| Author's Note: Some character ages have been adjusted slightly to better fit the pacing and flow of my narrative. I'm a completely new writer,— this is my first time attempting a story like this, and I am not even english,— so I try to keep things simple as I learn the craft. Building plots and relationships is still something I'm figuring out, so certain details might change along the way.
In this case, for example, Princess Rhaenys,— who would canonically be around one year old,— will be three years old in my version of the story.
I hope that doesn't take away from your enjoyment. Thank you for understanding, and for giving this story a chance.
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| With Elia Martell, at Harrenhal, during the year of 281AC:
The morning light found its way through the high windows, cool, as it filtered through the mist that clung to Harrenhal's towers.
It fell across the chamber's long table, where half-eaten fruit sat forgotten beside a cup of watered wine, and various juices.
The air still smelled faintly of damp stone and woodsmoke,— as no amount of burning incense could quite chase away the scent of this cursed castle.
She sat by the window with a book in her hands, though she had long ceased to read it. The words blurred together when her thoughts wandered, and they wandered often these days.
Somewhere beyond the walls, the trumpets of the starting lists sounded faintly, a reminder of the tourney that had drawn the realm's great houses here,— and of the husband who had called for it all, and was never beside her.
"Where is Rhaegar, even?" Oberyn's voice cut through her drifting thoughts, as her brother leaned against the table's edge, all restless grace and desert charm that seemed so out of place amid the chill of the Riverlands.
"I would not know." Elia said, turning a page she hadn't read, as her brother's brows drew together. "What does that mean, you don't know? Surely you know where your husband is."
"That is precisely what I said, brother, I don't know." She kept her eyes on the book, as it was easier not to meet that familiar, protective fury in his gaze.
Oberyn in turn, straightened, pacing a few steps,— he had never been one to sit still, not even as a boy. "And how come? He told you nothing?"
That made Elia close the book on a finger, letting out a quiet breath. "I seldom know where my husband is, or what he's about. Such has been my life since the maester told me I was with my second child a few moons back. He spends his hours shut away in some library ever since the Maester told us I couldn't bear any more children,— or with Ser Arthur,— chasing shadows and riddles. I swear, I do not understand his aim at all..."
She could still picture him there, Rhaegar hunched over some old tome, candlelight glinting off his pale hair, speaking softly to himself of destiny and prophecy as if they were companions closer than a wife or child.
Oberyn gave her a short, humorless laugh. "What now, is he trying to be a maester?"
"He could well be one by now." Elia said, setting the book aside. "For all the hours he's poured into his old scrolls and pages."
He was watching her now, she noticed,— her hands, her posture, her voice. He always did that when he was worried. "So you've been kept at court all this time, alone?"
"That's exactly what I said." He shook his head, frustration rolling off him in waves, and she bit down her own. "I don't understand, sister. Shouldn't he be here? Shouldn't he be with you now, of all times?"
"Yes, he should." Elia said simply, and there was no venom in her voice, only quiet truth and resignation. "Then why,—..."
"Were he a good husband..." she interrupted, "He would be by my side whenever he could. But he is not that man any longer,— perhaps he once was, not now." The words stung her even as she spoke them.
She hated herself for the bitterness that crept in, but there it was,— sharp and familiar. She could still remember the gentleness of him in their early days, before his thoughts had turned wholly to dreams.
Oberyn stopped his pacing, frowning deeply at her unbothered state. "That isn't right. You are his wife, you carry his child,— his second child. He should be here, not buried in books with Arthur as his sole companion."
"Enough about this, Oberyn." Elia rose from her chair, smoothing her skirts with a practiced hand. She had learned, over the years, that grace could hide exhaustion, and her frailty. "I have no wish to speak of him further, so let us speak of something else."
Her brother stood still for once, studying her, his silence worse than his temper. "Would you have me speak with him?" And Elia gave a small shake of her head. "No. Let things be as they are, for I find more peace in his absence than in his company lately."
Oberyn tilted his head, disbelief flickering behind his eyes. "Peace, you call it? Sister you are husband and wife..."
"It is the only peace I'm like to get as a princess who is not of blood, brother." And she heard him exhale through his nose, but he said nothing more.
The fire nearby, nearing its end, crackled faintly in the hearth, its warmth not reaching her fingers, as she played with them to take her mind away from darker thoughts.
After a moment, his voice softened. "And Rhaenys? Has he been a father to her, at the very least?" Elia hesitated at that question, her gaze drifting toward the cradle by the window where her daughter had slept the night before. "Somewhat. She adores him still, whether he is present or not,— though his visits grow rarer. She also grows sad when he leaves,— and he always leaves."
Oberyn sighed, rubbing his temple. "She deserves better than that."
'So do I.' She thought sadly.
"Do not trouble yourself." Elia said, turning from the window. "She has enough company in her uncle." Now it was Oberyn's brow arched that took her interest. "Uncle? You mean Maegor? The second prince?"
"Yes. That uncle." She told him. "He spends time with Rhaenys?"
"He does." Elia said, and for the first time her lips softened into something near a smile, and he found himself suprised. "He plays with her, lets her ride his horse beside him, at times. I think she adores him."
"Only her?" Oberyn asked, though the tone was light, almost teasing, and Elia's eyes narrowed, faint color rising to her cheeks.
"What do you mean by that?"
"Nothing." Oberyn replied, too easily. "Only that I know that look of yours, sister,—..."
"I think that's enough, Oberyn."
"But,—..."
"No buts,— come." She drew her shawl around her shoulders, hiding the tremor in her hands. "Let us fetch Rhaenys. It's nearly time for us to have a meal at the feasting hall."
Oberyn's grin was small and knowing as he followed her to the door. "As you wish, but know that this conversation isn't over."
"It is for me." She told him, before they stepped out into the corridor together, the castle's chill wrapping around them once more. Somewhere below, laughter echoed from the yards and the faint sound of a harp drifted from a distant hall,— Rhaegar's music, perhaps.
Elia kept walking, head held high, her dornish beauty shinning through.
...
| With Maegor Targaryen, at Harrenhal, during the year of 281AC:
The little girl's laughter trailed behind him like birdsong as they crossed the inner yard.
Maegor did not look back, he didn't need to.
Rhaenys's delight was unmistakable,— high, bright, and unrestrained. A sound untouched by courtly decorum, the kind of sound no one else in this cursed castle dared make.
"I said I would catch you, did I not?" he told her as she ran to keep pace with his long strides, clutching the hem of her small crimson gown so she wouldn't trip.
"You cheated!" she cried, her tiny silver braid bouncing with each step. Maegor glanced down at her, one corner of his mouth twitching. "A dragon prince never cheats, he only wins, niece."
"Not fair." she declared, puffing out her cheeks in protest. "No, perhaps not." he agreed quietly, "But life rarely is."
Behind them, Ser Gerold Hightower followed at a measured pace, silent as his shadow.
The old knight's white cloak brushed the flagstones as he kept his watch, pale eyes flicking from Maegor to the handful of lords and squires crossing the yard.
The great and lesser of the realm were making for the hall,— sigils of storm and sun, stag and trout, all drifting past toward the feast before the first tilt began.
Men bowed their heads to him as they passed, some with real deference, others merely out of duty. Maegor returned none of it, he had never cared for hollow courtesies.
"Ser Gerold." he said without turning, "I trust you did not tell her maids where we were going."
"I did not, Your Grace."
"Great. They coddle her too much,— a child should climb, it should fall, bleed, and learn from it all."
"She is three, my prince." said the old knight mildly, a deadpun expression on his slightly hidden face, though Maegor simply smirked.
"A fine age to begin knowing things, ser." The garden lay just beyond the stables,— a quiet stretch of grass and hedge that few visited during the chaos of the tourney.
The sound of hammers and horses faded as they entered the green, replaced by the soft murmur of a fountain, the birds singing and the rustle of leaves.
Rhaenys ran ahead, chasing a butterfly that fluttered near the flowerbeds.
Maegor watched her with something caught between fondness and calculation. She was small, but she already carried herself with that peculiar grace all Targaryens seemed born with,— a tilt of the head, a proud spine, as if the world itself should make way for her.
It pleased him, in a way he did not often admit. "She looks like her mother." Gerold said quietly, while Maegor crouched beside the fountain, dipping a hand into the cool water. "Indeed she does, in more ways than one." He straightened, watching as Rhaenys tried to catch the butterfly again,— and failed,— and laughed as it darted away from her.
He wondered if Rhaegar had ever seen that laughter, if he even knew what it sounded like,— though he deep down knew his brother knew.
Rhaenys was after all, only three namedays old. She did not yet knew why her father spend so much time away from her, and did not hold it against him.
"Uncle, look!" she cried suddenly, pointing toward a rosebush. "It's red as dragonfire from the books!" He crossed to her side, bending low so his eyes were level with hers.
"That one?" he asked. "Mhm!" she nodded eagerly, and he plucked the rose carefully, mindful of the thorns, and held it out. "Then it's yours." She took it with a small gasp of wonder. "Mama says red means courage."
"And she's right." His voice softened, just slightly. "It also means danger, never forget that." Though she only tilted her head, puzzled by the words, and yet smiled all the same.
Behind them, Ser Gerold stood beneath an elm, arms crossed, his expression as unreadable as old stone. He had seen Maegor in battle, be it against criminals or bandits,— seen the way he moved when steel was in his hand,— quick, ruthless, and efficient.
There was a certain unease in watching that same man kneel before a child, patient and gentle as if she were a fragile thing made of glass.
Rhaenys began circling the fountain, humming to herself, the rose clutched like treasure, and Maegor watched her for a while, his face still. It was strange, how peace could be so loud,— the laughter of a child, the rustle of the wind, the distant clamor of the tiltyard.
He almost hated it for how much he wanted to keep it. "You think too much, my prince, try to enjoy the small moments more." said Ser Gerold at last, while Maegor's eyes lingered on his niece. "Right..." He glanced toward the castle's high windows, where banners stirred in the breeze.
Somewhere behind those stones, Elia Martell would be resting,— perhaps reading, perhaps wondering where her daughter had gone. She always looked tired when he saw her, though she tried to hide it with those courtly smiles.
He thought of Rhaegar then, of his 'orders', though he would be locked away again in his chambers or whispering to Arthur of prophecies and dragons and doom, most likely.
A 'fine' father, and a finer fool.
Rhaenys came running to him then, giggling, holding out her small hands. "Your turn to chase, uncle!"
Maegor sighed,— softly, indulgently,— and dropped to a crouch. "If I catch you, I'm keeping the rose."
"No!" she squealed, backing away with mock horror, and he lunged, slow enough to let her think she had escaped, and her laughter pealed across the garden once more.
And for a moment,— just a small, stolen moment,— the 'one who should've been' prince of Dragonstone, smiled.
...
Author's Note: So any thoughts? Worry not, there's action to come in the next chapter.
Now, please... give me comments! I care about comments more than powerstones right now.