Chapter Text
Part I: Prophecy
King's Landing, the 4th moon of the year 272 AC
He flicked the quill between his fingers, ink splashing all over his desk, parchment, and tunic. Father wouldn't like it, not any more than his constantly stained hands, but Rhaegar knew that the king's attentions were directed elsewhere for now. He wouldn't pay him too much mind until he entered the lists.
And that gave him some time to focus on what truly mattered. He glanced over his notes once more, running his hand through his hair and cursing when he realised that he now had ink on his head as well.
There were a few things he knew, from everything he'd read. First, there would be a prince that was promised, who'd be born amidst salt and smoke beneath a bleeding star. Second, this prince would deliver the world from darkness; bring the dawn. Third, this prince might be connected to the return of dragons, and the dragon must have three heads.
So far, so terribly unclear. Uncle Aemon believed that he was the prince, with the tragedy at Summerhall certainly qualifying as bringing both salt and smoke, but Rhaegar was still missing the bleeding star – though he had long decided to prepare in case it should be him after all, learning to fight just in case. It held the added benefit of pleasing Father, to a certain extent.
Even more confusing was the darkness. Was it just winter? A “long night”, so perhaps literal darkness; some kind of vanishing or weakening of the sun? That would surely be bad for crops, leading to mass starvation. He wasn't entirely sure as to how any prince would be able to do anything about that, however, so maybe this wasn't it.
And then there were the dragons – Uncle Aemon was quite certain that they were connected, and Rhaegar was inclined to agree. Not only because he'd love to have dragons back in the world, but also because it held a certain amount of sense if you looked at a few of the eastern versions of the prophecy – the Asshai'i believed in the rebirth of a so-called Azor Ahai, who wielded a sword named Lightbringer and would wake dragons out of stone. Near every version of the myth connected the prince to light and fire. Dragons were fire made flesh. If dragons were involved, then the prince had to be a Targaryen, and their sigil did show a three-headed dragon, just as there had been three conquerors.
Despite the king's best efforts, however, there were precious few Targaryens in the world at this time, most of their family having perished the night of Rhaegar's birth. He somehow doubted that his parents counted as the other two heads, though he did have an infant brother – little Aegon, who'd been born prematurely and who likely wouldn't survive the year.
Rhaegar groaned, forcefully setting down his quill in another splash of ink. He'd scrawled one word onto his parchment, beneath the notes compiling the few things he knew: Sorcery.
The thought wasn't new. He'd asked Grand Maester Pycelle about what his order called the higher mysteries, only to be told that magic had gone out of this world a long time ago; that it was nothing more than a fanciful pursuit for those searching for deeper meaning outside the bounds of rationality. That men would do better to satisfy that craving by looking towards the gods, as at least there was no harm in that.
Yet, Rhaegar was fairly certain that magic had to be real, otherwise no one would speak of the dark arts and sorcery in such hushed, frightful tones. But if he couldn't find any answers to the higher mysteries (even the name was enticing) for now, then he could at least try the Seven.
“I need to go to the Great Sept”, Rhaegar told Arthur outside his his chambers, then added for the benefit of any servants passing by: “To pray for the health of my brother and good fortune in the joust.”
“You do know that there is a sept right here, Your Grace”, Arthur replied. “Then you might not have to wash off all the ink.”
Rhaegar sighed, remembering that his hair had to have a black smudge in it. A wash and a change of clothes later, however, he was ready to ride down into the city.
They took a servants' exit as he didn't intend to be held up by the countless lords and ladies streaming into the Red Keep. On the morrow, a tourney would be held in celebration of the ten-year anniversary of Father's rule, and the nobles had been arriving for days. Rhaegar and Arthur rode through side streets in order to avoid them – not because they had any intention of not being recognised; there was no need for that. But the endless procession of lords and knights would have required them to stop to greet every single one of them.
Instead, Rhaegar and Arthur waved at the many smallfolk stopping in their tracks to greet them, tossing silver stags here and there. When a young boy asked if he'd sing him a song today, Rhaegar told him to come to the tourney tomorrow, where he'd be singing in celebration of Ser Arthur's victory – there was no doubt in his mind that he wasn't going to win even the squires' joust; not yet. He still had much to learn.
Finally, they reached the Great Sept of Baelor with its shining dome and crystal towers. Rhaegar dismounted and left Arthur outside, strode through the many-coloured Hall of Lamps and used the Smith's Steps to enter the serene quiet of the sept.
The space before the Warrior's statue was crowded, with many a squire and hedge knight praying for the coming day – all fighters of insufficient rank to be accommodated in the Red Keep. Remembering his earlier words about praying for young Aegon, Rhaegar spent a few moments in front of the Mother, asking that She may keep his little brother safe, against all odds (this hadn't worked for his last three siblings, but one could hope). Then, he moved on to his actual destination: the Crone.
The statue almost did Her justice, he thought; a wizened old lady with a lantern in hand. I beg you, sage lady, Rhaegar prayed, the only one on his knees before Her likeness. Show me Your wisdom, for I am lost. There is a great truth I must uncover, and I am young, and lack all knowledge to do so. Please, my lady Crone, grant me the guidance I need.
He remained there for another moment, watching the flickering light in the Crone's lantern. The candle was about to burn out. Rhaegar stood, looking through the sept – its seven walls and seven altars, seven sets of seven steps, seven colours in its glass dome. Here, everything was in sevens, and in prophecy, it was all in threes. There had to be some significance in that.
When he turned back to the Crone, he briefly thought She had appeared before him. An old woman was standing at the statue, a burning candle in her hand. Only then did he realise that she was wearing cloth-of-silver and a crystal tiara; signs of a member of the Most Devout. She was replacing the candle in the Crone's lantern, the light catching in her headdress and throwing colourful shadows all around.
This was a sign if he'd ever seen one. “Septa”, he said as she closed the lantern and turned towards him. “What is your name?”
She bowed. “Norella, Your Grace. How may I serve?”
“I have a few questions on matters of faith.” He sat on the steps and pointed to the spot next to him. When she slowly sat down, he thought that it might not be the best thing to do for her old bones, but by then it was too late. “I've read that everything in this sept, and in every other, is done in sevens. Every measurement. Does this give the building a special strength?”
“Well, Your Grace, it is the sacred number, for the Seven Who Are One, and thus the multiples of seven create one sept. I do not know much of architecture, but divine will was surely at play when this was built.”
That wasn't anything he hadn't known before. “But is there an inherent power in numbers?”, he asked. “Beyond seven and one? Is that what determines the order of the faces of God? We always begin with the Father and end with the Stranger.”
The septa looked through the building, seeming thoughtful. A pregnant woman was praying at the feet of the Mother, a crying man sat before the Smith, and the number of tourney hopefuls before the Warrior had only grown. Then she raised her eyes up to the stained glass dome above. “Blue and red, white and yellow – or silver and gold, if you will”, she said. “Green, purple, and black. Have you ever wondered why we use these colours, Your Grace? The spectrum of our crystals provides far more, and white and black are not among them.”
“Do they correspond to the Seven?”, he asked, feeling like she was getting at something.
Septa Norella nodded, looking satisfied. “Some septons of old believed that everything corresponded to the Seven: numbers and colours, metals and gems and plants, and the more obvious traits and virtues. Animals too, and near everything else you could think of. Some even went as far as to suggest that these correspondences could be used in order to become closer to the seven aspects.”
Rhaegar was intrigued. Perhaps this could help him make sense of things. “Are there any writings on this?” The idea of a whole new set of books and scrolls was enticing.
“Of course”, she said, then hesitated. “However, they are some of the greatest treasures of the Faith, and restricted to the Most Devout. If Your Grace would like to study them, perhaps His High Holiness could be persuaded to grant permission to read them under supervision -”
He raised his eyebrows. “I am the heir to the Iron Throne, good septa. I do not require the High Septon's permission to do anything, nor will I submit to being supervised.” He needed the environment of his own rooms to study, not some side-chamber while a septon looked over his shoulder. “Of course, everything will be treated with the outmost care and returned to the Faith in good time”, he added to soften his words.
Norella had no choice but to bow her head in deference. When Rhaegar emerged from the Great Sept an hour later, he held two large leather bags full of books and scrolls.
Regretfully, he had no immediate time to read any of them. There were lords and ladies to greet, there was a feast to attend, and the next day, a tourney to fight in.
Rhaegar did manage to unhorse two fellow squires, which was better than he'd expected. In his third joust, however, he had to go up against Oberyn Martell. At fifteen, the Dornish prince was only one year his senior, but already had a fearsome reputation. Rhaegar's lance split on his shield, while Oberyn's struck right at his breastplate, sending him tumbling to the ground.
“Better than me”, Jon Connington commented when he returned, inspecting his helmet. The dragon ornaments had taken a few dents in his fall, but beyond that, he felt fine.
His friend had fallen in his second joust. “You aimed your lance too high, Lord Jon”, Ser Gerold said. As the Lord Commander's squires, it fell to the two of them to dress him in his armour. The more important joust; the one for the knights, was due to begin soon. “You did well, Your Grace”, he continued, “although you should've paid more mind to Prince Oberyn's posture. The way a man positions himself on his horse can tell you much about where he intends to place his lance.”
Nodding, Rhaegar decided to keep this in mind, then fastened the white cloak of the Kingsguard on Ser Gerold's shoulders. In the background, they could see Oberyn raising his arm in victory as he emerged the champion of the squires' part of the tournament.
The knights began to assemble, proud banners flying all over the tourney grounds. On the dais sat Father, watching the proceedings with little interest, and Mother next to him, this being a rare occasion where was allowed to leave Maegor's Holdfast. Lord Tywin was there, too, having organised the tournament in the king's honour, and his wife had come down from Casterly Rock, bringing her young twins.
Rhaegar had never been so thankful to be busy with his duties as a squire; otherwise, he would've had to sit with them. “Lady Joanna really is beautiful”, Jon said, having followed his gaze. “I wouldn't blame His Grace if the rumours were true.”
Rhaegar shot him a warning look and could see Ser Gerold do the same. Only after they'd helped the Lord Commander on his horse to parade around the lists did he say, very quietly: “You should blame him, Jon, though not openly. We know that some of it is true. His behaviour has dishonoured both the Lannisters and my lady mother.”
Chastised, Jon raised his hands. “You know I didn't mean it.” They watched the knights ride around collecting favours from ladies; names and titles read out to great applause.
Rhaegar spared another look towards the dais, where all in attendance did poor work of hiding the icy atmosphere. Lady Joanna had been Mother's lady-in-waiting before she'd married the Lord Hand. At the very least, Father had behaved very inappropriately during the bedding, enraging Lord Tywin and angering the queen, who'd sent the new Lady Lannister away from court in retribution. If some of the more vicious rumours were true, then she'd been Father's paramour before he'd become king, though Rhaegar somehow doubted that – not because he'd put it beneath Aerys, but because it seemed out of character for Lady Joanna.
“Your Grace”, he heard, ripping him out of his thoughts. Oberyn Martell stood next to him, long black hair full of sweat and a lightly bleeding scratch on his forehead, but still cutting as impressive a figure as anyone his age could be. He was taller than him and had a shortly trimmed beard where Rhaegar could only grow sparse stubble, and was watching him with black, calculating eyes.
“My lord”, he replied. “You rode well. I reckon you could take on some of these knights, too, if they let you.”
Oberyn smiled, maybe sincerely. “Thank you, Your Grace. I've just come to assure myself that I'm not in trouble for striking a prince of the realm.”
A thin pretext for approaching him, Rhaegar thought. “Not to worry, my lord. The better man won.” He quickly introduced Oberyn and Jon, right before trumpets heralded the beginning of the joust.
“Five dragons on Ser Arthur”, Oberyn said.
Rhaegar was aghast. “I can't bet against my Kingsguard and friend.”
Oberyn shrugged. “And I won't bet against a fellow Dornishman. It appears we have no wager, then.”
“You do”, Jon cut in. “Dayne doesn't nearly have Lord Steffon's experience. I will spend those dragons on Dornish wine.”
Rhaegar had to exchange a look with Oberyn, both very unconvinced that the Lord of Storm's End would stand a chance against the Sword of the Morning. The first tilt proved inconclusive, but at the second, Lord Steffon was knocked to the ground.
Jon cursed. “You had the right idea of it, my lord”, Oberyn said. “I shall spend it on Dornish wine, too.”
“You'd do better to buy some Arbour”, Jon said. “You might learn what real wine is.”
Oberyn smirked as Rhaegar fought the urge to roll his eyes. Jon could be so needlessly antagonistic whenever anyone else threatened to capture his attention.
And so, it went on. Oberyn seemed to have decided to follow the joust with them, which meant that he and Jon kept making bets and trading barbs whenever their knights did not require their attention.
When the first day of the tourney ended, six knights were left for tomorrow's joust, the maesters had three relatively serious injuries to tend to, and Jon found himself twenty-five dragons in debt. Rhaegar wasn't looking forward to hearing all about Prince Oberyn's worst qualities on the way back to the Red Keep.
At the feast, Father was drunk. “You disgraced our House today, boy”, he told Rhaegar, slurring and spilling wine all over his plate. “Falling to that Dornish brat. You should've bested all of them.”
Rhaegar looked towards Mother, who sat there tight-lipped, gingerly picking at her mutton and clearly unwilling to get involved. “I will do better next time, Father”, he had to say.
But the king had already turned his attention elsewhere, which was arguably worse. “Tywin!”, he shouted, even though the man was only two seats away from him. “My Lord Hand. Where are your children?”
“In bed, Your Grace. They are too young for such a late hour.” Lord Lannister was seemingly at ease – but Rhaegar had been observing the man for many years and was sure he could detect a certain tension in his shoulders. Lady Joanna's anxiety at them being spoken to was even more palpable.
“And my lady”, Father continued then. Her knuckles turned white around her cup. “What good fortune that your marriage has been so fruitful, resulting in two children at once.” This wasn't bad, so far. She made to reply, but the king had other ideas. “I still remember your wedding day so well”, he mused. Rhaegar wondered if there was anything he could do to make him stop here - perhaps he should fall off his chair. “And the bedding”, Father added.
Mother kept eating mechanically, biting into one turnip after another and trying her best to pretend that this wasn't happening. The Lannisters had both turned white, knowing just as well as Rhaegar that much worse would follow soon.
“Yes”, Aerys said, staring wistfully into the distance, “I remember every second of it. And yet, it makes me sad. Tell me, have your twins ruined those lovely teats of yours?”
Mother's knife dropped onto her plate, which the king acknowledged with a short, cruel smile. Rhaegar was overcome with an urge to hit his head against the table while Lord Tywin abruptly stood, taking his lady's hand to pull her to her feet. “It's getting late, Your Grace”, he said in a tone that did little to hide his anger. “It's time for us to retire.”
Father laughed when they stalked off, Lady Joanna doing her best to leave with her dignity intact. “Ah, Tywin Lannister”, he said to Rhaegar. “A proud man who thinks himself better than his king. Remember that, son: you need to keep the sheep humble, or they'll begin to believe themselves above dragons.”
He could only nod silently, looking down at his food with a sick feeling in his stomach. And not for the first time, he vowed to himself to be a much better king than Father, when the time came.
About one torturous hour later, the king mercifully decided to retire, leaving Rhaegar free to roam the Great Hall. But instead of speaking to Arthur or Jon, he found himself in Prince Oberyn's company, not entirely sure how exactly that had happened.
“I heard His Grace has gravely offended Lord Tywin once more”, he remarked, filling Rhaegar's cup with wine – an obvious way to try to get information out of him.
“Two proud men are bound to have their disagreements”, he replied. “Though I've been told that my father isn't the only one who can get a rise out of Lord Lannister.”
Oberyn grinned, balancing his chair on its hind legs with his feet on the table. “You don't mean to suggest that there could be some sort of rivalry between the Lord Hand and my lady mother?”
“Half of Westeros tends to suggest that.” Princess Mynara Martell was a formidable woman – the ruler of Dorne, friend to both Mother and Lady Lannister, and by all accounts Lord Tywin's worst nightmare.
“I don't know what would give them that idea”, Oberyn said, quite clearly lying. “There's no enmity between Dorne and the Westerlands. Why else would my family and I be planning a journey to Castlery Rock next year?”
“You are?” A matter of betrothals, Rhaegar was sure. Lord Tywin had a son and a daughter; Princess Mynara two boys and a girl, though he'd heard that Prince Doran was about to wed a noblewoman from Norvos.
“A great tour all along the western shores”, Oberyn explained. “Exempting the North, of course. Our Dornish blood wouldn't do well up there.”
“I wish you a safe journey, then”, Rhaegar replied, “and good fortune in finding a bride.”
The other prince nodded in acknowledgement. “I'm quite looking forward to it, though I'd prefer to see Essos, like my brother. He keeps sending me letters describing the greatest wonders - and I don't only mean his betrothed.”
Rhaegar could empathise with that. “Which of the Free Cities would you like to see most, my lord? I for one am still waiting for the day my royal father sends me to treat with the Iron Bank so I might finally see Braavos.” In a few years' time, perhaps.
“They say Braavos is a fair city, and I would be happy to try myself against her water dancers”, Oberyn replied. “But what would really intrigue me is to visit Qohor. The gateway to the east, full of traders from all over the known world. Dothraki at the gates, goods from places as far as Yi Ti on the market square.”
“Qohor is ruled by sorcery and a dark god”, Rhaegar remarked. “Its people practice blood magic.”
Oberyn grinned once more. “You say that as if it's a bad thing, Your Grace. Wouldn't you like to know which secrets lie beyond our worldly plane?”
He had to take a deep sip to contemplate his answer. Of course he wanted to know; this was what had been plaguing him for weeks.
Could Oberyn be able to help? “Secrets always hold a certain appeal”, he said. “I shall agree with you, then. Qohor. Do write to me if you are ever able to go; I'm afraid my duties won't allow for it.”
“That would be a shame, Your Grace”, Oberyn said. “I've heard you described as well-read and studious. Your intellect would be of great help.”
“All the more reason to keep me informed”, he replied. “Mayhaps I'd be able to help you from afar.”
“Your Grace!”, a woman called out. Rhaegar looked up to see that it was Alerie Hightower, who'd come to King's Landing to see her great-uncle at the tourney. “Will you sing for us tonight?”
Shouts of agreement went through the Great Hall. Most of the older lords and ladies had gone to bed, he realised, leaving the feast to the most noble of Westeros' squires, maids, and young knights.
“Best be warned, my lady”, Ser Arthur told her. “His Grace's singing will make you cry.”
Rhaegar pretended to be reluctant for another moment before sending someone to fetch his harp. As Arthur had promised, many tears were shed (even though his own opinion of his singing as it stood now was not the highest, considering that his voice was breaking). Jenny's Song always held a certain danger of getting him choked up, too, bringing back memories of Lady Jenny, sad and kind as he remembered her from when he'd been a little boy – and of his journeys to Summerhall and the tragedy that had accompanied his birth.
The Seasons of My Love raised the mood a little bit, then Rhaegar left it to the bards. The feast went on for many hours after, full of wine and song and dance. Many a maid wanted to dance with the crown prince, of course, and he had to oblige. Out of breath, he then sat to hear Oberyn tell ribald Dornish stories, some of them so crass that even Jon couldn't keep himself from laughing along. Only when almost everyone had retired, the last flagon of wine had been emptied, and Arhur's constant reminders that Ser Gerold would expect him to be alive the next day had got through to him did Rhaegar decide to go to bed – with a spinning head, a worrying sensation of nausea, and the feeling that he'd made a new friend.