhaegar barely heard them, his focus inward as he steadied his breathing. This was no ordinary joust, and no ordinary opponent. Barristan Selmy had almost unseated him, but Rhaegar had held on, and that alone carried its own kind of triumph.
The herald's voice rang out again. "Prepare for the next tilt!"
Lyanna Stark
Lyanna Stark stood at the edge of the viewing stands, her dark hair blowing in the breeze as she watched the lists with an intensity she couldn't quite explain. Beside her, Eddard Stark leaned forward slightly, his expression thoughtful as he studied the joust unfolding before them. Benjen, younger and livelier, couldn't contain his awe, his hands gripping the railing. She wasn't sure what she felt watching the prince; curiosity, maybe, or something deeper she didn't dare name.
"Gods, look at him," Benjen muttered, eyes wide as he stared at Rhaegar astride his midnight-black stallion. "He looks like something out of those stupid songs you keep humming, Lyanna. Silver hair, rubies on his armor, he's probably the real reason they invented tourneys."
Lyanna rolled her eyes but didn't look away from the lists. "You'd fall over yourself trying to squire for him, wouldn't you, Ben?"
"Maybe I would," Benjen shot back, grinning. "You don't see knights unhorsing Kingsguard every day, and when he knocked Arthur Dayne off his horse, too. Dayne, Lyanna! Can you believe it?"
As the trumpet blared, signaling the charge, Lyanna's grip on her hands tightened. Across the lists, the two knights surged forward like thunder, their lances angled true. The black dragon and the silver knight collided in a burst of shattered wood and clanging steel. The moment seemed to stretch infinitely, the force of the impact visible in the ripples of movement across both mounts.
And then it happened.
Barristan Selmy, the Bold, shifted in his saddle, his polished armor tilting precariously, before the unmistakable thud of his body striking the ground echoed across the field. Gasps rippled through the crowd like a tide, followed by roars of approval. Rhaegar, unyielding atop his midnight-black steed, circled the lists like a conquering hero, his presence commanding every gaze, every whisper.
Eddard drew in a sharp breath, his hand gripping the railing beside Lyanna's. "He unhorsed Barristan Selmy," he said, his voice quiet but laced with astonishment.
Benjen let out a low whistle, shaking his head as he leaned closer. "There's no one like him. Not even Arthur Dayne could have matched this."
But Lyanna didn't respond. Her gaze was locked on Rhaegar, whose black armor gleamed beneath the sunlight, the rubies in the dragon sigil at his chest burning like captured fire. Her heart raced as she watched him guide his steed toward the stands, his lance discarded as he rode with purpose.
And then the shock came.
Rhaegar passed his wife, Elia Martell, who sat gracefully in the royal stands, her belly swelling with their child and her dark eyes following him with a curious calm. Without so much as a glance at her, Rhaegar directed his horse to Lyanna's side. The crowd quieted, confusion and anticipation rippling through the gathering.
He stopped before her, and with deliberate movements, placed the crown of love and beauty on the tip of his lance, a delicate circlet of blue winter roses, and extended it toward her. The silence was deafening. All eyes fell on Lyanna as the prince of dragons offered her the honor meant for the queen of the tourney.
Eddard stiffened beside her, his eyes flickering between his sister and the prince, while Benjen muttered something under his breath, too low to be heard. Lyanna stared at Rhaegar, her expression unreadable, the weight of the moment settling heavily upon her shoulders.
The realm would not forget this.
Rhaegar Targaryen
The flap of the tent barely settled behind him before Arthur Dayne stormed into view, his silver cloak trailing behind him like an angry streak of light. Rhaegar's black armor was heavy on his shoulders, the rubies on the dragon sigil still catching faint glimmers of light, but he felt the weight of the moment more than anything else.
Arthur's voice cut through the stillness like a blade. "Have you taken leave of your senses, Rhaegar?" His usually composed demeanor was gone, replaced with a fury that Rhaegar had rarely seen. The Sword of the Morning stood tall, his hand resting on the pommel of his sword, though he made no move to draw it. "The crown of love and beauty. To her. In front of the entire realm. What were you thinking?"
Rhaegar didn't immediately respond. He moved to the center of the tent, his black cloak trailing behind him as he removed his gauntlets, his movements deliberate despite the storm brewing in the room. "I was thinking about the future," he said quietly, his voice calm but edged with resolve.
Arthur's expression darkened, his brows drawing together. "The future? Do you think anyone will see this as anything other than an insult to Elia, to Dorne, to your house? You've sown chaos today, Rhaegar. And for what? A moment of... what? Infatuation?"
Rhaegar turned to face him, his violet eyes sharp. "You think this was impulsive?" He stepped forward, closing the distance between them. "Everything I've done has been with purpose, Arthur. The tourney, the crown, it's all part of the plan."
Arthur shook his head, his voice softer now but no less intense. "What plan could justify this? The lords might whisper of rebellion, but now they'll whisper of scandal, too. Aerys's paranoia will burn hotter. Dorne will demand answers. And what of Lyanna? What have you drawn her into? Never mind Robert, the man she is betrothed to."
Rhaegar shook his head. "Forget Robert, he-"
"Forget Robert?" Arthur interrupted, "Rhaegar, he is betrothed to Lyanna. Should he wish to, he could kill-"
"Lyanna Stark is the fire I need to light the path ahead." Rhaegar interrupted, his jaw tightening. "Elia has done her part, but the future... the future demands more than alliances. It demands something stronger."
Arthur stared at him, the tension crackling between them like distant thunder. He exhaled sharply, dragging a hand through his hair. "You're playing with wildfire, Rhaegar. And if this burns, you'll take the realm down with you."
For a moment, neither spoke, the weight of Arthur's words lingering in the air. Rhaegar finally turned away, his gaze settling on the tent flap where he could still hear the distant hum of the crowd outside. "And if I don't act, the realm burns anyway. My father's madness will see to that."
"Your father's madness..." Arthur sighed, "I'm beginning to think that you are mad, Rhaegar."
"You've heard me speak of it before, Arthur," Rhaegar said, his voice quiet but carrying the weight of conviction. He stopped, turning to face the knight with a gaze that seemed to bore through him. "The prophecy. Do you remember?"
Arthur sighed, his composure slipping into something closer to frustration. "I do," he admitted. "You spoke of it often, though I always doubted how much of it was meant to be taken seriously. Rhaegar, why now? Why does this obsession resurface here, in the midst of..." He gestured vaguely, his voice trailing off. "This chaos you're creating."
Rhaegar ignored the tone, stepping closer as his voice grew more intense. "The dragon must have three heads, Arthur. That is what it says. Three heads. My children, Rhaenys and the child Elia bear, are two. But there must be one more. Without it, the balance is lost, and the realm burns, prophecy or not."
Arthur's expression hardened, his jaw tightening. "You mean to tell me this is why you gave her the crown?" He took a step forward, his usually calm demeanor now edged with disbelief. "You're chasing fragments of words, Rhaegar. Is this the future you spoke of? Alienating Dorne, enraging your father, and dragging Lyanna Stark into the fire because of some ancient verse?"
Rhaegar's hands balled into fists at his sides, his face taut with emotion. "It's not just fragments," he said, his voice rising. "You've seen what's happening, Arthur. The realm is falling apart. My father is a madman, and if I do nothing, he takes us all into the abyss with him. This prophecy... It's not a choice. It's a calling. A duty."
Arthur shook his head slowly, his lips pressing into a thin line. For all his admiration of Rhaegar, all the loyalty that bound him to the prince, he couldn't hide the doubt in his eyes. "Rhaegar," he said softly, almost pleading. "You're a brilliant man. A noble prince. But this... this sounds like madness. One more head to the dragon will not save the realm. Wise choices and strong alliances will."
Rhaegar's shoulders sagged slightly, but the fire in his gaze did not fade. "You'll see," he murmured, almost to himself. "One day, you'll see. This is more than prophecy, it is truth. And the price of ignoring it will be far worse than the price of believing."
Arthur said nothing more. His grip on his sword loosened, and he exhaled slowly, the weight of the prince's words settling in the space between them like an uninvited guest. He shook his head once, looking at Rhaegar not with anger but with a faint sadness, as if mourning the certainty he feared his friend was losing.
Arthur Dayne
Arthur Dayne pushed past the tent flap with a sharp exhale, his mind a storm of thoughts as he stepped into the chaos of the tourney grounds. The roar of the crowd had diminished to a muted hum, replaced by uneasy murmurs and scattered whispers. Gone was the jubilant energy that had filled the air earlier; in its place was a tension that clung to every face like a shroud.
As Arthur moved through the throng, he scanned the faces around him. The lords and ladies who had so eagerly celebrated the jousts now appeared unsettled, their laughter replaced by hushed speculation. A noblewoman gripped her husband's arm tightly, her eyes darting toward the royal stands. A group of knights spoke in low voices, their gazes shifting toward Rhaegar's tent as if trying to decipher the prince's intentions.
The Starks were easy to spot among the crowd, their northern presence stark against the vibrant hues of southern banners. Lyanna Stark stood slightly apart from her brothers, her face pale but unreadable as her dark hair blew in the wind. Eddard's normally composed expression was lined with tension, his jaw set as he murmured something to Benjen. The younger Stark, wide-eyed and restless, gestured animatedly, his distress clear even from a distance.
Arthur's eyes moved further, to the royal stands. There sat King Aerys, his wiry form barely contained within his elaborate robes. The Mad King leaned forward in his seat, his wild eyes darting frantically as he spoke in sharp, staccato bursts to Owen Merryweather, his current Hand of the King. Merryweather, ever the dutiful servant, nodded stiffly, though his face betrayed the discomfort of a man desperately trying to placate a tempest. Aerys's fingers twitched, curling and uncurling against the armrests of his chair, and his mouth moved with erratic fervor, his words too far for Arthur to hear but unmistakably tinged with paranoia.
Arthur let out a heavy sigh, his heart sinking. He knew the implications of what Rhaegar had done, the ripple effects spreading like wildfire through the lords, the common folk, and most critically, the royal court. If Aerys suspected treason, it could doom them all before any true rebellion could take shape.
He moved with purpose now, weaving through the unsettled crowd until he spotted Ser Barristan Selmy, who was standing beside his white stallion near the edge of the jousting lists. Even in the aftermath of his defeat, Barristan stood tall, his silver armor still shining despite the dirt that clung to it. His expression was thoughtful, though his furrowed brow revealed his own unease.
"Ser Barristan," Arthur called, his voice cutting through the din. The older knight turned, his piercing gaze locking onto Arthur as he approached.
"You saw what happened," Arthur said quietly, his tone measured but laced with concern. "The crown. The crowd. Aerys..." He glanced toward the royal stands, then back to Barristan. "This is going to spiral. I need your thoughts."
Barristan exhaled slowly, his hands resting on the reins of his mount. "I did see," he said after a pause, his voice calm but grave. "And you're right to be concerned. Rhaegar has drawn the eyes of everyone here. This was no ordinary gesture. Whatever his intentions, it will be interpreted a hundred ways by a hundred lords. And the king..." Barristan glanced toward Aerys, his expression darkening. "He will not stay silent."
"I fear Rhaegar has taken leave of his senses, Barristan," Arthur eventually said, the words spilling out before he could stop them.
"I understand your concern. But Rhaegar has not lost his mind, Arthur. His actions today... they are not the folly of a prince unmoored. They are calculated."
Arthur shook his head, his hand tightening briefly around the pommel of Dawn as he glanced back toward Rhaegar's tent. "Calculated? To what end? He's alienated Dorne. He's enraged Aerys. And for what? A prophecy he barely understands?"
Barristan's expression softened, though his tone carried no less conviction. "Rhaegar sees something we may not," he said carefully. "A path forward. A way to mend the fractures in the realm. He may tread dangerously close to the edge, but he does not act without purpose. That much I know."
Arthur's shoulders sagged slightly, his frustration warring with the loyalty he felt for the prince. "I hope you're right, Barristan," he said quietly.
Barristan inclined his head, his calm gaze meeting Arthur's. "We both swore oaths, Arthur. Oaths to serve and protect. Until the end, whatever that end may be."
Arthur nodded slowly, feeling the weight of his world crumble around his shoulders. he gravity of the moment hung heavy between the two knights, both bound by duty to a prince whose vision they could only begin to understand.
Rhaegar Targaryen
Rhaegar walked with measured steps, his black armor glinting faintly as the last rays of the sun touched the rubies embedded in the three-headed dragon at his chest. Oswell Whent and Lewyn Martell trailed behind him, their white Kingsguard cloaks brushing against the dirt, but the tension in their silence spoke volumes. Lewyn's frustration lingered in the air like a storm ready to break, though the Dornish knight said nothing more, for now.
The crowd, however, was far less reserved. As Rhaegar passed, the murmur of voices swirled around him, a wave of mixed emotions following his every move. He could hear fragments of whispered conversations, snatches of astonishment and concern mingling with excitement and disbelief.
"Did you see what he did?" one voice said, the words barely audible above the din.
"He unhorsed Barristan Selmy, can you believe it?" another murmured, a note of awe in their tone.
"And that crown... to Lyanna Stark of all people. What does it mean? What's he planning?"
Rhaegar kept his gaze fixed ahead, though his ears caught every word. The ripple of murmurs grew louder as he advanced, spreading through the gathering like wildfire. Some faces turned toward him openly, their expressions ranging from admiration to unease. Others avoided his gaze, speaking in hushed tones as though afraid the prince might hear their speculations.
"Do you realize what you've done?" Lewyn said at last, his voice low but cutting as they walked. "Elia is my kin, my blood. To insult her like this, publicly, no less, is to insult all of Dorne."
Rhaegar paused, glancing over his shoulder, his violet eyes meeting Lewyn's fiery gaze. For a moment, the air between them seemed to still. "It was not an insult," Rhaegar said, his voice calm but firm. "It was necessary."
"Necessary?" Lewyn repeated, his tone incredulous. He stopped walking, forcing the others to halt as well. "You think giving the crown of love and beauty to Lyanna Stark, of all houses, was necessary? You've stirred a hornet's nest, Rhaegar. Aerys is seething, and Dorne, my kin, will not let this slight pass."
Oswell, who had remained silent until now, shifted slightly, his voice even but laced with caution. "Your Highness, Ser Lewyn is not wrong. Whatever your intentions, the repercussions of this... gesture may ripple further than you anticipated."
Rhaegar turned fully to face them both, his jaw tightening. He looked between the two knights, one brimming with barely restrained fury, the other cool and calculating. "You think I don't know the risks?" he said quietly, his tone carrying the weight of his conviction. "You think I don't understand what this will spark? But sometimes, to forge the future, you must first endure the fire."
Lewyn's hands curled into fists at his sides, his expression darkening. "You speak of fire, but it's not you who will feel the flames first. It will be Elia. It will be Dorne."
Rhaegar's gaze softened slightly, though his resolve did not waver. "Elia understands more than you think. She is stronger than you give her credit for, Lewyn. And as for Dorne... I will make amends when the time comes."
With that, Rhaegar turned and continued walking, leaving the tension between them unresolved. Lewyn exhaled sharply, his frustration barely contained as he exchanged a glance with Oswell, who offered no reassurances, only a slight nod to keep moving. As he approached the edge of the lists, Rhaegar caught sight of Arthur and Barristan. The Sword of the Morning stood tall, his silver cloak billowing in the faint breeze, his hand nervously intertwined. Beside him, Barristan leaned against his white stallion, his armor still gleaming despite the dust of the field, his expression thoughtful yet wary.
Rhaegar came to a stop before them, his violet eyes flickering between the two knights, both legends in their own right. He admired them for their strength, their loyalty, and their unwavering dedication to the realm. But he also knew that loyalty could be strained, and today had tested them both.
"We leave for King's Landing at first light," Rhaegar said, his tone clipped but resolute. There was no time for pleasantries, no time to explain the chaos that churned within him.
Arthur's eyes narrowed, his jaw tightening as he stepped forward. "You mean to abandon the council?" he asked, his voice low but edged with frustration. "After everything... after all the planning, all the lords gathered here? If we leave now, we may not get another chance."
Rhaegar met his gaze without faltering, his own frustration bubbling beneath the surface. "It's impossible now," he replied quietly. "Aerys's presence changes everything. He wasn't meant to be here. With his paranoia, any attempt at a council will be seen as treason. If we try now, he'll burn us all."
Arthur's grip on Dawn tightened, his frustration clear. "So we abandon the one chance we had to unite the realm? To gather strength against him?"
Rhaegar's voice sharpened, cutting through the air. "No. We postpone. The lords have seen the cracks in my father's reign. They've seen the unrest. The seeds have been planted. But if we force this now, we will lose everything."
Barristan spoke then, his tone calm but grave. "He's right," the older knight said, his gaze steady. "As much as it pains me to admit it, the risk is too great with Aerys here. He's already watching for shadows where there are none. If we move now, he'll see the treachery he's convinced himself exists."
Rhaegar exhaled deeply, his violet eyes scanning the two knights before him. "We return to King's Landing," he said, his voice quieter but no less resolute. "We regroup. We plan again. This isn't the end, Arthur. When the moment is right, we'll act."
Arthur stared at him for a long moment, his frustration warring with his loyalty. At last, he nodded reluctantly. "Very well," he muttered, though his tone carried a faint edge. "But that moment better come soon."
Rhaegar offered the faintest of smiles, though it was heavy with weariness. "It will, Arthur. When it does, we'll be ready."
Without another word, Rhaegar turned and walked away, his thoughts a storm he could barely contain. The realm was at a tipping point, and today, he had planted the seeds of rebellion. But seeds alone were not enough. The fire would come, and Rhaegar would be at its heart.
A/N: I've had this idea in my head for a while. I love Rhaegar as a character, and I really wanted to explore the events leading up to the rebellion, as there's a lot of mystery and such, and a lot of it is unclear, such as Rhaegar's intentions. I find it hard to believe that Rhaegar just did a lot of what he did because he was down bad, but there are a lot of theories out there, and I think they'll make a good story. Let me know what you think, many thanks for reading, and I'll still be doing Aemon the Dragonwolf alongside this in weekly updates. I adore you all x
