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63: The Son of Ice and Fire, The Prince that was Promised
🕑 Added 2024-09-06 16:46:50 +0000 UTCRhaenys walked through the dimly lit corridors of Maegor's Holdfast, the soft crunch of her boots echoing against the cold stone floor. Ser Jaime Lannister followed closely behind, his presence silent but constant, a shadow that had been by her side since her return to the Red Keep. They were headed to her father’s chambers for dinner, a request he had made numerous times, and one she had consistently avoided until now. Tonight, however, she relented.
Her gaze shifted briefly to the man behind her, Ser Jaime. His usual dry wit and sharp humor had been absent these last few weeks. The Jaime Lannister she had known was playful, his biting humor always making her laugh, but recently, he had grown distant, and she couldn’t help but wonder if something was wrong.
“Ser Jaime,” she said, her voice soft yet carrying the authority she commanded, “you’ve been unusually quiet lately. Has something been troubling you?”
Jaime glanced at her, his expression guarded. “Why would Your Grace think that?”
Rhaenys raised an eyebrow, a small smirk playing on her lips. “Because I know you, Jaime. You haven’t been yourself lately, and I won’t take anything but the truth as an answer.”
He let out a sigh, his usual confident demeanor faltering for a moment. “It’s my sister,” he said, his voice low.
“Oh, Lady Cersei,” Rhaenys mused. “I thought you two were close.”
“We were,” Jaime replied, his gaze distant. “But not anymore.”
Rhaenys waited, but when it became clear he wasn’t going to say more, she nodded. She wasn’t one to push too far, especially when she knew Jaime well enough to understand there was a line he wouldn’t cross. “Well, I hope to have the old Jaime back soon,” she said lightly, trying to lift the mood.
A small chuckle escaped him. “I’ll try, Your Grace.”
As they reached the heavy oak doors of her father’s chambers, Ser Arthur Dayne stood guard. He greeted her with a bow and a smile. “Your Grace.”
“Ser Arthur,” Rhaenys responded warmly. Her gaze flicked to Jaime, who would remain outside with Arthur. The two men exchanged a look before she entered the room.
She stepped into the dimly lit chamber, her eyes immediately falling on her father. Rhaegar Targaryen looked even weaker than the last time she had seen him, which was a week ago. He had been sequestering himself inside his chambers more and more. His once-proud figure had diminished further, and the sight made her heart tighten with a mixture of pity and resentment. When he noticed her, a smile tugged weakly at his lips as he stood with the help of his cane.
“Rhaenys,” he greeted warmly, though his voice was soft and strained.
“Father,” Rhaenys replied, moving toward the table already set for their meal.
"Sit, please," he urged, gesturing with a shaky hand as he lowered himself into his own chair with a quiet sigh.
Rhaegar signaled for the servants, who quickly entered to begin serving the meal. Their movements were swift and precise, laying out a spread of roasted meats, fruits, and freshly baked bread. Silver goblets filled with wine were placed before them, along with a rich stew that filled the room with the scent of spices. They worked in silence, the clatter of utensils and dishes the only sound until Rhaegar waved them away, his eyes focused on Rhaenys.
Once the servants left, the room fell into an uncomfortable silence. They began eating, the sound of spoons scraping against bowls filling the void.
After what felt like an eternity, Rhaegar finally spoke, breaking the awkward quiet. “How are you, Rhaenys?”
“I’m fine,” Rhaenys replied curtly, her voice devoid of warmth as she focused on her plate.
The silence returned, heavier than before.
Rhaegar cleared his throat, seemingly struggling to find the right words. “I am proud of you. I’ve heard of your efforts in the city—helping the children, the widows. It is... commendable.”
Rhaenys looked up, her gaze cold. “Someone had to do it.”
“Yes...,” Rhaegar said, his voice trailing off awkwardly.
There was another long pause before he spoke again, his voice barely above a whisper. “You look like your mother.”
Rhaenys stilled, her grip tightening on her fork. "Do I?" she asked, her tone hard, waiting for him to continue.
"I..." Rhaegar struggled, his words failing him.
Rhaenys had enough of the stilted conversation. She set down her utensils and finally asked the question that had been burning inside her for years. “Why did you send me to Dorne?”
Rhaegar looked at her, his expression pained. “Your mother demanded it.”
“So you sent me there and forgot me?” Rhaenys pressed, her voice growing sharper.
“No, Rhaenys,” Rhaegar protested weakly. "I wanted you back, but your uncle Doran and your mother insisted you stay in Dorne.”
“Why?” she asked again, her voice laced with anger.
Rhaegar hesitated, his gaze dropping. “It was what your mother wanted... She would only forgive me for Lyanna if... if you stayed. You were supposed to return when you were a woman grown, but Elia kept delaying. She said she would bring you back herself.”
“Then she died,” Rhaenys finished for him, her eyes hard.
Rhaegar lowered his head, the weight of those words pressing down on him.
Rhaenys’ chest tightened with emotion, and her anger flared. “Do you know what they say about me, Father? What the realm whispers behind my back? They say I’m damaged. That I’m barren. That’s why the king has not married his daughter off yet.” Her voice grew louder, her hurt and frustration spilling out.
Rhaegar’s eyes flashed with anger at her words. “I’ll have their tongues ripped out,” he growled.
“Why?” Rhaenys demanded, her voice cracking. “Why haven’t I been married? Why?” She already knew the answer but needed to hear it from him.
Rhaegar’s silence was deafening, his face tense with reluctance. He hesitated before finally speaking. “You’ll understand soon.”
“No, Father,” Rhaenys said bitterly, her voice trembling with restrained fury. “I know why. You wish for me to marry Aegon.”
Rhaegar's eyes widened, the shock clear on his face.
“And I think I understand why Mother never wanted me to return,” Rhaenys continued, her voice cold. “She didn’t want me to marry him either.”
Rhaegar’s face darkened as he spoke again, almost defensively. “No... she agreed.”
The words slipped out, and he immediately regretted them. His face paled as he realized what he had admitted.
Rhaenys stood, her body trembling with emotion. "This is why the lords laugh behind your back. You were supposed to fix what your father broke, and yet you remain as impotent as he was. You have led these kingdoms to another war, and you’ve lost all love for your children, all because of your prophecies and visions.”
Tears welled up in her eyes, but she blinked them back as she turned and stormed out of the room, leaving Rhaegar behind in silence.
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Rhaegar tried to call out to her, but he couldn't find his voice. He sat alone in his chamber as the echoes of Rhaenys' footsteps faded into silence. He sighed deeply, running a hand through his dulled silver hair. His violet eyes stared vacantly at the meal before him.
"She will understand soon," he murmured to himself, the words barely audible. "They will all understand."
The recent appearance of the Red Priestess had only strengthened his convictions. Her fiery prophecies and dire warnings had reignited the flames of purpose within him. The Great Other was rising, and the realm was unprepared. The Wall needed to be fortified, and sacrifices had to be made. Aegon would need to be ready for what was to come.
Yes, the tourney. He would announce it there. The lords and ladies of the realm would be gathered—a perfect stage to reveal his plans and set the path straight. Time was slipping through his fingers like sand, and he could no longer afford to delay.
Rhaegar reached for the bell beside him and rang it softly. Moments later, the door opened, and Ser Arthur Dayne stepped inside.
"You summoned me, Your Grace?" Arthur asked, his gaze steady but laced with concern.
Rhaegar looked up at his old friend, offering a faint smile. "Yes, Arthur. Please, come closer."
Arthur took a few steps forward, noticing the tension etched on his king's face. "Is everything all right? I saw the princess leaving. She seemed... upset."
Rhaegar's expression faltered for a moment. "We had a disagreement," he admitted, his voice heavy. "But it's nothing that won't mend with time."
Arthur hesitated before speaking again. "Perhaps if you spoke to her once more—"
"No," Rhaegar interrupted gently but firmly. "She needs time. I cannot force her to understand what she is not yet prepared to accept."
An uneasy silence settled between them. Arthur wanted to say more, to offer counsel, but he knew his king's mind was set.
"Arthur," Rhaegar began, "we must visit the Great Sept tomorrow. I need to speak with the High Septon. There are matters of great importance that cannot wait."
Arthur's brows knit together slightly. "Yes, Your Grace. Shall I make the necessary arrangements?"
"And ensure that our departure is discreet. I wish to avoid any unnecessary attention."
Arthur nodded, though his reluctance was evident. "As you command. Is there anything else you require?"
Rhaegar studied his old friend for a moment. "You seem troubled, Arthur. Speak your mind."
For a brief moment, Arthur considered voicing his concerns—the whispers among the court, the growing unrest, the fractures within the royal family—but he chose restraint. "I am merely concerned for your well-being, Your Grace."
A tired smile touched Rhaegar's lips. "Your loyalty has always been a comfort to me. Fear not, old friend. Soon, everything will be set right."
Arthur bowed his head. "Very well. I will see to the preparations." With that, he turned and left the chamber, the door closing softly behind him.
Left alone once more, Rhaegar leaned back in his chair, his thoughts a turbulent sea. The realm did not understand the peril it faced, but he would ensure they were prepared—even if it meant sacrificing everything.
He gazed into the flickering shadows cast by the hearth, steeling himself for the path ahead. "For the good of the realm," he whispered. "For the dawn."
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Melisandre sat in the gardens of the Red Keep, the soft rustle of the trees around her barely stirring the air. Courtiers walked nearby, casting wary glances in her direction before quickly averting their eyes and veering away. A small, knowing smile tugged at her lips. She had grown accustomed to the fear she inspired in others. It amused her, how they feared what they could not understand.
She had come to Westeros following a vision—a message from her lord, R'hllor, the Lord of Light. In the flames, she had seen the signs of what was to come, a vision seared into her mind with clarity and urgency.
In her vision, the cold had risen from the north, a relentless tide of frost and death sweeping down from the lands beyond the Wall. Shadows moved in the blizzard, monstrous figures of ice and death, led by a figure with glowing blue eyes. Then, a dragon’s shadow had flown across a dreary, storm-swept island. The dragon had circled above a castle of ancient Valyrian design, it's dark towers stark against the gray sky.
It had taken her a moment to realize what she was seeing—Dragonstone. She knew then that her path was clear; she must go to that place. Without hesitation, she had set her course, trusting in her Lord’s guidance. Her faith was only strengthened when she met Prince Viserys Targaryen. Her lord was showing her the way, helping her. Viserys had been intrigued by her and welcomed her to accompany him.
On her journey to Dragonstone, she had experienced further visions. One stood out above the rest—a girl with Valyrian features, stepping out of a blazing fire, her silver hair flowing like molten steel, her skin untouched by the flames. When she arrived at Dragonstone and saw Princess Daenerys, she knew that the girl was the one from her vision, the unburnt child of the dragon.
But there were more visions—haunting, confusing. She had seen a crippled figure sitting on a throne of a thousand swords, his frail form contrasted by the strength of the seat he occupied. This figure, she had come to realize, was King Rhaegar.
Her final vision had been the most perplexing of all—a field of blue roses, delicate and beautiful, each petal trembling as snow began to fall from the sky. The scene had filled her with a strange, unsettling emotion. She did not understand what it meant. Not yet.
When she finally received an audience with King Rhaegar, she was both relieved and surprised to find that he understood the threat of the Great Other and the darkness that loomed. He believed, as she did, that a savior was needed—the prince that was promised who would fight the coming darkness. But Rhaegar was convinced that his son, the Crown Prince Aegon, was the one destined to be that savior.
Melisandre, however, had her doubts. She had observed Prince Aegon closely. His body was broken, and his mind seemed fragile, teetering on the edge of something darker. How could such a man lead the fight against the Great Other? And yet, the king held steadfast in his belief, setting plans in motion to marry Aegon to his sister and daughter, forging what he believed to be the three heads of the dragon.
But Melisandre knew better than to trust appearances. She needed to understand the meaning of her final vision—the field of blue roses. It had haunted her since she had first seen it. She had been drawn to its mystery, feeling that it held the key to everything.
It was King Rhaegar himself who had unwittingly given her the answer. In one of their conversations, he had spoken of Lyanna Stark, the woman he had crowned with blue roses during the Tourney at Harrenhal. Blue roses, he mentioned, were her favorite.
That was when she realized it wasn’t the king’s firstborn son her lord was leading her to. It was his second-born, the prince who carried the blood of both dragon and wolf: Maekar Targaryen.
And so, she sat in the garden now, waiting. She had requested an audience with Prince Maekar, and to her satisfaction, he had accepted.
Was he the one her Lord had led her to find? The prince who was promised, Azor Ahai, who would save the world from the coming darkness?
She closed her eyes and breathed deeply, her mind focusing on the warmth of the Lord’s light, feeling the answers stir just beyond her reach. Soon, she would know. Soon, the truth would reveal itself.
As she waited, Melisandre caught sight of movement in the corner of her eye—a large, white wolf approaching her. Its fur was as pale as freshly fallen snow, sleek and shimmering in the evening light. Its eyes, however, were what truly captured her attention: they were a deep, unnerving red, gleaming like embers in a dying fire. This was no ordinary beast. It moved with a silent grace, its gaze fixed on her, but she did not falter or show fear.
She raised a hand and called out softly, "Come closer, beast of the North."
But the direwolf halted, its attention shifting to the figure walking behind it.
Melisandre stood and turned to greet the approaching man. Prince Maekar, tall and commanding, stepped forward, his expression unreadable. He glanced briefly at the direwolf before turning his attention to her.
"Priestess," he greeted her coolly. "Let’s talk." Without pausing, he walked past her, heading toward a shaded path in the garden. The direwolf followed, its large paws making barely a sound on the cobblestones.
Melisandre quickly followed behind Maekar, the direwolf trailing close at her side.
"My prince, I wish to—" she began, only for Maekar to cut her off.
"I know what you want, Melisandre. You and I share the same goal."
Her steps faltered briefly, and for a moment, she was struck speechless. Did the king tell his son about the threat in the North?
"The threat from beyond the Wall. The old enemy—the ones that bring the cold and death," Maekar said, his tone dark and resolute. "They are indeed returning."
"You know," Melisandre murmured, her eyes wide with surprise.
"Yes," he replied, his voice low and unwavering. "Your god is the only one on the side of the living."
"R'hllor is the only true god," she said fervently, her eyes gleaming with conviction.
Maekar sighed. "I won’t argue with you about the gods.”
“My father believes my brother to be this chosen warrior who will defeat the coming darkness, but you and I both know that he’s not."
Melisandre narrowed her eyes. "And are you?" she asked, her voice filled with cautious curiosity.
"I don’t know," Maekar admitted, his tone thoughtful. "It could be me, it could be my aunt, or even my sister. Well… I do carry the blood of two of the most ancient lines." He trailed off for a moment, his gaze distant.
"But that doesn't matter right now," he continued. "You and I are on the same side, and we have no time to argue about which gods are better."
"Your brother cannot rule," Melisandre said firmly, her eyes gleaming with the certainty of prophecy.
"Yes," Maekar replied, his voice cool and measured. "I plan to unite the realms myself when the time comes. And I plan to wield the greatest weapon against my enemies and the cold ones."
Melisandre's breath caught, her curiosity burning stronger. "A weapon?" she asked, her voice soft yet filled with the weight of expectation.
Maekar smiled, though his expression remained enigmatic. "I invite you to come with me and my aunt to Dragonstone. We will be leaving by the week’s end."
"With luck, you might see me claim this weapon. Or perhaps, you shall see me perish."
His words hung in the air, and for a moment, Melisandre was silent, her mind racing to interpret his meaning.
"I accept, my prince," she said finally, her voice steady and filled with purpose.
"Good," Maekar said as he turned to leave. "I will see you then, Melisandre." The direwolf followed at his side.
As Melisandre watched him walk away, something deep within her stirred.
She had found him.
Her Lord's chosen.
The Prince That Was Promised.
She had found Azor Ahai.
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Next Maekar on Dragonstone.
