...
| With Cersei Lannister, at Harrenhal, during the year of 281AC:
The Great Hall of Harrenhal was vast enough to swallow a smaller castle whole.
Torches burned along its towering pillars, their flames bending with every draft. The smoke climbed slow and grey toward a ceiling lost in shadow, where the banners of dragons hung unmoving in the heavy air.
The scent of roasted boar and spiced wine mingled with perfumes of a hundred ladies — cloying, mixed with sweet, and suffocating.
The sound of the feast rolled like a restless tide,— with laughter, the clatter of trenchers, the low murmur of courtiers trading rumors with their mouths still full of meat.
Servants wove between the benches in swift, practiced lines, pouring wine, bearing bread, ducking low when the highborn waved them off.
She sat beside her twin near the high table, her gown a pale gold that caught the torchlight in soft ripples. Her hair shone brighter still, spun sunlight spilling over her shoulders. Even here, amid a hundred noble ladies, she knew she was the fairest thing in the hall,— and the knowing pleased her.
She plucked a grape from her plate and rolled it between her fingers before asking, lightly, "Do you think we'll see Prince Rhaegar again today?"
Jaime leaned back in his seat, wine in hand, his clothing gleaming beneath his cloak, freshly made for the tourney only. "You'll see him, that's a given." he said, half smiling. "If not here, then on the lists later."
"Will you crown me Queen of Love and Beauty then?" she teased, her eyes green and bright as new spring leaves.
And he laughed under his breath. "I would, sister. But that might prove… difficult."
"Oh?" She tilted her head, her hair brushing her bare shoulder. "And why is that? Are you afraid to face Ser Arthur Dayne? Or is it Ser Barristan?"
"Afraid? Perhaps." He smirked, that familiar prideful grin that always mirrored her own.
"But not quite. I was thinking more of another,— of Prince Maegor." Her brows lifted, the interest plain though she tried to hide it. "The second prince? Is it him you fear to face? Not the likes of the Sword Of The Morning?"
Jaime leaned closer, his voice lowering to a whisper meant only for her. "Have you ever seen the prince fight?"
"I have not."
"Well, I have." he said. "And let me tell you,— he's as fine a knight as any living man. Hard in his blows, quick in his feet, and will unrelenting. They call him the second coming of Maegor the Cruel,— though not for madness or bloodlust, but for his presence, for how he fights."
Cersei's smile thinned, her mind turning. "I never saw much of him at court until now."
"That's because he's seldom there. He rides the realm instead,— hunts outlaws, duels hedge knights, cuts down thieves. I hesrd he says he prefers the smell of steel to incense and politics."
"Sounds like quite the warrior." she said softly, eyes half-lidded, and her brother nodded. "He is."
"So you'll soon serve such a prince." Jaime frowned at that, glancing about. "Keep your voice down."
"Why?" she asked, her tone sweet as summerwine. "We both know the king means to name you to his Kingsguard. It was my plan, after all."
He shifted in his seat. "Because no one else knows yet. Not the court, not,—..."
"Save your breath." she said, cutting him off with a quiet laugh. "Whether people know or not, it doesn't really matter. Then again, didn't you want this outcome?"
"Of course. He meant for me to wed Lysa Tully..."
Her gaze flicked over him, lingering a heartbeat too long. His face,— her own face, shaped in a man's form,— was beautiful, proud, and strong.
"To that Tully girl, yes." she said softly. "And you think I would let that happen? No. If Father wants me to stay at court with him, in hopes of finding a royal marriage for me, then so will you,— by my side." Her tone was velvet, but the command beneath it was iron.
Jaime's mouth tightened, and she saw the conflict there,— the knight's pride, the brother's devotion, the boy's longing to be free.
And yet, he said nothing, because she knew he too wished for the future he dreamed often, of being part of the rumoured to be the best Kingsguard generation ever.
Before he could say anything though, a herald's voice rang through the hall, echoing off the black stone walls. "His Grace, King Aerys, and Their Highnesses, Prince Rhaegar and Prince Maegor of House Targaryen!"
The noise dulled to murmurs as heads turned toward the great doors at the far end of the hall, and through them came the dragons.
King Aerys walked first, thin as a drawn blade, his beard wild and his eyes alive with some inner fire that made courtiers lower their gaze. His crown sat crooked upon his head, yet none dared to tell him to perhaps adjust it.
Behind him followed Prince Rhaegar,— tall, silver-haired, a poet's calm upon his face,— and at his arm, the Dornish princess, Elia Martell, pale and graceful as moonlight on still water.
And behind them all, a darker flame.
Prince Maegor Targaryen.
He was taller than his brother, broader through the chest, his shoulders squared beneath a black doublet stitched with red thread that caught the torchlight like fire in shadow.
He moved with slow confidence, like a man who expected the hall to part before him,— and it did. Lords bowed to the royal family, ladies curtseyed, and still he did not hurry his steps.
Cersei watched him, her lips curving faintly, so this is the prince they whisper of so damned much back in court.
He looked carved from storm and steel, she thought,— too dangerous for harp strings, too certain for prayer. When he turned his head, for the briefest instant his gaze swept over the tables,— over her.
Their eyes met, a moment caught between glances, and Cersei's breath hitched before she could help it.
She smiled faintly, more to herself than to him.
"Speak of dragons..." she murmured, almost dreamlike.
Beside her, Jaime said something she did not quite hear. Her attention was elsewhere,— on the prince, the hall, the promise of the tourney, and all the games of power yet to be played.
...
| With Maegor Targaryen, at Harrenhal, during the year of 281AC:
"I want another." said Rhaenys, her cheeks round and glistening with jam, the small tart half-devoured in her hand.
"Rhaenys." Maegor said, keeping his tone patient, "You've eaten half the tray already."
"But I want one more." she insisted, tugging at his sleeve. "Please, uncle?"
Elia sighed beside him, a tired smile on her lips. "Rhaenys…" He chuckled under his breath. "Here, hatchling." He plucked a tart from the platter and held it out to her. "But this is the last. I'll not have the maester blaming me when you take ill."
Rhaenys grinned, victorious. "Thank you!" she said through a mouthful, scattering crumbs across her skirts.
Elia shook her head. "Gods, good-brother,— you spoil her too much." He smiled faintly at her, leaning back in his chair. "Don't say such things, good-sister. I only pay homage to my favorite niece's existence."
That earned a small laugh from her, soft but sincere,— a sound rare enough to be precious.
Across the table, Rhaegar said nothing, as his cup sat untouched before him, his gaze distant and unfocused, fixed somewhere no one else could see.
Always elsewhere.
If he keeps drifting off like that, Maegor thought with a internal smirk, one day he'll float clear off the edge of the world.
He reached for his own cup and drank instead, letting the Dornish red burn down his throat. The taste was good,— full, heavy,— and better company than some prophecy.
"I hear your brother's come north again." he said at last. "The Viper of Dorne himself."
Elia looked up, her smile returning in a smaller form. "Oberyn arrived yesterday, yes."
"I've heard he fights like he was born for dying nowadays." Maegor said, half-grinning. "I should like to meet the man once more."
"You will." she said. "He's been eager to test the mettle of every knight here."
Rhaegar's eyes flicked toward them then,— pale, and unreadable,— and her words faded into silence.
Maegor let it hang. It was the kind of quiet that said more than words ever could.
The hall beyond their table was alive with noise,— laughter, music, the clatter of goblets and the murmur of banners shifting in the draught.
Great and minor lords feasted shoulder to shoulder. The stormlanders, loud and half-drunk already, the Northmen, solemn as stone, the Reachmen, perfumed and boasting of horses. The Dornish table blazed with color and heat, and there, among them, he spotted Oberyn,— young, quick-eyed, already half-smiling as if he'd overheard his name carried on the smoke.
And to the opposite side, amid all the brightness and motion, he saw them,— the Lannisters.
The twins, the only Lannisters present, sat apart from the rest, though close enough to be seen. The boy gleamed,— expensive clothing and fresh gold, all pride and promise.
Jaime Lannister wore his colors as if born in it, back straight, jaw set, the eagerness of youth still untarnished.
The girl beside him was another creature entirely though. Cersei Lannister caught light like it belonged to her. Her gown was the color of deep green glass, her hair a river of gold down her bare shoulders.
She laughed at something her brother whispered, touching his arm lightly, a gesture so natural it looked practiced. Every turn of her head was deliberate,— each movement meant to be seen.
When her eyes met his, she stilled.
Maegor held her gaze, the faintest curve touching his mouth, and he saw her lips part, barely, a breath caught between surprise and satisfaction. She tilted her head, the motion slow and inviting. Then she looked away,— but not before he saw the warmth rise in her cheeks.
Bold little thing, he thought with a smirk. The lioness does enjoy being watched.
He drained his cup and rose, the hall seemed to hush around him as he moved,— not silence, but a shift, as if the air itself leaned in to see where he'd go.
Even from the high dais, his father's eyes found him, sharp and fever-bright. Maegor ignored the weight of that stare.
Let Aerys watch,— no, let them all watch as I have my fun. The dragons were bred to draw eyes, after all.
He crossed the floor toward the Lannisters, and noticed Jaime saw him first and stood, quick and courteous. "My prince!" the young man said, voice steady. "It's an honor."
"Ser Jaime." said Maegor,— though he wasn't yet an official Kingsguard, he had already been knighted by the Sword Of The Morning. "You wear the lion's pride well, U see. Your father must be pleased."
Jaime smiled faintly. "May I present my sister, Lady Cersei Lannister." Maegor turned to her, and the hall seemed smaller for it, for she was truly beautiful.
"My lady." he said, inclining his head. "The songs understate you." Her lips curved, all grace and hidden satisfaction. "You are kind, my prince. I had not thought the dragons known for such lovely courtesy."
She overreached. "Then I'm glad to prove a rumor false." He extended a hand. "Would you dance?"
"I would be glad to." She placed her hand in his,— light, cool, trembling just enough to betray her youth.
The minstrels found a gentler tune, and the pair moved to its rhythm. Her gown shimmered as they turned, gold and green catching the torchlight, her scent faint,— roses and wine. Maegor's hand rested at her waist, guiding her as if the steps belonged to him.
She followed easily, eager, her smile bright and knowing. "You move well, my lady." he said, voice low enough for her alone.
"I was taught by the best in Casterly Rock, and later on in King's Landing as well." She replied. "Though I doubt you've danced with lesser partners."
"I would not say lesser." he said. "Simply different."
She laughed softly, breath catching. "You flatter me."
"Only where truth allows." Her eyes glimmered, the kind of green that caught men's ruin. "Is it true, then, what they say of you?"
He tilted his head. "That depends. What do they say?"
"That you ride the realm hunting outlaws, breaking men with your bare hands, and charming princesses in your spare hours."
He smiled faintly. "Only one princess." he lied, glancing toward Rhaenys, who sat giggling at her empty plate. "And perhaps one lioness."
Her lips parted. "Lionesses bite, my prince."
"I should hope so,— then again, so do dragons." They turned again, close now,— her breath brushing his neck, her heart quick beneath his hand. "Tell me..." she whispered, "Why dance with a lion, when so many prettier and older woman, such as Ashara Dayne, wait their turn?"
He met her eyes, and laughed, thinking of a way to flatter her some more in hopes of her falling for him some more. "Because..." he said, quiet as a confession, "You were the only one who looked back at me with such fire."
For a heartbeat, she forgot to move. Her step faltered,— just a flicker,— and then she recovered, laughing lightly, though the flush in her neck betrayed her. "You speak as if you'd write songs about this moment." she teased.
"Songs?" He smirked. "Leave that to my brother, I prefer deeds and actions."
When the music ended, he bowed, and she curtsied, eyes still locked to his. "Thank you for this dance."
"The thanks are mine, my prince." she said, voice low, warm with promise. "I do hope we'll dance again."
"Oh, we will, I have little doubt of that. Be it in the feasts to come, or out of prying eyes." he replied, and as he turned away, he could feel her gaze linger, hot as the torches on his back.
Jaime's eyes followed too, though quieter,— watchful, a tad uncertain, already learning what the realm would soon teach him.
Maegor did not look back, he only caught the faintest echo of his father's laughter,— dry, sharp, and knowing,— as he made his way toward the royal table once more.
...
A few moments before...
The music drifted through the Great Hall, sweet as honeyed wine and just as cloying.
From his seat at the royal table, Rhaegar watched his brother take the floor with the Lannister girl.
Golden hair and green eyes gleamed beneath the torches, their laughter rising above the music like birds over flame.
Maegor moved with a fighter's grace,— deliberate, commanding,— yet he smiled as though this were no battle, only a game.
The girl moved as if she had been born to dance, her hair spilling in waves of sunlight, her dress catching the firelight with each turn.
Cersei Lannister. She had been seen at court before many a times,— a lion's daughter too proud to hide her little claws.
Tywin had brought her more than once with him, when he stayed in King's Landing for a few years, before the quarrel deepened between lion and dragon and he spent less time in the capital.
She had been younger then, smaller, with sharper edges in her smile. But now... now the realm would certainly remember her, for she was a beautiful woman in the making.
"She is comely." Elia said quietly beside him, her tone was even, almost cool, while her cup hovered close to her lips, her eyes calm upon the floor.
"Too comely." Aerys murmured, his voice thin and hot, like air above a forge. His long fingers drummed the table. "Tywin bred her well. A pity he keeps her chained in the Rock most of the time,— I see now why he didn't brought her back to court recently. He fears what she would become here, and the impending marriage proposals that he deems beneath her."
Rhaegar's gaze lingered on the pair below.
Elia turned her face slightly, her expression serene as polished marble. "She dances quite well." she said, and Rhaegar could not read her.
She was always composed,— a wall of courtesy and quiet dignity. If she felt anything at the sight of Maegor and the Lannister girl, she hid it perfectly.
"She dances for crowns." Aerys said, lips curling. "Tywin once wanted her to wed you, my son. Imagine that,— lioness for the dragon prince."
Rhaegar's fingers tightened on the stem of his cup. "Old talk." he said.
"Old talk?" The king laughed softly, bitter as bile. "Old dreams, though Tywin's, not mine. He would have given me his daughter to bind himself to the throne,— and I would have taken her as your wife, had she not been Tywin's daughter."
Elia's gaze lowered to her cup, her silence was her only answer, while back on the floor, the dance turned slower. Maegor's hand rested at the girl's waist, her laughter was softer now, her eyes lifted to his like a moth drawn to flame.
Rhaegar felt the familiar weight settle in his chest,— not jealousy, not truly.
It was something heavier, older. Maegor commanded attention as easily as he drew breath, where Rhaegar inspired songs, his brother inspired silence,— and both had their power...
"He courts the realm's gaze over his play." He said quietly, "Every step, every word,— all of it meant to make them remember his daring nature."
"As any prince should." Aerys said. "You sing, of prophecies and kings lost to the ages. Your brother reminds men that dragons still have teeth, while you try softer approaches."
Rhaegar looked down into his cup, as wine caught the torchlight, dark and deep as blood. "The realm needs both."
"The realm..." Aerys spat. "The realm needs fire and blood. Not songs of love and peace."
He clapped suddenly, sharp and jarring, drawing startled glances from nearby tables.
"Well done!" he called, his laughter echoing under the vaulted roof. "My sons do know how to make the hall stare." Applause rippled through the hall as the music ended.
Maegor bowed, the lioness curtsied low,— her hair brushing her shoulder like liquid gold, and Elia's fingers brushed her cup again, steady and still.
Rhaegar's eyes followed his brother as he returned to his seat,— calm, unhurried, and utterly certain. There was a faint smile on Maegor's lips, a prince who knew precisely what he was doing and did not care who saw it.
Rhaegar said nothing.
He simply watched, as the great hall stirred back to noise and laughter.
Dragons and lions, Dragons and Wolves... he thought.
The gods do love their riddles.
...
Author's Note: Thoughts? And please, leave some comments! <3