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Chapter Text

One misstep. In the rush of battle he had unknowingly stepped into deep water, it had caused him to falter, opening his guard completely. That was all it took.

Robert’s hammer struck him like a dragon striking the earth. Rhaegar nearly laughed at the joke of it all as he went flying into the air, red rubies and red blood all around. The force knocked half his armor off, denting his plate and definitely crushing some of his ribs. Thankfully, Robert had struck him in the side and not the front, otherwise he probably wouldn’t be breathing.

Though, it may not have mattered as he went into the river. The rest of his armor sank him down, while men on both sides rushed for the far-flung gems. The heaviest parts of his armor were off, their straps taken with the strike. His helmet had gone as he hit the water, freeing his bruised and battered head and leaving him unprotected from the elements.

As he felt the water surrounding him, he felt almost as if caressed. A warm grasp which slowly pulled him down. He attempted to push up, but found nothing under his legs or arms. He was in deeper and deeper waters, and a rare glance above the waves allowed him to see his body being taken further and further away from Robert and the battlefield.

Painfully, Rhaegar unstrapped his shield and tried using it to paddle himself upwards, to little effect. Then, with quick succession, he began to unstrap every other piece of armor he could, before he began truly sinking. The battle lust he had felt till now was driven from him. The pain in his side would have made him scream if not for being under the water. It was a miracle no arrows or enemies had dragged him and killed him by now.

This miracle became a horror as Rhaegar still began to sink, even as he let go of his shield and freed himself on his plate straps, the ones he could reach at least. His consciousness began to fade in and out rapidly. His flailing turned into rigid motions. He was going to drown, he realized.

With the fear of death deep in his heart, he managed to undo his sword belt, releasing his heavy equipment and allowing him to pull off the chain hauberk which enclosed his wool tunic. Instantly he felt a great release of weight on him, but his heavy boots and clothes still weighed him down. Coming up above the water for a breath, Rhaegar could hear Robert's cries to find him, to let him chop his body to bits. No one seemed to notice, though, as Rhaegar went slipping back into the freezing depths.

A red mist surrounded him, blinding him to where the banks of the river might be. He realized it was his own blood, seeping from his arm and torso, like molten lava pouring out of a volcano.

The entire left side of his body stopped responding to him, and he felt so terribly cold. His ability to hold his breath was quickly leaving him, as was all his strength. His eyes dimmed, rimmed with pain from staying open in the dark, watery depths.

Rhaegar’s last waking thoughts were of Lyanna and that tower, of Elia and his mother waiting, of Aerys and his damned maddened mind.

All of it seemed so small and petty now… A waste; of life, of sadness, of pain… Such a horrible waste.

And it was all Rhaegar's fault…

~~~

Rhaegar laid out a wreath of blue roses at a young girl's feet. Her smile was sweet and beautiful. They'd been chasing after one another, their breaths quick and heavy. Both of them were blushing as Rhaegar made her realize that she was not in any harm's way, and in fact, the opposite was true.

“Lyanna Stark.” His voice echoes, the nearly silent woods surrounding them make it feel like they're all alone in the world. “Rebellious child. Laughing Tree Knight. The She-Wolf. All these titles I have heard of you, and yet, your name is the most beautiful of them all.” Rhaegar flirts. It is hard not to be taken with the girl. She is beautiful, stunning, and above all else, exactly what he needs.

The prophecy… Fire and Ice… The song.

A giggle. She covers her mouth, attempting to act the proper Lady, before descending into joyous laughter. Her clear gray eyes twinkle in joy, and it's all Rhaegar can do to not be enraptured by it.

“I'm sorry! I don't mean to laugh. It's just-” She suddenly stops herself. All her joy vanished in an instant. “No one's ever said anything like that to me before.” Her eyes turn downcast and her gaze flickers away, it's like seeing God and then being denied heaven right after. Oh… Rhaegar knows he's out of his depth. Such a young girl… and yet he's already captivated, enamored… in love.

“Not even my boisterous cousin?” Rhaegar teases, seizing the moment to see her gaze upon him once more. The answer was already known to him, though. Robert, for as many wenches as he's laid, cannot break through a Lady like this.

“No…” She trails, her head lowered.

“You don't like him.” Rhaegar asserts. It's not hard to see. She never laughs at his japes, never looks at him with joy. Robert is wasted on this girl.

“Well… Ned- He's…” Lyanna shakes her head and a fiery glimmer shines in her eyes. It brings a curling smoky heat to Rhaegar's chest, the very same that always leads him to his destiny, always tells him when what he needs is right before him. “He has bastards… He drinks and fucks like some animal. No, I don't like him. Father… has other plans.”

“Have you voiced this opinion to him? Make it clear that's not what you want?” He says, the plan already forming in his head. She is not a woman yet, and he would never force her… But in less than a year, she will be. Her sixteenth nameday… the timing is perfect.

“I… no. I haven't. My father is a strong-willed man, and… He would never allow this chance to unite our realm through marriage slip past him. He has plans… Lots of them.” She says, blurting out the last part like a secret she knows she shouldn't be saying to anyone without the family name Stark.

Rhaegar knows she's in the palm of his hand now. A precious flower, wishing so much to bloom into her fullest potential. She’ll take any chance for freedom, and it’s a good thing it was Rhaegar and not someone else.

Rhaegar knows exactly what she needs. To make her see… To make her his— then, a distortion.

Elia stands before him, tears staining her cheeks. Eyes red-rimmed. Aegon is clutched in her arms, with Rhaenys sleeping in bed. Their room is dark, lit only by a single candle. A flicker of light shines on little Aegon's face, his cute sleeping face a stark contrast to the conversation being had.

Lewyn stands in the doorway, watching intently, angry. Rhaegar is pretty sure that if it wasn't for Arthur standing next to him, he'd have already loosened Rhaegar’s head from his neck.

He can stay angry, Rhaegar thinks. She can too.

“This is the only way. The Starks and Baratheons will be pacified, and Lyanna will be freed from her enslavement. This has to happen, you know this. We talked about it!” Rhaegar states. They did, years ago, before even Rhaenys was born. Their love had died since, but their trust in each other was still there. Or, at least, he thought it was. “Now of all times, why are you doubting me?” He tries to ask calmly, though his frustration shows.

“Doubt? I haven't doubted you since we married. You always knew what to do. I don't doubt you, I doubt this girl. This… song! Pacts written by dead boy princes that were never fulfilled doesn't mean it's destiny! You are gambling our families. You're putting me— our children— in danger, Rhaegar. Surely you see that.” Elia says, her logic and reasoning hard to debate. Lyanna is just a girl. Prone to flights of fancy, hormonal, and… well… wild.

She could say no and change her mind. That wouldn't be… ideal. Though, what if she changed her mind on the way to the tower? Or at the tower? By then… it'll have been too late. He'd have to ensure Lyanna wanted this. She had to. It was fate. He was right.

Robert would stew, but at the end of the day he would just go find some other woman to fuck. The tourney proved that. Ned could bluster, Lord Stark could bluster, but it was only one marriage. If Lord Stark really wanted, he could easily thrust Ned or Ben at some Stormlander maiden, or Valemen, whatever the old politicking bastard wanted. Varys had confirmed for him that all Lord Stark wanted was enough power to strong-arm Aerys, and Rhaegar would give it to him. For destiny? Easy trade. He was like Tywin in that way… That would be an interesting meeting…

“I do… And I have to take that risk. This is all much more than just me and you. More than anything. Our children… They will survive. I would gladly give my life and honor to them.” Rhaegar knows it'll be tough, and he truly means what he says. These children don't know it, but they'll save this world. All of these petty squabbles will be nothing on Rhaegar's mind when he's successfully set his son and daughters up for the Long Night. It will all be worth it.

“Would you give up destiny?” Elia retorts, Rhaegar doesn’t expect it.

“What? That's what this is all for! If we gave up destiny, we'd- No. You're trying to be obtuse.” Rhaegar catches before he digs himself a hole. Gods if this woman isn't annoying. He plays into her hands every time. The Dornish are something else.

“So… You wouldn't.” Her gaze looks to Lewyn. An unspoken conversation.

“Don't twist my words, Elia. Now, is there anything else, or are we done here?” Rhaegar asks rhetorically, he begins to make his way out when the words spill from Elia's lips, the ones she knows will hurt the most.

“You're just like your father.”

~~~

Pain. Pain and the excruciating feeling as if someone is tearing out his very bones. Rhaegar cannot think of anyone who wouldn't scream at a pain like this. So he does.

Numerous voices surround him, calling on him for patience, for strength, for honor.

Brandon Stark calls for him to die, and he's not there to hear it. The message he sent with Richard and Myles dead on their lips whilst bells rang and rang.

Robert's war cry echoes and reverberates in his skull. A triumphant sound that washes away any thoughts of defeating him.

Rhaegar almost had. He'd been so. Damn. Close.

Lyanna's wails and pains as the child grew in her womb. She asked what was happening out in the world. Arthur turned his head downcast and stayed silent. The young Dayne squire, pained to see Lyanna in her state.

A man slapped him. Hard and painful. It woke Rhaegar.

“Stay with us, my Prince! Do not fall asleep!” A voice said.

Another voice, a younger man's, speaks hurriedly, “More blood, this ribs cracked!”

The other man yells back, “Well then get more of the yarrow and witch hazel! We cannot allow him to bleed out. I almost have his bones set!”

“We're down to our last bag!”

“Do as I say!”

Rhaegar, the pain becoming too much, feels himself sinking. Drowning. The deep waters hold him in a caressing embrace.

Elia is above him, sadness apparent. She hates him to her bone. He lied. He isn't coming back to her.

Then it's Lyanna, her joy and happiness snuffed out and dead. She had found freedom, but at what cost? Her brother died, her betrothed killing her friends, and a mad King who made it all worse.

Robert, hatred and fear coalescing as he rides out to finally avenge his love, his hammer shining black against the harshly lit river.

Mother, crying and alone. Raking scars cover her body. Stuck on Dragonstone, stuck in her marriage.

“I never wanted him.” She told Rhaegar once, he was only eight.

Father, laughing himself into insanity as he watches people burn. His glee manifested in the destruction of their house. How had he figured it out? The tourney was kept secret, he was assured. He should've been too paranoid. Rhaegar should've just killed him then, and then maybe things would have worked…

Bloody snow rains upon him and blots out his vision, washes it all away in white stained red, the Others make their advance. There's no one to stop them, and not even the Wall can halt the force of nature they have become.

A blue rose wreath is laid at a young girl's feet, and a fire consumes and melts it all into ash. He wasn't thinking straight. He was… he was in love. Even now. He would admit it.

Then… nothing. Dark. Void. Hell. Heaven. Death.

He dies. He does, he realizes. All pain is gone. His light is gone, his fire.

Peace. Rhaegar feels peace.

.

.

.

He hates it. He cannot die. He can't. His children… his prophecy.

Rhaegar sees glimpses of faces. Those he knows, and those he doesn't. Yet he understands instantly who they are.

Aegon the Conqueror. Rhaenys. Visenya.

The three heads! Rhaegar thinks, astonished. They are more powerful and beautiful than any art Rhaegar's ever seen depicting them.

He tries to yell out to them, but only darkness greets him as he does. Then, more faces. Other faces. Faces he's not even seen depicted.

Targaryen ancestors and members, traitors and Kings, knights and scholars.

Daemon Blackfyre. Maegor the Cruel. Aemond Targaryen. Rhaegar himself. All those who were destroyed before they realized their destined paths.

Then, it dawned on Rhaegar. No…

They were not killed before their destiny… They died fighting it…

Despair sank deep within him then. Rhaegar felt himself drowning again. Never-ending suffocation. He would join them…

If only… If only he could have a second chance.

Chapter Text

Rhaegar feels his throat burning as he breathes. Like his insides have been burned. His eyes ache to open, but they do. The rest of his body is slow to respond, but yes…

He's alive!

Dim sunlight bathes his bedsheets in golden light, causing him to squint to see in the small and cramped room. The sheets are stained in old sweat and sprinklings of blood, remnants of his surgery no doubt, though all of it seems to be a few days old at least.

Before he lays eyes on them, Rhaegar can already feel the bandages covering his body and the splint holding his left arm. He’s sore everywhere, and when he moves, it’s like trying to bend Valyrian steel.

He moans in pain, but it is not as terrible as when he was being operated on by those priests. They had done fine work…

Then the thoughts all came at once. Lyanna. The war. Father. Elia. The children.

Erupting out of bed, Rhaegar had little time to think of the shooting pain in his ribs and arm before he was falling over his stiff and still numb legs.

How long has it been?

Roaring and pushing himself to stand, he reaches for the door before it opens right as he touches the handle. He can't stop himself as he propels forward into the aging Septon, and nearly send them both into the ground.

The surrounding area is brightly lit and Rhaegar can hear the sounds of lapping waves and bird calls. He must still be near the river. Is he imprisoned? Why would the rebels save him if he was dying? No… The priests, which means he must be in some Sept or near one.

“Good heavens!” The graying man exclaims, barely keeping Rhaegar from coming face first against the ground. “Hold yourself, my Prince! You are not yet fully healed.” He says, quieting his voice as he finishes and leading Rhaegar back into the room, stopping him from getting any other info from the land outside.

Sitting down, Rhaegar can fully feel all his pains now, and looking down at himself, begins to see the full extent of his injuries.

The left side of his torso is a scarred mess, and stitches go up and down the length of it, like a long and messy maze. He can even see the imprint of his ribs slightly near the top of his chest, not due to losing weight, but because there is just less flesh to cover them in that area. Rhaegar shivers and feels tears welling in his eyes.

Rhaegar's breathing quickens, and he looks at his arm, his heartbeat going faster and faster as he uncovers more and more damage to his aching body. A horrible gash goes up from the back of his hand and knuckles all the way up to his inner elbow.

My shield arm.

Then, the worst part of it all. Turning his splinted arm to see his hand, he sees that both his pinky and ring finger are gone, leaving his thumb, index, and middle.

He screams. Roars in defiance. Falls back into despair.

When he finally finds himself, the monk is gone, the door left wide open. He has presumably gone to speak with others, to have him looked at to determine his health. What health? He’s deformed! He’s crippled… He’ll never use his left arm again. The gash would’ve been so deep. It’s a miracle they didn’t decide to cut it off.

Then the thoughts come rushing into his head again as he stares out toward a distant beach and rushing river going… on both sides.

An island then… Yes. This must be Quiet Isle. It was on the maps of the battle room, completely ignored by everyone.

He cannot stay for any longer than he must. He must get to Dragonstone, rally the royal fleet, gather his forces at King's Landing, and ready himself for a protracted siege until the Reach and Rock can come to assist. With Stannis and Renly captive, Robert will give in. He must.

Damn it all. Why couldn’t Robert have just let it go, like all the other women in his life?

Whilst he thinks of strategy, trying hard not to remember his maimed and lamed state, five monks arrive, one of them the old and wizened Septon he ran into.

“My Prince.” The Septon greets. All five monks bow to him. They are simple looking folk, Rivermen, if Rhaegar is correct. Brown to black hair, blue and green eyes. They will be duly rewarded for healing him, that can be assured.

The Septon nods to the other monks, who at once began looking over Rhaegar's wounds. They make several notes and inspections, all the while the Septon and Rhaegar speak.

“My Prince, how are you feeling?”

“Fine. I must return to the fight. The rebels will need time to recover from that battle, and when I put these bastards down, know you and your monastery will be rewarded ten times over for this. I don’t honestly know how you pulled it off, but I am in one piece, and that’s all that matters.”

The Septon looks wary, before nodding. “Only by the grace of God was it accomplished, my Prince… It has been two weeks since you arrived on our island, the battle was a fortnight and one day ago.”

“I was drifting in the water for a day?” Rhaegar asks, but the Septon raises his hand to silence him from further inquiry. He obliges, for now.

“I am not sure how the war has gone hence, but I have sent many out to heal those wounded and fish out the dead who float down the river in this very battle you speak of.” He pauses, seemingly at war with himself on what he says next. He might think Rhaegar a man to act quickly and without thought, but that is alright, he doesn't know him. The Septon finally steels himself and continues, “My Prince… You were one such body.”

“What?” Rhaegar asks, not really toward anyone specific. “I was dead?” The question is absurd, completely at odds with reality.

“Yes.” The Septon answers simply, his eyes weighing Rhaegar heavily. “We fished your body out like all the others. Your left side,” He points to where he was hit, “was torn completely open. Ribs gone, organs open to the waters for a day. When we brought you out, we readied you for burial.” He pauses, he looks as horrified as Rhaegar feels.

“When we returned from our prayers to ready your body, you were no longer rotting and bloated. Your side was still oozing blood, still broken and bleeding, but you were whole. As whole as you were when you most likely died.”

The knowledge of all of this nearly sends Rhaegar into a fit. Resurrected? By what? It was possible when given the last kiss, but the idea of a R’hllor follower sneaking onto a random island, running into their Sept, and giving Rhaegar the kiss was… Well, just think about it.

The only answer then…

“It is an act of God. That is the only explanation. Yet, you are not alone in this either…” The Septon looks to one of the monks, head low, and Rhaegar realizes he hasn’t raised it since he entered. He waits for him to speak, but he doesn’t. The Septon continues for the man. “He washed ashore, naked and dead, just as you. His heart did not beat, and a festering wound from a bolt to the thigh was the cause of death. Then, just like you, only a day earlier, he was alive. He still had the wound, but we healed him, and when told of all this, we asked him what he saw. If he saw anything.” The Septon stops, then sighs. “He took a vow of silence, there and then. He has not spoken since… but,” The Septon points to Rhaegar’s arm, “he was the one who saved your arm.”

Rhaegar, astonished and completely at wits end, just gapes at the man. It takes him minutes to process all of this, meanwhile the rest of the monks just stare, awaiting answers. They want to know if he saw God, if he’s some prophet who came to lead the Faith. In fact, he saw none of those things. Just twisted dreams one second, and waking up here the next.

While Rhaegar is still deep in thought, the Septon speaks again. “We thought— and God forgive us for any blasphemy— that our Sept and island had been blessed, that this sacred act was delivered to us so we may save any who wash ashore. Well, when the bodies we laid in the Sept began to rot and the days turned to weeks, we realized that it was not the Sept that was blessed, but both of you.”

“I… I cannot even begin to answer why this may be… I- I did not see anything. I don’t think I did, at least. I had dreams, then darkness, then I awoke here. I thought I had been captured until I ran into you.” Rhaegar finally says.

“I see.” The Septon says. A silent oath is taken at that moment as the monks all look at one another. They will not question it, if it is God’s will, then so be it. They will keep this as silent as all their other sins. A secret that may very well shape the rest of history.

Rhaegar is still left without nearly any ideas as to what has happened. If all is as these men say, then either they’re terrible at assessing if someone is dead or not, or God really has given Rhaegar a second chance. A chance to do better, to try harder, to do what is right.

There is something with that word. Right. The meaning of it eludes Rhaegar at the moment, and he’s left to contemplate what this all means. Is it a reinforcement of his beliefs, his destiny? Or, is it a chastisement of it all? He had seen all the Targaryen failures of the past in his dreams, and he was among them. Was he destined for something else? His wounds made the idea daunting. Could he even do what he needed to do in this state?

The Septon continues as if none of this had transpired, and quickly informs Rhaegar of all the news he knows of. The rest of the monks leave, making it only Rhaegar and the Septon (or Elder Brother, it seems). “From what they say, the royal forces broke completely. You are thought to be dead. The rebels have advanced on the capital, and a long siege is expected.” He says nearly all at once, it takes Rhaegar a minute to catch up to what the man has said.

Broken completely… not routed? The rebels are already hurrying to the capital? I was resurrected?

Rhaegar asks his first of many questions. “Robert Baratheon? His condition?”

“Grievously wounded, but alive. He rests while Lord Stark leads the army to the city.”

“My Kingsguard? Surely they were able to enact a retreat?” Rhaegar hopes.

The Septon shakes his head. “All dead, save Barristan Selmy, who was captured.”

“Damn it all!” Rhaegar rages. They will be nearly depleted of all their men to hold a siege. They'll have to raise the commoners. That is the only way, a militia will at least act as fodder, and, Rhaegar thinks gravely, lower the amount of mouths to feed.

Suddenly, Rhaegar feels an intense pain in his side. He screams out in anguish, and takes a moment to collect himself. Resurrected, maimed, army destroyed, generals captured, capital besieged. What is he to do? What can he do?

A monk returns as he thinks, seemingly having finished whatever the other monks left to do. “Everything is in the right order, father. He- He will need months worth of rest and training to be able to fight or ride. Otherwise, it'll only cause his pains and wounds to suffer.” One of the monks says, pausing before reaching his verdict. It may as well be a death sentence.

“I don't have months. I… I don't have time at all. I must leave immediately. Can I be provided a ship or boat?” Rhaegar questions, the Septon growing more stressed as they pile up.

“My Prince… You must rest… At least another we-”

“I DO NOT HAVE A WEEK!” Rhaegar yells out, echoing across the room into the hall outside. “Nor a month! Or months! I must leave as soon as possible. Please,” he begs, “I must return to my family. I need to protect them. I have been brought back, but what is it all for if my family lies under rubble!?” As he says this, some of his pain subsides. He feels better already then, and he takes it as a sign that he must get back home. This is the right path.

“My Prince…” The Septon begins again.

“No.” Rhaegar interrupts, “I must.”

The Septon's eyes hold much weight as they seem to analyze Rhaegar. Judging him and how he will act.

“Make me a promise then, my Prince. You have been brought back, and seemingly by the Grace of God and the Seven, so I ask a promise, that you will uphold all the faith is, for if God has brought you back, it is his will you must complete.” The Septon says, his tone giving away that he has been thinking about all of this for some time. “Promise that you will hold yourself to do rightly by all during the rest of this conflict.” The Septon says, a complete change in his demeanor.

The Septon stands in silence, awaiting an answer. No doubt he has heard the stories then. Heard what the rebels believe him to have done. Raper. Traitor. Mad.

Just like your father.

A test, then. If they believe Rhaegar a fool and tyrant like his father, then they will not allow him to leave, maybe even turn him over to the rebels. To Robert. Even after having been resurrected by their own God.

It makes sense though, if God has resurrected an unrepentant rapist, then the only reason he’d be brought back would be to serve out his punishment. He couldn’t blame them for that reasoning.

A heat rises in Rhaegar, a righteous fury that is not his own. This is not the dragon's flame he knew well whenever he had uncovered or learned something of his destiny. No. This was a new flame altogether. In fact, he did not feel that old fire at all. Was it replaced? By… this? Whatever “this” is.

Rhaegar knew they wanted more than just a promise, and so he gave them something more. An oath, a code to live by. The same one a High Septon would take before claiming the crystal crown. He would do this, not only to appease them, but for some reason, because he knew he had to, like it was a condition to his new life. He truly believed it then, and that surprised Rhaegar more than anything. Rhaegar had never been a man of the faith. He used what he could from other cultures sporadically, without thinking of their contexts or notions. Then, why does it feel so right?

With as much authority as he can muster in his state, he begins. “I, Rhaegar Targaryen, Prince and heir to the Iron Throne, swear upon my life, that when I become ruler of this land, that I will hold myself to the highest responsibilities and charges.” He pauses, looking for any hint that the Septon might think him lying.

When Rhaegar doesn’t find it, he continues, “In the name of the Father, I will rule justly, with fairness as first and foremost in all my judgments.”

Rhaegar’s pain goes completely away, and he stands, back straight as he can make it and head held high. “In the name of the Mother, I will show mercy in all I do, and stamp out all cruelty and wrath in my rulings.”

The glimmering sunlight that cast from the windows now seems like golden rays which emanate from Rhaegar. He holds his gaze with the Septon. “In the name of the Warrior, courage shall be my shield, so that fear and paranoia will never find its way in my heart. In the name of the Smith, I will show discipline and strength in my acts. In the name of the Maiden, I will never harm the innocent, nor hold hatred in my soul.” Rhaegar's arm, although splinted, tightens as he continues his oath. Something isn't right, however. This fury, this righteous promise, it is…

“In the name of the Crone, I will use faithful wisdom to guide my people into prosperity and kindness. In the name of the Stranger, I shall show charity to all and never show bias toward others, and in God's name,” Rhaegar begins, knowing what he just said is sometimes considered blasphemy by the less-learned Faithful. “I shall promise in my very soul that I will uphold this oath until the end of my days.” Rhaegar finishes, basking in the wide eyes and gaping mouths of the priests.

The Septon is the first to bow on to his knee, even as old as he is. Then, suddenly, the same monk who had been apparently revived just like him, appears from the doorway, looking to have been listening in. He drops to his knees, and ducks his head even lower than he’d already been.

Then, with a note of joy, the Septon says, “Get this man a rowboat and as many supplies as we can give.”

As the Septon and monk rush off to complete their task, Rhaegar, with little fanfare, collapses in bed, completely exhausted.

Time to take hold of my second chance. Now or never.

Chapter Text

The next day, Rhaegar and the revived monk stand at the beach, looking out toward the waters. It's a cool and misty morning, foggy. Perfect for stealth.

The monk was bidden by our shared connection to help me. Whether he had served the Targaryens or Baratheons didn't seem to matter. He had procured a rowboat and had even silently sworn to go all the way to Claw Isle with him. Rhaegar would be forever thankful, and this probably wouldn't be the last time he was.

The faith I see in these people… It is far different from the “faith” in King's Landing. This is the first time I've ever even cared about it since I was a child, praying endlessly for answers that never came…

Rhaegar had to take precautions, however, even with such a trustworthy friend by his side. He dyed his hair with a simple herbal mix. Now, it took on a dark brown coloration, making him look like a Dragonseed or Volantene bastard. The only issue would be that water would easily dissolve it, and show his true color. As long as they kept up their speed, all would be well. To mitigate any water damage, he also cut his hair as short as he could. It was… A despairing look for him, but it was necessary. His purple eyes were of course unable to be helped, so they put him in a monk's robes and gave him the biggest and most voluminous hood they could find.

The Elder Brother had also given them plenty of supplies, with most of them being more helpful to the monk than to Rhaegar himself. With his arm splinted like it was and being unable to swivel his torso without excruciating pain, he would be at the mercy of this monk. He trusted the man, however, but he was not used to having so much done for him. Dressing, eating, and even shitting had become tasks he'd already had needed help with. It would be a long journey indeed.

As they said their goodbyes to the other monks and pushed off from the beach, Rhaegar analyzed their plan as it stood.

They would importantly sail past Maidenpool. House Mooton was loyal, and their son had been a close friend to Rhaegar, but as it stood it was too close to the fray of war and Hoster would want an example made of them.

No, they wouldn't be getting help from them, save for the fact they'd be the final stand to stop any armies from entering Cracklaw Point. This, aided by the fact it didn't help the rebel's cause, would be their undoing. The peninsula was completely loyal to the Iron Throne, and they'd have no issue finding suitable allies to see them off to Claw Isle. It would take longer traveling by road, so by boat it had to be.

Speaking of which. They couldn't hope to brave the open sea on this small dinghy, but they'd have to, at least for a short while. Dyre Den would surely have a simple trading vessel, and then to Claw Isle. The largest issue would be the Vale's navy. Not a large navy by any means, but the royal fleet was busy past the peninsula, which left everything above it ripe for the rebel fleets.

From Claw Isle would come Dragonstone, and from their King's Landing. They were expecting a week or so of harsh and unending travel. If they even rested for a day, they might be too late.

The capital couldn't have been besieged by now. Even if Ned rushed as fast as possible, he still had multiple castles and militias that would slow him down, if he went past them, they'd be an easy encirclement, and their supply lines would be cut off instantly. If all went to plan, they'd reach King's Landing just before them. Rhaegar was counting on a lot of unknowns right now, but… He had to have faith.

Faith that he was brought back for a reason. That it wasn't just as punishment. That it all meant something.

And so, they rowed. Well, the monk rowed, while Rhaegar kept low and out of sight. He would occasionally take one oar to let the monk rest one of his arms, but with his injuries it was impossible to help the man anymore than this.

The monk wasn't without his own impairments either, and if not for their shared resurrection, Rhaegar might have asked for another companion, but as it stood they were invariably linked. The monk could not stand, and needed a cane to walk. There would be no running nor fighting for either of them then, and god forbid riding. This is also why sea travel was the best plan. Traversing the war-torn land would kill them assuredly, and at the very least leave them captive at worst and robbed at best.

Not much could be said of their travel through the misty morning and into the sunny haze of noon. The waters were calm today, and no storm lay in wait for them. When the fog cleared, they could see both sides of the coast as easily as anyone could see them.

They passed by Maidenpool, and like Rhaegar expected, it was currently being besieged by a small Riverman militia, not enough to break it, but enough to stay any sally. Rhaegar whispered a prayer that they hold out for as long as they could, and if possible, forgive him for their son's death. It would weigh on him for the rest of his life, and he would never forget Mooton's loyalty.

When they passed Wickenden, they were surprised to see not a single rebel ship docked there. He had expected a patrol boat of some kind, but if they couldn't even spare that? They might have a better shot at this than he expected.

The whole fleet must be stationed at Gulltown, and that presented a future opportunity, it seemed. If they couldn't muster anything west or south… An attack on Gulltown would potentially cripple any rebel naval power; what little they had anyway. Something to keep in mind for later.

Save for the odd fisherman or washerwoman, they were practically alone for the entire trip. It was getting late when the first obstacle finally presented itself.

They must have been sailing too close to shore, when a sudden tug on the bottom of the boat made them both nearly fall over in fright. When they investigated, they found a piece of the boat had cracked on the bottom, most likely due to a waterlogged branch poking out from the waters. It wouldn't be a long time to fix, so they started rowing toward a nearby beach, slightly dipping inland for cover.

The smell of moss and sentinels was heavy, and it was a nice reprieve for them to stretch and walk about. Both of them were sore above their waists, and they still had quite the travel ahead of them. They'd still be on time, but they probably wouldn't reach Dyre Den until early the next morning.

The monk was quickly making work of the cracked wood, binding it in place and using pine sap from the nearby trees to “glue” the piece in place. It wouldn't last for long, especially given the rough waters they were entering, but they'd just have to bear it. They had a bucket at the least, and they'd probably have to stay closer than they'd like to the shore. With their injuries, they couldn't even swim. What a sorry sort they were.

Crack

Rhaegar turns at the sudden sound of a branch snapping, only to see the glint of a sword in the fast-growing moonlight.

Two men, haggard and thin, stand at the edge of the woods. Their arms and armor mark them instantly as a rebel and a loyalist soldier. Both bandits undoubtedly.

Deserters from the battle?

Rhaegar and the monk share a look, one that screams, ‘Fuck me.’ With nothing to do but look, the night becomes eerie with silence. The only sounds are the occasional owl calls and Rhaegar's own belabored breathing.

“Their priests…” The man with the sword says. His hair is a ruddy red, his skin a mess of scars. So bad was the scarring that the man couldn't seem to keep his right eye open.

The other man, a smaller but stronger looking sort with deep black hair, just smiled and said, “Means they won't fight us. Ain't that right?” Then they started slowly making their way toward them.

“Wait!” Rhaegar exclaims, “We're both wounded. Uh… We're no threat to you, as you say.”

“Even better.” The black haired man says, his smile a horrible thing in the dark. The red haired man seems less inclined to hurt the priests, and says as much.

“Just let us ‘ave at them their supplies, we'll let ya go if you do.” It seemed genuine, but Rhaegar and the monk couldn't do without everything they had. Food, water, rope, kindling, pots, pans, extra oars and clothes. He had to do something. He can't fight, can't run without sacrificing the monk, they have no time to push the boat out.

He has to do something… anything… think…

“Hold on! Are you sure of this path? Do you not understand what will happen should you harm a brother of the faith?” Rhaegar tries, he has to talk his way out, or at least stall them. Rhaegar only has a single dirk strapped to the inside of his robe, not enough speed or movement to actually fight… but maybe a well-placed surprise shank.

His pain flares in his side. Mercy first… charity.

“We don't give a rat's ass about you being brothas. Ain't no brotha of mine. Mine all got themselfs killed in that damn battle, and I ain't seen any of you's there to help fight.” The black haired bandit seethes, his anger and hatred apparent.

The red haired one seems more pliable, so Rhaegar gives it another go. “We– We're going to a nearby Sept to tend to the wounded and sick. You're right, we can't fight, but we can heal. Come with us.” He holds out his good hand to them, attempting his best smile. “There will be food. Rest. You won't have to kill for your survival. I promise all of this and more.”

“You'll ferry us to th’ other side?” The red hair one says. “Away from the frontlines?” He seems more reasonable than his companion, thank goodness.

Rhaegar nods, “Of course! If that is what you wish.”

“Tending the sick? Then why ya’ headin’ the wrong way?” The black haired one questions. “Didn't think we’d been watchin ya, hmm? All you priests is good for is lying through ya teeth. I know your faithfuls tricks.” The black haired bandit stalks forward, unsheathing a shortsword and stopping only an arm's length away from Rhaegar; then all of a sudden, he stops, and a hint of recognition crosses his eyes.

Godsdammit.

“Rhys, let's stop this, they're priests, they got supplies, let's just take ‘em.”

“Shut up, Crosston! Don't ya see? These. Ain't. Priests.” Rhys breathes through his teeth, angrier than a wild hound on the scent.

“Whaddya me-” Crosston starts, but the sound of a bolt loosing into Rhys’ neck sends everything back into silence. To Rhaegar's side, he sees the monk wielding a hand crossbow, held down at his hip. The shot landed straight and true even then, and Rhaegar's taken back when the steely eyed monk falls over on himself after, only having enough strength it seemed for that one shot.

“RHYS!” Crosston screeches, his low voice now raised and cracked. He rushes forward toward Rhaegar, sword outstretched and held ready to swing.

Rhaegar doesn't have enough time to pull out his dagger, and with only animal instincts to go by, he dodges out of the way into the boat, falling over and cursing himself for landing on his wounded arm. The pain soars through him and even dazes him for a moment.

“You damn bastard!” Crosston yells as he pushes himself out of the ankle deep sands and water, chopping a deep dent into the boat's side next to Rhaegar's shin. Kicking back and away, Rhaegar finds himself under one of the seats of the rowboat, helpless to do anything but keep moving back as sword swing after sword swing lands into the boat and their boxed supplies. Chips of wood go flying here and there, some tickling Rhaegar’s face as he rocks back and forth in an effort to minimize his chances of being hit.

Taking his free hand, he hurriedly grabs at his dagger, nearly freeing it. Then, before he can pull it completely out, Crosston rounds the boat and raises his sword to impale Rhaegar. His eyes in the moonlight are alive with a blue filled with deep hatred and loathing. It makes Rhaegar think of Robert.

Before he can be skewered, the monk jumps up from his resting place and slams Crosston over the head with his crossbow, sending him reeling back. The crossbow shatters from the impact and the monk falls back, limping to try and dodge out of Crosston's fury.

Rhaegar has just enough time to pick himself up and free his dagger by the time Crosston has thrown the monk to the ground and readies himself to strike. Without hesitation, Rhaegar jumps off the side of the boat, landing on Crosston's back and slamming the blade deep into the scarred shut-eye of the man.

For a second, nothing happens. An owl calls from across the bay, and then the bandit falls to the ground, twitching and dead.

For a long moment, both Rhaegar and the monk just breathe. The cool night winds howl past them, and leave goosepimples across Rhaegar's exposed flesh.

When Rhaegar turns to look over the boat, he's surprised to see it's still seaworthy. None of the blows seemed to have hit below where it'll tread on water. They can still make it. Although…

The two bandits, Rhys and Crosston, lie still now, their bodies slumped and dried blood pooling out of their neck and eye respectively. It takes him a moment, but then without hesitation, the monk begins grabbing up nearby rocks and building a cairn.

Rhaegar gets the idea, and helps drag the bodies to a nearby dry stretch of grass underneath the sentinel trees. It takes them the better part of an hour with all their injuries and aches, but they get it done. They hold a silent prayer for the men, and when it's over… Rhaegar feels… horrid.

These men were soldiers— capable and strong— they didn't need to die. They could have helped. If only Rhaegar had been more clever, quicker on his wits. He was still loopy on the medicines the monks gave him, but even then it was no excuse, he had been close to disarming them. At least Crosston. He couldn't blame the monk for acting when he did, either. If they had realized it was Rhaegar, then they really only had a coin flips chance of not being sent straight to Robert for a fat coin purse and a set of keeps.

As the unknowns become known, Rhaegar realizes that this journey will not be a short or fast affair. Gods, and what Elia and Lyanna are thinking by now. Both abandoned by the man who promised them the world. Both prisoners of his design… Why had he been so sure of himself before? He never really knew what he was doing, did he?

Death and the fear of death in the span of two nights really softened your confidence in yourself. He was finding it hard to even push on with his plan. Was he even deserving of a second chance? If he couldn't even pacify two bandits?

When they finish, they quickly board the rowboat, and row away, leaving the unnamed beach and the bandits behind them.

Rhaegar looks forward across the choppy waters, huddling in on himself, and swiftly falling asleep.

Chapter Text

The smell of the sea wakes Rhaegar. The hard waves that send the boat up and down, nearly tipping them over, gets him to pay attention. After last night, however, he is still not at his best.

He looks to the sides and back and notices something a bit frightening, they are out in the open ocean. The nearest coast is a horribly long jaunt from here, and unlike the river, the sea's waves are wilder and larger. He wants to ask the monk why they're out so far, but with his companion being functionally mute, he knows that won't get him anywhere.

They row for some time, as early morning turns to late morning, and Rhaegar even attempts to let the monk sleep and let him row for a bit. The monk doesn't seem to agree, and no matter how many times Rhaegar points out the man's dark bags under his eyes, he won't relent. He has a certain tenacity about him that just won’t be stopped. Rhaegar thinks it has to be the shared connection they have, the resurrection that they were both given. He doesn’t know what kind of life the monk lived before, but he seems to be taking this new chance very seriously. Rhaegar just hopes the man isn’t backing the wrong horse…

The splash of the sea drums on through Rhaegar’s ears as he listens idly, this quiet contemplation is then disturbed by the sudden sound of creaking wood and smoldering fire. The smell is retching and stinks of burning flesh. Turning his head, Rhaegar sees why they're so far out.

Ships. Their dark shapes jut from the water and make shadowy gravestones, marking the coastline. Rhaegar can't make out any flags or insignia, no sign of whom these were. He had not heard of any naval engagement this far north, and it looks recent. There's still fires alighting some of them, though faint and mostly inside the ships, giving the shadows the eerie effect of looking like they're flowing into the sky. Rhaegar counts at least six ships, nothing large mind you, but definitely ships made for war.

“What happened?” Rhaegar asks the monk. The man merely shrugs and continues to row, nodding his head ahead of the boat.

Turning to look, he's surprised to see land. The map they used did show the peninsula curving steadily upwards, which made it much easier to find the coast. Though, by this point they should have reached the castle by now.

Anxiety spreads through Rhaegar before he can stifle it. He has to have faith, and he has to lay aside his want to control the situation completely. Dyre Den is ahead of them, and they will reach it. They will reach home. No matter what.

Rhaegar puts out a prayer, that whichever God has gifted him this new life, gift him with patience and wisdom. He can't rush into things, he knows this. He learned it very well when he took Lyanna and ran to the tower. He learned it again in the heat of battle. Now he needs to actually use that patience, where he has no other option but to run, hide, and escape. He probably won't be able to fight like he used to anyway, not unless everyone he fights decides to not hit him in the side or his shield arm. He's pretty sure Robert would do it just to break more of him…

A tap on his shoulder moves him from his thoughts, and upon looking up, he sees the castle. It is still early enough in the day, and the small village and docks below the fortress are asleep and quiet. It has a calming effect on Rhaegar, to finally see safety and stability. These people have yet to be completely touched by the war, it seems, and hopefully they'll still be able to help him.

Rhaegar does see what appears to be a small trading vessel docked a way out from the coast. This place probably doesn't see a lot of trade, but it's still a pleasantly easy port to get into.

The monk rows them into the docks silently, making sure to not splash the oars into the water. When they finally get within arms reach of the docks, Rhaegar instantly pulls himself up and wastes no time getting the rowboat roped onto one of the poles. It’s hard with one hand, but it beats sitting around and doing nothing.

As they both stand tall, having reached their first objective successfully, they're both taken aback by the sudden and authoritative voice of a man on the pier above them.

“And just who in the seven hells are you?” The voice, thick and strong, leaves both the men frozen. Rhaegar turns slowly to the monk and exchanges a glance. The monk shrugs, but ultimately looks towards the castle, and thereby the man in front of them.

Rhaegar does the same. He can't reveal his identity to just anyone, least of which to random commoners. When he turns to look upon the man, though, he's surprised to see purple eyes beneath dark black hair, with sprinkles of cinnamon brown if you look closely enough. He stands easily a head above both Rhaegar and the monk, who are respectably tall themselves. He looks just as strong as the both of them combined, as well, forgoing current injuries. On his surcoat and armor are the insignias and coat of arms of House Celtigar.

What would someone from Claw Isle be doing here? Are they a Celtigar themselves? That would make this a bit easier at least.

“Helloooo? Tell me who ya are ‘afore I sic my axe on you.” The man says, grizzly black beard bouncing with his voice. He slowly pulls up a war-axe the size of a man, and holds it aloft. The familiar glint and dark smoky waves of Valyrian Steel both frighten and exhilarate Rhaegar.

Quick to step into action, Rhaegar carefully takes a bucket, scoops it into the water, and dunks it over his head. The dye quickly runs down from his hair, revealing the golden white beneath.

The man gives an expected gasp, as Rhaegar stands tall before him. “I am Rhaegar, crown Prince and heir of the Iron Throne. I am on a mission back to my home, and if you help me, you will be rewarded greatly.” He finishes with a deep and flourishing bow, hoping the man notices the difference between his royal one and those a commoner might do.

When the silence becomes a little too long, he looks up, anxious. He finds the man looking down at the monk, seemingly prepared for some other sort of reveal. When none comes, though, the man simply huffs.

“Rhaegar Targaryen… You died at the Trident. That's what the ravens say. Yet, my eyes don't deceive me.”

Before the man can question anymore than he might, Rhaegar asks, “And you are, my friend?”

“Ser Harrold Celtigar, heir to Lord Adrian Celtigar. You arrived on a rowboat? From where? How did you survive? And who is this other man?”

“Before we get into that, might we find some more private place to speak? Some salt and bread would be expected, and rest as well. It has been quite the journey for us.” Rhaegar placates, trying to ensure their safety before all else.

Harrold nods quickly, “Of course. The Lord of Dyre Den will confirm your identity as well. Come with me.”

Rhaegar is a little miffed that the man still questions him after that carefully planned reveal, but he guesses it's only fair. No need to get egotistical after all he's been through, right? The truth will always prevail, or something like that…

Needless to say, they follow Harrold. Up the winding cobble road toward the castle are sentinels, towering above them on either side. The smell of their sap and the numerous buildings built out of the stuff made for a rustic feel. One that Rhaegar couldn't say he disliked, all in all, Cracklaw Point was really an undervalued piece of Westeros, not to mention a potential gold mine for trade if it wasn't for those Stepstone corsairs.

Why had they never done anything about that since Daemon?

When they reach the castle gates, Rhaegar notices just how tall the sentinels are around here. They reach far above the outer bailey, and are as wide and thick as two men standing together. Quite the difference to the small, recently planted trees around King's Landing.

Some of these must be older than the conquest…

Harrold calls up to a guard who looks like he's about to nod off. Thankfully, he catches their attention and opens the gates for them in a timely manner. Walking inside, the keep is very similar to the town surrounding it. Pine wood and mossy cobble. A testament to the rugged and still untamed wilds of the inner peninsula.

Guards are there to greet them, much to the monks' chagrin. He looks like he's about to bolt when they enter into the enclosed space. Probably a fear that they won't be able to run. Rhaegar has that anxiety as well, but if he's being honest, being inside the castle is a far better prospect than being outside of it.

When the guards see Rhaegar, they don't seem particularly impressed or pleased by him. They probably think he's some Celtigar cousin or bastard, which is actually a rather good cover story if he needs to use one.

Harrold instructs them that he needs to speak with the Lord of the keep, and they're quickly taken inside and up one of the keep's towers, presumably to the Lord's study. When they reach it, Harrold orders one of the guards to have salt, bread, and wine brought up, and to ensure no passerby interrupts them save for that.

Harrold opens the door, goes inside, and after a moment comes and bids them enter. When they do, Rhaegar is glad to see Lord Brune here, alive and well. He had followed him into battle, and from how the Elder Brother had discussed the battle with him, Rhaegar wasn't sure anyone had survived or had escaped capture. Thankfully, it seemed some had. That makes this far easier.

Lord Brune at first has a stern and solemn face, looking a little irritated by the distraction, but upon seeing Rhaegar, his face turns into one of surprise and joy.

“By the Gods!” Lord Brune exclaims in a gasp, eyes wide and looking all over Rhaegar's bent and cripple form. His arm had taken an irritated look ever since his fall, and his side ached as always. That, and his soggy state after his reveal, probably gave him quite the poor look.

“Lord Brune. I am glad to see you survived the battle. May I have a seat?”

Lord Brune, remembering his station, stood, motioning toward a seat in front of his desk. “Please, my Prince.”

With a nod and smile, Rhaegar sat down, thankful for the reprieve. As much as he wished he could just order him to get him the fluffiest bed and most succulent meal right that instance, Rhaegar knew it would do no good to start giving in to his baser wants. Not even small comforts could stay them, they had to make due with what they could get whilst traveling, and he tells as much to Lord Brune.

“This must be quick, my Lord. Be seated, all of you. First, how did you escape? Were there any others?”

Lord Brune nods gravely, taking back his seat. “Not that I know of. Most others were captured or killed. Those rebel bastards were ruthless, I’ll give them that. As for myself, It was by the skin of my teeth. Saltpans held them up for a while, but nearly all my men were dead or captured. I had no choice but to head home, for the capital was too far along for me to safely retreat there.”

“That’s understandable. I’m just glad to have an ally now, and for my identity to be confirmed so quickly for our friend here.” Rhaegar looks to Harrold who merely nods, looking a little put out after unknowingly questioning a royal. He sighs, realizing that embarrassing a potential ally really doesn’t help him right now, and offers a smile to Harrold, which he returns.

Rhaegar readies himself for the story he must tell and the questions that will come of it. He should be completely honest, but not even God could complain if he left out a few parts… It wasn't lying, just… Omission. Who would believe him outside the most devout and deluded? That he was resurrected? He really didn’t want to seem like he’d taken a blow to the head as well as the chest right now. Could you blame him?

“Yes, I survived the battle. I washed ashore at the Quiet Isle, just as my companion here did. I was left horribly wounded, and had been tended to for a fortnight. Finally, when I awoke, I knew I could not wait to heal fully, and thanks to this man, I am here now.” Rhaegar nods to the monk, who returns it in kind, hopefully understanding Rhaegar’s reservation to tell people of their miraculous ‘recovery’. “He has sworn to come with me to at least Claw Isle, which makes me grateful that I have met our mutual friend, Ser Harrold. If it's not too much, could my friend be treated to the same bread and salt, then to a proper meal after? And some proper bedding until we must go. On that note, I also must request that we take your fastest ship. You must understand that I would not ask this without proper justification, and I'm sure it is obvious why I must return home as quickly as possible.”

“Of course! All of this I can do. Easily. Although, I must warn that the seas are teeming with rebel ships, there is a likelihood they will spot you. Gulltown has been turned into their current naval base, and currently they send patrols all over, your supposed death seems to have spurred them on…” Lord Brune pauses for a moment, then swiftly returns to the conversation. “Just two days ago a patrol came down and was set upon by pirates, though I'm sure they'll say it was royalists. They're too cowardly to admit anything else, I'm sure.”

Ah, that solves that mystery. So they are attempting to control the bay, and thus the peninsula. Do they suspect Rhaegar is alive? Surely not.

“I see. Still, it's the fastest way. I must take the risk. I need to get home and defend my family. Speaking of… What news has come to you? I only know the battle was a total defeat, and that I have lost my most able generals. If you know anything about how the war has gone, please tell me.”

Lord Brune exhales and rubs his temples, Rhaegar knows that can only mean a lot has happened in such a short amount of time. Before he can, however, the salt, bread, and wine arrive. They all four partake, and afterward, Rhaegar bids the monk to rest, not taking no for an answer. That leaves him, Lord Brune, and Ser Harrold.

Lord Brune down his entire glass of wine, and swiftly begins. “Alright.” He sets the glass down and looks away, thinking, before raising his hard gray eyes to look into Rhaegar's. “The rebels have been halted at Duskendale. They'll have to break it to get any farther, though with so few men left to hold it, it won't be long now. Reports from royalists have come from Storm's End that Mace is still besieging the castle. Not an easy task, but I say he's stalling after word of your death.” Lord Brune unfolds a map that lay in his desk, pointing toward the Rock. “The Lord of the Blackwater Rush has confirmed that Tywin Lannister makes his way east, most likely to bolster Kings Landing's defenses. He is no longer neutral, but after your death… I cannot say he might not defect. All nobility have heard the stories of their soured relations, my Prince.” He says the last part cautiously, to which Rhaegar merely waves his hand. He can't afford to overlook possibilities just because it could annoy him to think upon.

Lord Brune continues, pointing to the Iron Island. “The Greyjoys likewise seem to have set sail from their islands. I'm sure by now they have already either passed Oldtown or laid a raid on the coast if they’ve turned. I can't say why, but I'm not hopeful for their being on our side.”

All this information bodes ill for them. Rhaegar knows why all these dark tidings come as well. His death marks a change in the royalists future. Without him, it would be Aerys or nothing. Not a particularly good choice, even for the most loyal men.

Rhaegar weighs his options. At this point, everything is on a balance. To get them on his side, he'd need to ensure that his allies know he's alive, but with that comes the risk of the rebels finding out. His paths are limited, and they would make quick work of him if they couldn't get to safe waters in time. Gulltown is only a stone's skip away, and land travel is out of the question, they would know this. A delay then.

“Then I have little choice. We are close to losing all support.” Rhaegar finishes his wine, and crosses his arms in thought. A heartbeat passes, and he makes the choice. “Have a letter sent, a day after I leave, to give me time to at least make it to Claw Isle. First, to the other lords of Cracklaw, then from there, send as many ravens as you can spare to the capital, Mace, and Dorne. If they know I live, they will be emboldened and hopefully redouble their efforts.”

“I will come with you, my Prince. My axe is yours.” Harrold proclaims, determination in his eyes.

“For that, you will be rewarded greatly. My favor will be well-placed to all those who have and will aid me, that you both can be certain.” Rhaegar stands. “Now, if you both would get these tasks underway, it would be greatly appreciated. I need a bath, food, and ink and parchment to write that letter. I shall not stay long, however. As soon as a ship can be commandeered, we shall make for Claw Isle immediately.”

“My Prince!” The men both say in unison, standing and bowing. Lord Brune orders some guards to attend to my needs, and Ser Harrold to collect our means of travel. Rhaegar thanks God that it was these most loyal men that he ran into. If Lord Brune had been captured or perished, he could very well have seen the other Brunes turning him away or even turning him in, in hopes they might rescue their Lord.

Within half an hour Rhaegar eats, bathes, and begins his letter. It is a utilitarian and short piece of writing, but it gets the point across and gives info only he would know, so its veracity can be certain. He also makes certain to add that anyone who gets this letter should copy and send it out, to spread the news. He marks it with his signature. Before they leave, he'll have Harrold and Lord Brune sign it as well.

As he writes, a knock comes to the door. Rhaegar calls for them to enter. Ser Harrold steps through the door, an apologetic look on his face. "My Prince, a ship has been obtained for our travel."

"That was quick. The one docked just outside the town?" Rhaegar turns, putting his pen in his inkwell and giving Harrold his attention.

"Ah, well yes, it was the same one ferrying me around the peninsula. They would have returned to Claw Isle regardless. In fact, I'm sure they'll be happy to return earlier, knowing I won't be taxing their kin any longer." Harrold explains, keeping his hands behind his back and taking a formal stance. His behavior obviously far different when interacting with someone he considers above his station. Even his speech is different.

"I wondered what a Celtigar was doing out here. Though, the heir? Why would they send the heir to tax collect? That seems... Above you." Rhaegar says cautiously, careful not to insult the man.

Harrold let's out a scoff. "Well, it's no secret us Celtigars have been attempting to tax the peninsula for quite some time. Nor is it a secret that our tax collectors usually don't come back. So, to remedy this, I have come to ensure that the job is done correctly." Harrold proudly admits. Rhaegar sees the strategy, however, and before he can think better, calls Harrold out.

"So, despite knowing the lords of Cracklaw already pay their taxes to the King directly, you've used this time of war to intimidate them into what amounts to robbery? If I have it right, what you're doing isn't just dishonorable, but outright punishable." Rhaegar can't even bring himself to smooth the insult, which Harrold takes surprisingly well. The flame, that sense of justice he swore to, burns hot. Harrold doesn't seem bothered by the bite of Rhaegar's words, instead bowing low, his expression changing into one of remorse.

"I agree." Harrold says, completely shaking Rhaegar out of his burning sense of justice. Now he's confused. "It seems I've confused you... Pardon me, my Prince. Let me be clear," He stands straighter, his wavy black hair and beard shining with the chandeliers light on them. It gives him a knightly look, despite the incredibly monstrous height he commands. After clearing his throat, he continues, "My father, Lord Adrian Celtigar, ordered me on this mission. As I said, to ensure our taxes. You are right, my family have exploited this war for our gain. Yet, there are many who have done worse. As for myself, I couldn't care less about Cracklaw. Instead, I would rather build up our home, so we may stand tall. My family has seen itself fit to isolate itself for many years now, never once have we intermarried with the Targaryens, not since the Conquest." Rhaegar begins to see where this is going, and he's not entirely happy about the conversations turn. This is why he trusts the monk above all others, even if it would do to have more capable hands to help him in this journey.

Harrold continues, surprisingly still polite and respectful as he talks of his family. He's very much the opposite of so many other hulking brutes Rhaegar has met. Especially a certain one who nearly caved in his ribcage. "I propose a plan, then. Something that will see my house given a risen status, whilst giving our Cracklaw neighbors their due respect." Harrold pauses for a dramatic effect, whilst Rhaegar merely sits and stares, readying himself to say no as politely as possible. "A city charter for Claw Isle, and more importantly, a future prospect in the Stepstones."

Oh?

"That... Actually isn't implausible. I had thought you'd ask for marriage." Rhaegar is only becoming more confused by this Harrold the more he speaks with him. There's more to him than meets the eye, it seems.

"Hah! Marriages... Forgive me in case of offense, but your eligible family members are far too young for any of the eligible Celtigars. Besides, you'll need them for after this war, that's for certain. Another time... Maybe." Harrold breaths, then comes closer and takes a seat on the bed next to Rhaegar's desk. "No, I simply wish to create a foundation for our house. No need to reshape the whole axe blade if only a few nicks need smoothing." Rhaegar is certain Harrold is the only person whose ever used that phrase before.

"Well," Rhaegar starts, "I will certainly think on it. Of course, all of that is if I can make it home and defeat Robert. I also have others I need to recompense for their goodwill." Rhaegar thinks a little on the city charter, then thinking aloud says, "If I give you a city charter however... That would make others incensed that they were not given it as well..."

"The only reason that it hasn't been done yet is because the status quo has been maintained. This... Rebellion. It changes things. You have too many enemies, even if you win. You need leverage. Give city charters, watch your coffers grow, and laugh as your once enemies bend over themselves to placate your every need. It's foolproof, my Prince."

Rhaegar is surprisingly coming around to Harrold's thinking. Not how he thought this was going to go, at all. "You've thought about this for a while, then?"

"Since I was a boy, learning at my Lord father's knee. There was just never a better time to speak of it till now. I had hopes to bring this to Aerys... I arrived just as Brandon's trial commenced, as you can understand, my Prince, I did not bring my ideas forward that day." Harrold says, a sense of unease in his voice.

"I- I see. You've given me much to think on. I... Apologize. I may have judged you too soon, Ser Harrold." Rhaegar dips his head in apology and respect. It seems Rhaegar is more than lucky in his traveling companions then, some would say blessed.

"Many do. Just as a man judges a crab nothing more than a nuisance, he is always surprised to find the claw has already cut off his cock!" Harrold let's out a boisterous laugh at his joke, and then shakes Rhaegar's shoulder, standing and bowing to leave. "I will let you return to your letters, the ship will be readied in a few hours."

As he leaves, Rhaegar finds it hard to return to his letter, but in the end, it is finished.

He gives the letter to the Maester of the keep, heads into an apartment given to him by Lord Brune, and swiftly falls into a nap.

When he awakens, it's to the feeling of someone resting a hand on his shoulder. Turning over, he’s glad to see the monk. He looks much better after some rest, and with the rowing now in the hands of others, he seems much more resolved to the journey ahead. They exchange a brief non-verbal conversation, mostly just Rhaegar asking if he’s eaten and drank, to which the monk confirms.

He follows the monk outside, where Ser Harrold and Lord Brune await with the Brune family. Formal greetings are made between them, where they learn the monk has taken a vow of silence, which Rhaegar actually forgot to mention. His bad, honestly.

“I jus’ thought you were quiet.” Harrold remarks as they leave the castle.

It’s only an hour or so after noon as they exit, but thankfully the Lord Brune thought of everything and had their rowboat and supplies brought to the ship beforehand, in case they needed extra supplies and an escape plan in case of enemy vessels. They had little time for pleasantries, and so quickly said their goodbyes, gave each other their good luck, and set sails.

The ship itself is maintained by a group of Cracklaw natives. They named the ship Fareye. Rhaegar didn’t really care to learn why, the men seemed loyal and well-trained, and that’s all that he really cared about. They leave Dyre Den as the noon sun drifts low on the western horizon, a beautiful view if not for the grim task they were set to do. There was a high chance of death if they came across an enemy, and Rhaegar would be the reason why in the end. Why was he always the reason things went wrong? That people got killed?

His hastiness to ride out against Robert. His idiocy when he disregarded Selmy and rushed into that damned river. Lyanna…

With so little rest and so long a journey still in front of them, Rhaegar was completely exhausted. He should rest below deck, but he knew if he did that he’d be useless should something go wrong. He might be useless if he drops dead from overextending himself too…

Ser Harrold stands next to him as they watch the castle drift away into the setting sun. The monk, unlike Rhaegar, does take the chance to rest some more. Rhaegar can’t blame him, even after being resurrected, he still needed sleep, food, water. Completely at odds to how the Last Kiss affects those who come back from it. Which brings up so many questions that Rhaegar has no time to think on without putting him into deeper anxiety than he’s already in. Thankfully, Harrold rouses him from his thoughts with a well-placed question.

“Things aren’t looking good for us, are they?” Harrold asks ominously. The distraction is still appreciated, and so Rhaegar humors it.

“No. Things are bleak. If the rebels are now doubled in their armies and navies, I don’t think even the Reach, Dorne, and Crownlands can stop them. All I can hope for is that when news comes of my survival, that it will rouse people back to our cause.”

“Excuse this next question, my Prince, but… What of your father? You seemed to dismiss his authority back in the castle, and I now wonder what your aims are for him…” Harrold turns to Rhaegar, a glint of something in his eye. Is it hope? Regardless, he really shouldn’t tell Harrold of his plans, but…

“He is unfit to rule, that much is certain.” Rhaegar admits, much to Harrold’s surprise. “He turned a simple dispute into a full-blown rebellion, and now… Many have paid for it. We will hold a council and force him to abdicate. I am no kinslayer, if that’s what you’re getting at.” Rhaegar decides that if he was going to have a second chance, he wasn’t going to pussyfoot around his aims. He needed people that would help him, and Harrold seemed a solid sort, someone who liked an honest and upright man.

He also won’t have the label of kinslayer added to his already large list, no matter how much he thinks it might be worth it to see his wretched father die.

His side aches at the thought, and Rhaegar has to take a moment to let the feeling go. No, his father may have been a monster, but Rhaegar could not stoop to his level. He needed to show the world he was better than Aerys. Show them that he was not like his father…

The night sky pokes out as Harrold nods, content with Rhaegar’s answer, and he heads below deck to catch some rest. Rhaegar remains outside, however, watching as the dark gives way to the colorful night sky.

He sees the constellations, names them one by one. He used to do so as a boy, just sitting outside and watching the stars grow bright and complete their wayward travel across the void. It relaxed him, knowing there was more to the universe, in some way, somewhere. He dreamt some nights that far across the sky lay lands where there was no need for prophecy, or dreams, or fate. A place where Rhaegar could simply sit down, lie in a peaceful lonely place, and play his harp. That’s what he mainly thought of when he played at Summerhall’s ruins. Just… The ‘what ifs’, the ‘why's’. Thought and wondered why he of all people needed to be the one. The one person whose shoulders the world sat on.

Rhaegar chuckles. He’s letting his self-importance get ahead of him. He knows now there was no destiny, not in the way he thought, even before his resurrection. It’s not him that everything falls on. He can’t forget all those that would make it possible. Elia, Lyanna, Benjen, Rhaella. All of them played a part, and for their sacrifice, what had he done for them?

Hurt them, get their loved ones killed, and destroyed their lives. Would Lyanna ever forgive him for her father and brother’s death? Would Elia forgive him for her uncle’s death, or abandoning her? Could Robert forgive this injustice? Could he even get the chance, without everyone seeing Rhaegar as weak for letting him live? How many more people needed to forgive him? Countless. Untold thousands… Millions.

Rhaegar slumps against the barrier of the ship, looking down into the dark and bubbling sea below, and weeps.

He doesn’t know for how long he cries, nor if anyone sees him or notices, but he does seem to drift into a quiet lull of sleep without disturbance. It’s more peaceful than he has the right to have, and the dreams are quiet and without pain for once.

.

.

.

Then, with a jolt, Rhaegar awakens. The sounds of screaming and orders being made echo across the ship, knocking him out of his sleep-ridden mind. It's pitch black save for the few lanterns lit by the sailors. The new moon makes it even harder to see, but what Rhaegar sees across the waters is clear as crystals.

Looking out across the ocean, Rhaegar sees a war galley heading straight for them, lanterns slowly turning on as the ship exposes itself. On the prow fly two flags; one of a gray dire wolf on white, and the other a white and green merman on blue-green.

Chapter Text

The flags flutter high in the night breeze, illuminated only by the shimmer of lantern lights. The black waves surrounding them on all sides makes Rhaegar feel as though he is merely a flash of light in an infinite dark. The only notion that anything exists past this barrier are the stars, which glimmer faintly across the sky.

Rhaegar keeps himself low as the crew begin surging the Fareye forward, attempting to outmaneuver the war galley; a hopeless pursuit. It isn’t long before the thing is right on them, it’s soldiers letting loose a guttural roar as they smack blade to shield, readying themselves for a slaughter.

They’re going to attempt to seize the ship…

Without any weapon but his dirk hidden in his cloak, Rhaegar knows he must get to the monk and Harrold and ready the rowboat. They have no chance of defeating these men, and any survivors would then know of Rhaegar’s survival, perhaps jeopardizing weeks worth of planning.

The enemy ship rounds behind them now, while the captain orders for his men to catch the wind. The wind is worryingly faint, and is only strong enough to add any speed heading away from land. They have no other choice, they can either hope the ship gives up its pursuit, or that the wind may change in their favor.

Rhaegar sees the captain as he heads down. The captain likewise sees him, their eyes locking. A decision is made right at that moment, and Rhaegar feels the fear creeping into his body. Like fractures in ice, a chill runs down his spine. Then, the captain nods, and gets back to ordering his crew. Rhaegar's fear subsides, but doesn't go away.

Rhaegar has nothing to provide the men, and quickly heads down below, where he already finds the monk and Ser Harrold getting ready.

“What’s going on up there? Enemy ships?” Harrold is quick to ask, already hefting his axe on his shoulder, it’s characteristic smokey waves glisten in the glow of the rushlight nearby.

“Yes. Starks and Manderlys, though it could hold just about any of the rebels, I’m sure. They used the cover of the dark to get close.” Rhaegar says, as he and the monk start rounding up as many supplies as they can. When he motions for Harrold to do the same, he smirks.

“I ain't lettin’ them get us.” Harrold says, putting on his gambeson and surcoat atop it, not entirely covered or protected, but better than Rhaegar and the monk. “This axe needs to feel the bite of battle.”

“There's no beating them, Ser. It's an entire squadron on that galley, from what I can hear, you'd be mad to try it.”

“Aye, but try I will. You'll be sitting ducks if it comes to this, but you might as well have the rowboat readied and supplies stored on it.” Harrold says as he climbs up to the top of the deck. Just then, a rapid thumping goes across the boat. Arrow volleys. Without hesitation, even with certainty they'll pepper them with arrows before they risk boarding, Harrold continues topside.

Rhaegar and the monk set to work, and quickly haul as much as they can up and out onto the main deck. By now, all the crew is awake and working. Some work the sails, others the rigging, and still others try the damnedest to fight back with makeshift arrows set aflame, but these men are no archers, and most of the arrows go straight into the water.

As they crest a small wave, another volley of arrows hits, just as Rhaegar closes the below deck hatch. A scream echoes and reverberates even below. Heading up, Rhaegar sees at least two men seriously wounded. The enemy now has a better vantage point on them, as they've gained enough momentum and wind to steadily get up to the sailing ship's side.

The monk, just coming up from getting the last supplies, immediately sets to work on dragging the wounded men away and below the deck. When the time comes to getting the arrows out and the wounds stitched, he can be of little help but to hold the men down. He’d really rather get the rowboat ready, but the monk can’t do this alone, and he’s already saved his life once. Rhaegar owes him.

The monk is able to get the first arrow out of the first man easily enough, it went straight through his leg, but didn't seem to hit anything vital. It bleeds horribly, but then, suddenly, as the monk glides his callused hands across the wound, the flow of blood stops, and in its place is reddened flesh. The skin is still torn, but the monk swiftly gets to stitching it up, while Rhaegar can only stare in amazement.

“He took a vow of silence, there and then… He was the one who saved your arm.”

“Seven Hells!” Rhaegar can't help but curse as he makes the connection. He knew his arm looked too deeply wounded to have been healed naturally. Any idiot could tell you it would have needed to be cut off. By the Gods, he was missing two fingers and had an inch deep wound from the knuckle to the elbow! No mere soldier could heal that!

This man— this monk— had been hiding this ability. Rhaegar now knew why the monk had been brought back with him. This man was a healer, like the old Faithful's first leaders were said to be. Didn't the stories always talk of three archetypes of the faith? A pattern that Rhaegar had recognized when he still thought there might be wisdom in the Seven's words, something a wandering priest had even corroborated with him on one trip to Summerhall.

The healer, who was always pacifistic, the one who spoke the Seven's words and saved the true believers. The knight, who defended the weak and never lay a hand upon anyone but the savages and pagans. Lastly, the ruler, the one who brought justice to the land, and spread the faith as far as his sword arm could reach.

The connections were all there. The monk as the healer, Ser Harrold as the stalwart knight, and of course, Rhaegar as the righteous ruler. The destiny, he could see it. All of it connected, Azor Ahai, Nissa Nissa, the Great Other, the Seven!

Then Rhaegar's side ached in pain and he heard a scream. Looking behind him, the other crew member lay in a pool of blood, an arrow having embedded itself into his chest. Quickly, Rhaegar held him down and still, while the monk, not taking even a second to falter, starts examining the wound.

The arrow isn't all the way through, which means they'll have to push it out the other way. Where it's hit however makes for a difficult spot, as it's close to where the lungs would be. When the monk readies the arrow to be pushed, pulling it away from the lungs as best as possible, they find that it's hit a rib and stuck itself. An impossible situation. Rhaegar looks at the monk to see if he understands, and it seems he does as he grits his teeth in anger. They don’t have the supplies necessary, and even with the monk's healing, it wouldn't be fast enough to stall his lungs filling with blood. Their eyes meet, and the monk’s anger turns to grim resolve. His brown eyes glisten in the dark, the only sign of his courage shaken.

The monk takes a dagger out of his cloak, but Rhaegar stops him. He’s done much for Rhaegar already, and he’ll show him that he’s willing to do the same. Clasping his hand over the monk's fist, he softly wrenches forth the blade. In one quick motion, the crewman's throat is sliced and his life taken. It isn't as quick as they would have liked, but the man will no longer struggle in pain. Rhaegar and the monk give a prayer, but it's interrupted by the sound of heavy boots slamming onto the deck.

They've boarded.

Without any time to lose, they haul the surviving crewman up and out, all of them now on the top deck. Rhaegar hands the monk his cane and dagger, then helps haul the crewman over toward the rowboat near the starboard side of the ship.

Thank the gods it's on the opposite side of the galley.

Rhaegar can see where more volleys of arrows have hit, and the men who have caught them. It makes Rhaegar and the monk's time spent healing look like a waste, as at least a quarter of the crew are now stuck with arrows, blood gushing from them like a wineskin with its stitching torn.

A few Manderly soldiers are the first to have jumped over onto the boat, instantly clashing with the crewman. The crewmen are no warriors, and are killed like nothing more than nuisances. Their lives were wasted because of Rhaegar, and he'll never be able to right that horrible wrong.

Surprisingly, despite the utter lack of skill, some of the crew do manage to take down three soldiers, grabbing up their weapons and shields, mounting a bit of defense against the enemy. Especially as Harrold joins the fray. Leaping down from the raised part of the ship, most likely out of cover from the arrows, he lets loose a laugh of all things and braces his axe to swing wide. He makes quick work of the remaining soldiers while they're occupied by the defending crew.

The galley itself is merely a few inches from the side of the boat, Rhaegar is astonished they haven't crashed into one another, and is about to yell out to the captain to warn him, but as another wave of soldiers crosses over the gap, the galley slides away. They're not at a loss for manpower either, Rhaegar sees at least a dozen or more soldiers still standing at the ready, not even including the archers.

Why? Are they that sure of victory? Has Harrold done it? Scared them off?

Then Rhaegar sees him. Youthful, tall, and impossibly, wielding a Valyrian steel sword. Its deep smokey lines wrap around the blade like ripples of water. Its hilt is strapped with black and its pommel is formed around a heart-shaped ruby, bright even in the low light of the few lanterns still lit on the boat.

Lady Forlorn. Corbray.

Rhaegar remembers them at the battle of the Trident, and dimly recalls seeing Lord Corbray on the field. He can't recall whether he saw him die, but seeing as this young man is not the Lord, and he holds his family's sword? It's clear that this must be one of his children, not the heir, though.

The few Stark and Manderly soldiers that came with him instantly engage with the crew, whittling them down and attempting to surround Harrold.

By this time in the fight, Rhaegar and the monk have gotten the rowboat close to the edge of the boat, letting down some rigging so all they'll need to do is give the boat a quick push and then jump off themselves. The wounded crewman lies against the boat, sweat dripping from his head and breathing hard. Rhaegar isn't sure he'll survive the journey, but at least they tried. That amounts to something, doesn't it?

The clash of Valyrian steel on Valyrian steel draws all eyes to the other side of the ship, its echo nearly ethereal. The dark night obscures much of the fight between Harrold and the Corbray boy, but Rhaegar can already make out both of their strengths and weaknesses in this fight.

Harrold has the better reach with his axe, of course. Its wide and elongated blade needs to only get through the enemies guard once. Harrold also has the strength and technique as well, using well-placed dodges from the Corbray boy to indirectly slam into any other enemy soldiers that get too close or attempt to flank him. In fact, it's almost like the axe is a part of him, as it weaves back and forth like a scythe in the field.

The Corbray boy, however, has speed on his side, and better armor. Despite Harrold's seeming ease with using his momentum to turn misses into guards and hits on other enemies, he can't seem to manage the boy's effortless ducks and weaves. The boy has the opportunity to even hit Harrold while he's open with some of his missed attacks, but Rhaegar can tell he's waiting for the perfect moment. His armor could take a blow, if he’s patient and knows where to guide Harrold’s strike. The boy doesn't have the experience with his weapon like Harrold does. If Rhaegar is right, Harrold has at least ten years on the lad, and more with the axe itself. Even if he uses an opening, Rhaegar is sure the axe will come swinging back to finish the job.

Their fight nearly ends there and then when the captain of the ship comes off from helping the remainder of the crew steer and jumps into the battle. He cuts down one of the Stark men, and then attempts to flank the Corbray man, before his neck is sliced in half by a lazy swing. Corbray doesn't even flinch as he returns to guarding and dodging Harrold's strikes. A horrible loss for the crew, who— with no captain to lead them— devolve into chaos and self-preservation.

Only half of the crew is still standing, with a half of that wounded or trying desperately to steer the ship back toward land. Only a few are actually fighting, and that number dwindles by the second. The war galley, having slipped off earlier, still remains within sight, probably ready to re-engage as soon as Harrold and the crew are dealt with. Harrold isn't making it easy, though.

The Corbray boy is tiring as he dodges and tests Harrold’s guard. This is compounded by his heavier armor and need to reach to even get close enough for a nick. A few times their weapons clash and Harrold throws the Corbray boy back like he’s nothing. His helmet even takes the flat of the axe once, sending the boy reeling. Despite this, his guard is still impeccable, and his fellow soldiers keep him from the bite of the blade more times than can be counted.

Harrold is also tiring. With little sleep or preparation, he's beginning to feel it. His arcs get wider, his swings lazier. They're still tight, but one misstep from either of them and it's over. It reminds Rhaegar of his duel with Robert. The issue is, Rhaegar knows his speed would have won him out if not for that mistake on the river. Despite being the stronger opponent with the longer reach, Robert tired himself easily by wading into the river and swinging his warhammer like the wind itself was his enemy.

Harrold isn't Robert, Rhaegar knows this, but he's still used to using his weight and strength to his advantage, since most men just weren't well-trained enough to dodge like a noble swordsman would be. Harrold maintains his spacing, and doesn't just throw out an attack just for the sake of it. No, he uses his strikes with calculated placement. Always finding some advantage to throwing one out. Either to push Corbray back, or keep him from hitting Harrold in turn.

Suddenly, a Manderly warrior is able to free himself of the crew, who only number maybe five or six, and starts making his way to impale Harrold from behind.

Rhaegar, still just watching, recognizes that he must do something. His useless left arm leaves him only able to use his right. Not impossible, but it leaves him with nearly no protection to his wounded left side. He can't let that stop him, though, his life is in the hands of those around him, and losing Harrold would certainly make their escape harder. Not only that, but standing here on the sidelines while his allies fight for him leaves him pent-up with battle lust and energy. An energy he can't let dry up and be wasted.

With a prayer to the Warrior on his lips, and a dead soldier’s dropped shortsword in his hands, he rushes into the fight. The monk, for his part, doesn't attempt to stop him, instead coming along as well. They leave the wounded crewman to watch the rowboat and defend it if he can.

With practiced ease, Rhaegar cuts down the first man, whose back is turned. Not an honorable kill, but neither were the soldiers' efforts to backstab Harrold. Then, without missing a heartbeat, he slams his sword into the thigh of the man nearly poised to strike Harrold down. His scream is ragged and hoarse, and he drops to the ground in agony. Losing his sword, Rhaegar nearly has his head lobbed off by another soldier. This one's gaze is harder, harsher. He's experienced, and his swings tell that tale easily.

Despite his pained side, Rhaegar's legs and torso are still in working shape, even if a little rusty and soar from boat riding and resting. He dodges swing after swing, the rush of his heart beating in his chest screaming for him to stop. The pain in his side grows more sharp and lasts longer. Echoes of Valyrian steel are the only indication to Rhaegar that Harrold still stands.

The blade of the veteran passes by and takes a quick slice toward Rhaegar's right eye, but thankfully missing by an inch. What he doesn’t miss is Rhaegar’s brow ridge and forehead, as hot blood comes spilling across Rhaegar’s right eye, effectively blinding him. As Rhaegar passes the mast of the ship, he stumbles on what can only be a dead crewman, and that's all it takes. He crumples into the ground uselessly, nearly crushing his left arm again. The veteran poises his sword to strike him down.

Suddenly, the monk, coming from around the mast and covered in the blood of another's, is able to surprise the veteran and slams his knife straight into the back of the man's neck, causing him to collapse in a spasming heap.

So much for the pacifist healer…

Without pause, Rhaegar grabs up the veteran’s sword and turns back to the duel. When he does, he's quick to notice that only Harrold and the Corbray boy are left standing. Both of them breathing hard and fighting harder.

“Monk! Get the rowboat ready!” Rhaegar yells out, helping the monk to stand from where he rests after his attack. “The galley is coming for another volley!” Rhaegar knows in his bones they’ll have seen what’s happened and wish to end it, even with their men on board. Their own ship has begun to tilt to the side with no one controlling it, they’ll lose their speed and be easy targets if they don't leave soon. The darkness will have to be their shield, otherwise, they'll be helpless. If they can just kill this Corbray, the enemy may hold back on pursuing them.

Striding over quickly, Rhaegar raises his sword to enter the fray, before Corbray turns on him like he knew he'd be there. Harrold is too slow to catch up, and Corbray's sword is only stopped by Rhaegar's instinctual block; a piece of muscle memory gained in his first sparring sessions. Rhaegar's sword cracks and, upon blocking another swift strike, breaks into two, the Valyrian steel too strong for a normal blade to withstand.

The broken shard of steel goes flying to the side, and Rhaegar's sword arm goes with it. His entire body is open to attack, Corbray launches forward to skewer his heart, another one to add to his three.

Then, before Rhaegar can blink, Corbray swivels where he stands like a dancer and sticks his sword straight through Harrold's stomach. Rhaegar has no time to be surprised before Harrold's axe comes to cleave the Corbray boy's head in twain. They both fall to the ground with a heavy impact. Blood spills forward like a fountain and covers both of them entirely.

What was a second ago two men moving with sharpened precision now in an instant becomes a stock still or writhing heap of flesh. Corbray's sword still sticks deep into Harrold's abdomen, protruding out of his lower back, barely breaking the skin. Rhaegar dismisses Corbray's still body and arrives at Harrold's side, releasing his grip on his own axe and trying his best to hold his bulky frame up.

“Stay with me! You did it, Harrold, it’s alright.” Rhaegar puts pressure on Harrold's wound as he looks toward where the rowboat is. “Monk! Come here, quickly! We need to heal him!” He calls out. Looking behind, Rhaegar sees the war galley making steady progress closer to them, their arrows likely already drawn back and ready to fire. They don't have much time. The monk is hobbling over so slowly, his cane doing him no favors.

He won't make it in time.

Rhaegar can't leave Harrold, in fear of causing his wound to bleed out and the sword to deepen or open the wound. Already, Harrold has lost enough blood to bathe in it. It coats Rhaegar's arm and makes his hold slick and slippery around Harrold's waist.

“Rhaegar… Hear me.” Harrold rasps out, his lungs working hard to exhale even one word.

Another life taken because of me. Wasted. Harrold was a good man, the sort you don't find often in the world. He didn't deserve to die. None of these people did… They could have lived out their days at home… Not bleeding out on some ship thousands of miles away.

“Please… Please. Consider my… proposals. Promi- Promise me...” Harrold sputters, his body and blood grow cold in the chill night air. Salty waves of water crash against the boat, the wind picks up, the galley approaches. “Brother… Terrance. He gets… The axe. Te- tell him, I died fighting…” He smirks, then quietly, he gives in to the pain. Harrold gives a few more shuddering breaths. He groans in pain as Rhaegar attempts to hold him up. He even tries to pull the sword out, but his own hands are so slick with blood that he’s barely able to grasp the hilt.

His body grows limp, and it's too heavy for Rhaegar to hold him up anymore. With his last ounce of strength, Rhaegar lays him on the ground as gently as possible and slides back from the corpse. The monk finally arrives, but it's too late.

Rhaegar doesn't even say a word. He knows there's no time for it.

He takes the sword out of Harrold and hands it to the monk, he takes it warily, obviously both horrified and honored to be holding Valyrian steel as some lowly ex-soldier turned mute monk. Rhaegar in tandem takes hold of Harrold's axe, surprisingly light even with being Valyrian steel.

They both help each other to the rowboat, the injured crewman and another crewman who survived, begin moving the dinghy halfway off the ship.

After wrapping the weapons in a bundle of cloth and tying all their supplies down, the four work together to launch the rowboat down as evenly as they can. They wince as some of the cargo goes flying into the water, but they can't afford to worry about that. As the soft sound of arrow fire erupts behind them, they all jump.

Hitting the water, they are quickly spun and thrown about as the ripples from the ship send them about, even as the ship itself sails further and further away, until only darkness surrounds them. The idea of having to search for the rowboat was obviously not something Rhaegar thought about, but the darkness is so pure that Rhaegar can’t even see the rippling of the waves. If you told him he was in a cave, he’d nearly believe you, if not for the stars.

As his grip comes into contact with the course wood of the rowboat, he feels the familiar sprout of pain as an arrow rips through his forearm. He screams in anguish and falls back into the depths. His strength begins to fail him, and just as he resigns himself to drowning in darkness, and allowing that horrible cold embrace to take him once again, a set of hands grabs him by the neck of his robes and pulls him up. On the rowboat, only the monk and one other crewman are here, the one that they stitched up nowhere to be seen. Rhaegar has no time to worry about him, though, as he’s dragged up.

He coughs and sputters as he climbs over and then under one of the rowboats' seats, laying there and shivering frantically. Before he can settle, the monk begins ripping his soaked robes and breeches off of him and covering him with an extra dry length of robe. It barely helps, but it does. Then, with little fanfare, he grabs hold of where Rhaegar was hit and runs his hands over it, coughing sporadically as he does. The pain still grinds into Rhaegar, forcing him to grit his teeth, but the feeling of blood oozing out of him is gone in an instant. The arrow must have passed through seamlessly, and as he thanks God Above for that, he screams in horror as he feels the monk begin to stitch up the hole in his arm. It takes considerable discipline and effort, and even then the crewman holds him down and gives him a bit of leather to bite down on. It’s excruciating, and when it’s done, Rhaegar just flops against the bottom of the rowboat, completely worn.

He isn't sure of his surroundings for a long time.

The pitch blackness and horrible chill keep him from wanting to exert any more energy than he needs. It takes nearly all his willpower to stay awake and not fall into a surely deathly slumber. He knows that isn’t really true. He needs the rest, and if the lack of screaming and further arrow fire isn’t a sign that they’re safe, then Rhaegar doesn’t know anymore.

He hears oars being set and rowed, and a steady pair of hands tucks him tighter into his makeshift blanket. The bottom of the rowboat makes for a horrid place to rest, and leaves him tense. His mind is still dizzy with all that has happened in such a short span of time that it makes him nauseous. The powerful waves don't help as they send the rowboat back and forth like a helpless man being tossed by giants.

He has to slowly push himself upright and tilt his head over the side of the boat before throwing up yesterday's food. It leaves his throat burning and eyes watering as he slumps back below the seat he was under. His arm that was hit is the one he uses to lift himself, and once he’s let off of it, the pain returns with a vengeance. It’s so horrible that he can’t stop himself from crying. He lets out a soft, ragged, and torn wail, which results in a set of gentle hands press deep on his shoulder.

A reminder that he is not alone, and that they are not completely safe yet.

When he finally does succumb to exhaustion— minutes or hours later, he doesn’t know— all he can dream of are blue roses and burning flesh.

Lyanna… I'm sorry… I’m on my way…

Chapter Text

He awakens with a head splitting ache behind his eyes. His heart is beating fast, and his whole body is sweating.

A dream… Only another dream.

Terrance has been dealing with the dreams for as long as he can remember, with all their grand machinations and prophetic tendencies. This dream, however, was not like the others. This one had tangible weight to it. A heavy melancholy that persisted with Terrance even as he tried putting it in the back of his aching mind.

Tired and irritable, he gets up and out of bed, quickly dressing himself in a linen shift and breeches. Opening the balcony doors helps alleviate Terrance’s stress as the swell of salty sea air wafts in. That and the caw of the fork-tailed gulls outside, which never failed to ease his worries. Yes, sometimes they used his balcony as their own toilet, but they were fairly nice despite that.

Speaking of the toilet…

Quietly maneuvering out his room and down the length of the hallway, he goes into the garderobe to relieve himself and to also fix up any newly ingrown hairs from his shaving. His beard had never been a thick or well groomed thing, but recently, within the past sennight, it was getting on his nerves. He swore it cropped up faster than before, and always left irritating bumps whenever it grew into his skin. He had to use his little tweezers to fix them before shaving. A terrible affair that had somehow never been a problem for any of his other brothers. Lucky bastards.

After he cleans up, since it's still an hour or so before he breaks his fast, he begins his morning tasks.

Making the bed and cleaning the room, lighting his fourteen candles before sending a prayer to Balerion, and writing down his latest dream.

This last task was the most difficult. Despite doing it for nearly twelve years, he still struggled to put pen to parchment. His Lord father had found the idea of an illiterate ‘son of Valyria’ abhorrent, and had nearly beat the ability into Terrance. All that did was make him resent it, and made his duty as a dreamer more difficult. Anytime he wrote, all he could think was the verbal lashing he'd get from father and Maester Thimble.

Harrold usually kept him from doubting himself and always pushed him without yelling or insulting him. He was gone for now, but his other siblings were there to help too.

Germund was always away, yet his poems and sonnets were the most lovely pieces of writing you'd ever read, and they inspired Terrance. Melissa cheered him on, even in her own pursuit to rise above everyone else. Kaeren shows him what Terrance himself can't see in people and their words.

Then of course there was Nora, who kept him company most days, ensuring Terrance would always have some sort of annoyance during his studies or training. He would never tell Nora he enjoyed it, though.

The journal!

Right. He begins writing. A difficult task, not made any easier by the subject. He'd always had strange dreams, ever since he was born. Things that may or may not happen. The one consistency being that they were always distorted into weird symbolisms and backwards talking. Always seeming to want to tell Terrance something, but also denying him any real clarity on what that was. It vexed Terrance something awful.

For example, one time he had a dream about a crab pinching off too much fish to eat, and promptly falling over. Well, it just so happened the next week, his brother Germund ate too many garlic bread knots before promptly sleeping all day.

There were more, of course. More important ones. Ones that showed dragons ripping off an elk's limbs, masses gathering under a shattered sword, and lots of dreams about crabs. Crab this, crab that. Crabs fucking everywhere.

It was around his sixth nameday when he told his father. That day, he had dreamt of a horrible thing. By this point, even at such a young age, he'd already connected that crabs in his dreams meant family. So, when he had a dream of a crab being roasted alive by a dragon, he promptly told father.

Terrance hadn't known this, of course, but father actually had plans to become Hand of The King under Aerys II. Those plans fell to the wayside after that, and then Terrance was initiated into their island's Cult of Vermax. Just as all other dreamers and truth seekers were.

Lord Dreamer was his title, a station revered by their Cult. Though Terrance rarely called himself that. He much preferred Lord Crab Dreams, due to the fact he almost always dreamt of something to do with crabs. This title was much loved by his siblings, but father was less amused when he learned of it.

Father had not stopped at simply initiating him into the Cult, but also advancing his studies by wide margins. Hiring scholars and magicians of all kinds to help him ascertain what the dreams meant. This led to them employing a warrior-witch of Kayakayanaya, called Tayadisdah, Taya for short. She was the only one Adrian and Terrance could agree on, mostly because he'd seen her in a dream.

He had dreamt of a river of blue jewels that flowed toward an island of happy little crabs, guarded by dragon’s shadows and sparkling stars. Terrance could only take that as a good sign, especially once he saw that within her cheeks she had blue gems set within them.

Apparently, unlike the rubies that most warrior-women of Hyrkooni wore in their cheeks, Taya wore opal, to indicate her mastery over magic and mysticism. Terrance thinks she did that just to be special.

She also isn't much of a warrior in the way Westerosi are. She always talks about using ‘advantages’ and ‘killing them before they know it's a fight’, all very dishonorable according to Harrold. Either way, her teachings had led to Terrance being able to beat just about any able-bodied man on Claw Isle, which isn't much of a feat considering how small the island was. Terrance had never actually fought to kill, and doubted his ability to do so heavily.

Because of all of these strange cultural differences, it took… A considerable amount of time for her to acclimate to Westerosi culture, and they to her as well.

She had nearly burst mother's heart when she first caught her roaming the halls bare chested, silver rings piercing through her nipples, each with a cut opal hanging from them.

Terrance found the idea of hurting your body willingly very strange, but for some reason, Germund always went on and on about wanting to see them. Terrance guesses maybe Germund wanted silver nipple piercings as well, but again, he couldn't fathom why you'd hurt yourself like that.

Melissa always tried steering Terrance away from Taya's teaching, but honestly? Everything she'd taught him all worked pretty well.

The potions she gave him always restricted the dreams to be less harsh and less frequent, and her ability to read the dreams was unmatched. She had correctly guessed that Robert's Rebellion would happen, though she told Terrance not to tell anyone. He obliged, mostly because if he had, apparently his father would have died. Fair enough.

The journal!!

Oh! Right. He continues writing. About the dream. Gods if it isn't frightful work.

Dragons and towers and busted crabs and-

Busted crabs? Oh, no.

Terrance jumps up, forgetting all about the journal. He practically bursts through the door before running into his youngest older sibling, Nora. She looks like she just woke up, if her tangled black-blonde hair is anything to go by, not even mentioning the terrible bags under her eyes. Another sleepless night, probably.

“Was jus’ bout’ to wake you. You headin’ off?” She says, suppressing a huge yawn that makes Terrance yawn. Why does that work that way? Maybe he'll ask Taya after she reads his dream.

“Yea! I gotta go get my dream read by Taya. An important one, I think.” Terrance tries running past Nora before she grabs him by the wrist.

“You need to break your fast first. She wouldn't be expecting you beforehand, and you probably shouldn't disturb her.” She pats his shoulder and guides him in the opposite direction of Taya's tower, before chuckling. “Ya do remember the last time you surprised visited her, right?”

Terrance feels his shoulders rise uncomfortably at the memory. He'd had an important question, at least he thought it was at the time. He had burst through Taya's door, only to see her naked, midway through eating the heart of… Something, whilst surrounded by dog skulls. That had really shaken him, but thankfully Taya had explained it was just a simple ritual to summon plentiful game for the fishers that year. Perfectly normal stuff.

“You're right. Sorry.” Terrance mumbles as he lets her guide him. He really doesn't want to have to deal with that right now. His dream already had him shaken as was.

Passing through a set of stairs and down a long hall, they make it past the silk curtained windows overlooking the town below before turning and entering a huge brass door, decorated in crabs, dolphins, and seashells. This was the entrance into the main dining hall.

Inside, large paintings of Celtigar ancestors flanked both sides of the mahogany dining table, and beautiful square stone pillars went round the room. Huge braziers hung from hooks on the sides of these pillars, which servants tended too regularly. Behind the grand table was a hearth of magnificent proportions, which opened up like a fiery dragon's maw. A relic of past Valyrian greatness (though their family had never had dragons, sadly).

All along the table sat his family, all in different states of waking. Germund wasn't there though, probably still on his trip to Lorath.

There was also a person Terrance didn't recognize. Sitting opposite of father and everyone else.

He had short cropped shaggy brown hair, with deep purple eyes. They looked haunted, as if the man had seen a ghost or just gotten back from war, which wasn't out of the question really. Especially with the grizzly looking bandages around his head and arm.

Terrance was midway through trying to remember the man's smell when Nora gently led him into his designated chair next to father and Kaeren, then she herself sat opposite the side of father. Everyone is silent; not normal. Is this man a cousin? It's not a holiday or nameday he forgot again, is it?

Before he can ask Kaeren, whose mop of black hair almost covers how tired he looks, his father stands and speaks.

“Children, I have summoned you for a matter of utmost importance before we break our fast. Earlier at the eve of this morning, a rowboat sailed into port, with only three passengers aboard the small vessel.” Father's eyes dart to the man at the opposite end of the table, which makes Terrance fidget. No wonder he couldn't remember his name or face or smell; he wasn't from here.

“Their stories are as follows. A monk sworn to silence, who also vowed to accompany one of the other passengers; a wounded sailor, who was saved by the other two when their ship was attacked; and lastly, a young man, horribly wounded and unconscious, claiming to be Rhaegar Targaryen.” With his name spoken, all heads and eyes shift quickly to the stranger. A gasp exhales from Nora.

“What? The Prince is dead. What farce is this, father?” The derision is clear in Kaeren's voice, and despite his tired exterior, even Terrance can see the cunning mind behind those beleaguered eyes. Kaeren can see a scam from a mile away. Terrance will trust his opinion if it comes to it.

“Mm, a farce I would like to call it. If not for this.” Father reaches under the table and pulls forth Crab's Pincer. The axe was one of a kind, and nobody could fool a Celtigar as to what it looked like. Its edge gleamed a soft glimmering silver, its hooks slowly ending in waves of black. Its butt was spiked at the end in a hard point, intended to make backswings deadly. The haft was the length of three feet and made of darkened ironwood, wrapped in alternating white and red leather. Then of course was the pommel, a deep blackened piece of steel in the shape of a crab's claw, poised to strike.

That was Harrold's weapon, intended for him as the heir to the House. So why was it here? Where was Harrold? He'd never let the weapon go out of his sight, not even for family.

“Father?” Melissa looks between him and Rhaegar. His siblings' faces are quickly morphing into grimaces and looks of distress. Why? If Harrold is here, then that would be wonderful. He'd finally be back from tax collection or whatever it was.

“Harrold died defending this man.” Father intones into the room.

A silence like no other grips them all. Even Terrance’s father is not able to keep his face set, though he tries.

Father continues, even as Nora begins to cry. “Harrold believed this man to be Rhaegar, and as they were traveling to bring him here,” Father pauses to inhale, “They were attacked by rebel ships, and their vessel boarded.”

Father takes out a letter, already opened, and puts it in the middle of the table. Kaeren snatches it quickly and reads.

While he does so, father explains. “This letter is from Dyre Den. It has Harrold and Lord Brune's signature, confirming his identity.”

It seems like father will say more, but hesitates. The man, Rhaegar, speaks for him. “Harrold fought bravely, and died defending us. We wouldn't have lived, if not for him.”

“What?” It was all Terrance could say, his eyes stung and his throat clenched. His heart beat ridiculously fast, and it was all he could do to not run away to Taya. She would know what to do. The dream… the dreams were always before something happened, not after. Harrold couldn't be dead, he was wounded or comatose. He couldn't be dead.

Rhaegar continued, his voice strained and tired. “He was killed by one of Lord Corbray's sons. I did not kill the Corbray boy, Harrold killed him as he was struck. It was a hard fight.”

“Prove you're Rhaegar!” Kaeren suddenly cries out. Standing, he marches over to the wounded man and grabs him by the scruff of his tunic. “He has white hair, not brown! If you're not who you say you are… then so help me-!”

“Enough!” Father yells. “If he was some wayfarer, you think he'd come back to our home and bring back our axe? Give up Lady Forlorn?” Father reached down again and threw upon the table another Valyrian weapon. This one a sword, its pommel beheld a red ruby in the shape of a heart.

“Mayhaps he wants a reward.” Kaeren accuses, still holding Rhaegar. Father breaks them apart before it comes to blows. Melissa and Nora are both crying, and Terrance has no words. His throat is pained by each swallow, tempting him to cry. He can't, though. Harrold told him to never cry over nothing. Was this nothing? It didn't feel like it, but Terrance still didn't want to cry. He didn't want to bring his emotions into reality. He didn't want any of this to be real.

“Please, allow me a pale of water. I will show you.” Rhaegar tries, his tone is apologetic and cautious. Kaeren is about to argue, when father commands a servant to bring them water. They wait for a while, all of them angry or sad or hysterical.

When the water arrives, instead of drinking it, Rhaegar pours it over his head. His brown hair vanishes into nothing but muddy water, revealing bright white hair beneath it. It's a stark contrast to the dull brown of before, and even a contrast to the Celtigars. None of them, save for a few streaks or pepperings of white, have white hair. It means only one thing…

“Gods be true.” Kaeren mutters, by this point having taken his seat again.

Terrance goes around to the other side of the table to hold his sister. He tries his best to calm her, but nothing can calm the sorrow of death. It was the same for our mother, that had been as children, though. They never expected to lose one of their own so early. Harrold was barely even thirty namedays old.

“I have come to deliver the axe to Harrold’s intended recipient, and in doing this, hope you all will show your loyalties to house Targaryen and help me on my journey.” Rhaegar finishes, looking over the table at each member of the Celtigar family.

“Intended- You mean, Harrold wanted someone specific to wield Crab’s Pincer?” Melissa asks, looking expectantly at Rhaegar.

“Yes. Harrold, before he died, told me that his brother, Terrance, should be given the axe.”

All eyes turn to Terrance, and even Nora removes herself from his grasp to stare straight at him.

“What?” Terrance says again, completely dumbfounded. Why him? What could he possibly do with it? Shouldn’t it go to Germund and then Kaeren?

“If you are Terrance, then please allow me to fulfill Harrold’s dying wish.” Rhaegar fixes him with a warm smile, but Terrance only shivers at the sight. There’s nothing to be smiling about.

“I will have final say on who wields the family axe.” Father states, grief warring with composure.

“You would deny your firstborn son his dying wish?” Rhaegar says, the anger in his voice stronger than Terrance would have thought.

“Do not deign to speak for my family. Harrold means well, but Terrance is…”

“He’s what?” A voice echoes across the hall. All heads turn to see Taya standing at the great brass doors, her blue jewels glittering in the light like stars. She’s wearing blue robes tied around her waist in a bundled knot, leaving her loose fitted silk breeches open, swaying with every movement she makes. A small steel circlet adorns her head, a sapphire shines bright in the middle. Around her waist is a leather sword belt with a sica sheathed within. Her brown hair flows behind her in complicated knots and twists as she enters and stops right behind where Terrance sits.

“Taya?! This is a family meeting, not for the likes of you.” Father reprimands.

“Who is this woman?” Rhaegar asks, his past anger completely replaced with curiosity.

“My teacher.” Terrance mutters, his eyes are now only on the axe, still wondering why Harrold would think he’d deserved such a thing. Did he intend for Terrance to take up arms for Rhaegar as he had? Was he trying to make Terrance the heir over Germund and Kaeren?

“I am Tayadisdah,” Taya starts, her exotic accent and husky voice pleasing to the ears, “From Kayakayanaya. I am Hyrkooni. I have taught all that Terrance knows, not only on how to fight, but also, how to dream.”

“Dream-?”

“Enough of this! Quit it. The Prince doesn’t need to know any of this. He’s brought back the axe, and informed us of Harrold.” Father turns back to Rhaegar. “Excuse her foolishness, my Prince, we will get you safe passage to King’s Landing as soon as you wish it.”

Rhaegar dries himself with a rag given to him. His face turns into one of indecision. “As of now, King’s Landing is not my destination.”

Father's eyes widened. “What do you mean?”

“I mean to sail around Dorne. To Starfall.”

Terrance, overcome with grief and now complete confusion, asks, “I'm lost. Don't you have a wife and kids? Isn't your family about to be besieged in their own home?”

Rhaegar shakes his head. “Yes, I know. It isn't an easy choice-”

“Yet you're making it pretty easily.”

“Terrance!” Nora hissed, swatting his arm.

“What? It's the truth.” Terrance looks Rhaegar dead in the face. “You got my brother killed, and now you're going to head off and abandon us all?”

Father snaps. “Terrance, stop this insolence!”

Taya huffs a chuckle. “Oh no, continue, my child.”

Rhaegar goes from nonchalant to off-guard in quick succession. “Don't presume to know what is and isn't abandoned. I will return to the capital. Lyanna is there, and I must ensure her safety.”

This elicits multiple gasps and murmurs.

Kaeren joins the fray next. “You'd bring a girl to a siege? She's safe in Starfall. Besides, how would you even reach the siege.”

“By sea. The royal navy is unrivaled.”

Terrance chimes in again. “Still, you’re bringing a young woman to a siege?”

“She will be perfectly safe, Dorne’s waters are free of any rebels. Do you even know anything about the war, boy?”

Kaeren gritted his teeth and brought his palm to his forehead.

“Don't call me boy.” Terrance stifled his anger.

Father quietly interrupts. “My Prince. If I may… The navy's monopoly has recently become at stake.”

“What?”

“It's been confirmed. Quellon Greyjoy has raided the shield isles, and is going up and down the coast of the Reach. In time, they'll link up with the Vale and Stark navies and, although still outnumbered, will deal a blow to its supremacy. Not only this, but they’ll make quick work going through Dorne if they wish to.”

“Damn it!” Rhaegar pounds his fist into the table. “By land then. I'll take the Tyrell's armies and head to open the siege.”

Terrance continues his assault. “You think the Tyrells will want to go afar whilst their families are pillaged and raped?”

Rhaegar glares at him. “There is more going on than you realize. The news of my survival will turn opinions again. You know nothing, boy.”

With a lion-like pounce, Terrance jumps from his seat and grabs Crab’s Pincer. With only a few long strides, he closes the distance with Rhaegar and pressed the head of the axe right against the Prince’s throat, forcing him back into his chair if he didn’t want his throat slit. Anger gives way to fear.

His siblings and father all but scream.

“Never call me ‘boy’ again. Whatever insane plan you’re making up, don’t sully Harrold’s life and death by making it seem like it's anything but throwing more lives away!” Rhaegar swallows thickly, and looks directly into Terrance’s eyes.

“I’m… sorry…” Is all he can say, barely a whisper.

“I am not the one you need to apologize to…” Terrance is pulled back by his brother and sister, Crab’s Pincer carefully removed from his grip. He’s still seething with hatred, but he won't let it get the best of him.

The hall is completely silent, and before long, father calls off the meeting and stalks off with Rhaegar to set plans in motion. Terrance catches a glance of Taya, who winks at him. Following, he barely catches the sight of Nora looking at him with parts sorrow and parts horror.

Taya and Terrance don’t speak until they arrive in Taya’s tower, a small section of the castle’s west wing. Her study is full to the brim of exotic smells and sights. Potions, tinctures, and scrolls line the walls. It’s a familiar sight to Terrance, and one he’s used to quiet his mind whenever it becomes too much to handle. This was one of those times.

Terrance began pacing across the room. Still, he could not wrap his head around everything. Distantly, he thought he might get in trouble for threatening the Prince, which wasn’t an impossibility. He might even have Terrance burned up like Aerys did to Lord Stark.

Harrold was there when they burned Lord Stark and choked his son to death. Would the Prince do the same when he gained power? Take revenge on House Celtigar for not showing him the utmost hospitality? His dream, did it relate to Rhaegar or Aerys? Because whenever Terrance saw dragons, it almost always meant to represent Targaryens.

“You dreamt.” Taya finally says, calmly mixing two pastes together into some congealed mess.

“I did.” Terrance says, returning to his mind. He’s trying to calm it, but it’s not easy. His brother is dead, his last words were to give him the ancestral axe, and the man he died for is some lunatic who kidnapped and possibly raped a young girl. A lunatic who cares more about said kidnapped and raped young girl than his own wife and children in the city that might very well be getting pillaged as they speak.

“You must wield the axe, and you must go with him.” Terrance looked over to Taya as if she had wounded him. What was she talking about?

“I haven’t even told you what the dream was about yet.”

“You don’t have to. I saw it when you nearly took off the Prince’s head. It concerned him, didn’t it?” Taya finishes her paste and begins to roll it into individual balls, then puts some kind of powder on them. When that is done, she takes one and eats it.

“Maybe...” Terrance let out a shaky sigh. “Is House Celtigar going to die if we side with that man?”

“I think,” Taya eats another of the strange balls of paste, “we will all pay for it if you do not go with the Prince to King’s Landing.”

“He’s not going to King’s Landing, didn’t you hear him? He’s going off to find his…” Terrance stops himself from saying something more inflammatory. “Mistress.”

“Unless you convince him otherwise.”

“Why would I do that? I’m not dying for that man. You heard him, he said he didn't care about his wife and children! He’s going to bring a girl into a war zone. He’s insane.”

“The world is full of insanity. You had a dream foretelling the future. A path you know only you can change, just as Denys did long ago.” Taya finishes the last of her balls of paste, apparently pleased with them, if her lip licking was anything to go by.

“I'm not convinced I can change his mind.”

“Terrance. Do not be difficult. You have these powers, these dreams. I have always told you to use them to your benefit. Have they ever led you wrong?”

“A few times they have not come true…” Terrance stalls the next part of his sentence, because it only confirms Taya’s point.

“Because of your decision to change them. You know this. You prevented your father’s death, twice.”

“I couldn’t prevent my brothers…” Terrance feels the choking sensation again. His throat feels like a vice, and his eyes feel like they’re about to burst with tears. He breathes in deeply to stop them.

“Your brother died of his own accord.” Taya's words hit him like a hammer. “There was nothing you could have done. Now, he has left you with the axe and a mission. He died because helping Rhaegar was beneficial to the family. You must ensure that his death means something.” Taya stands and comes to Terrance, embracing him. Her skin is hot and tingles. He feels his mind slow and thoughts calm. It feels almost like a mother's embrace. Soothing and warm.

“I’m sorry, Taya.” Terrance returns the embrace and finally allows the tears to flow, allowing his throat to seize. They burn his skin like molten lava.

“Shhh, it is alright, my child.” Taya rubs his back as she soothes him. “I promise you that there is no other choice. You must either allow the deaths, or stop them.”

“What of the consequences?” Terrance stifles a sniff, and when he retreats from Taya’s embrace, he finds her already across the room, looking over a scroll.

“You and I both know.” She looks directly into Terrance's eyes. “We cannot say.”

With a quick nod as if Terrance had agreed, she begins reading her scroll. “Now go. There is nothing left here.”

With that cryptic goodbye, Terrance dries his eyes and leaves the tower.

Harrold died, maybe without knowing any of this, but in the end, Terrance would finish this job. Even if it meant working and siding with a man he'd rather not. Harrold would always tell him it's a crab's duty to get into trouble. Terrance just never thought…

By the flames, get a hold of yourself, Terrance.

“Terrance?” Melissa's voice calls to him from down the hall. Her long blonde hair gently waving as she quickly walks over to him. She's dresses in a gown of deep black, with white lace tightened around the shoulders and waist. A line of crimson rounds the collar, with little white crabs lining it. Melissa's own mourning gown. She was always an expert on dress making and needles.

“Melissa. I'm sorry for running off. I'm in a bit of a hurry, though.” Terrance tried pushing past her, but she stood firm against him. Her mouth, a flat line of disapproval. She was a whole head shorter than him, yet Terrance wouldn't have even thought to push her out of the way.

“Don't tell me you're going to confront the Prince. After what you did… I'm surprised he hasn't ordered your execution.” She runs the back of her palm against her forehead.

“We've just lost one brother… Please, I can't lose another. Not you, Terrance.” Then, quickly, she wraps him in an embrace. She smells like white grapes.

“You won't lose me. I'm not going to confront the Prince, not like you think, at least.” Terrance slowly unraveled their hug, placing his hands on Melissa's shoulders.

He had a burning question that he needed to ask someone, even if they didn't know.

“Harrold… He left me the axe. Why?”

“Why?” Melissa giggled despite still being teary-eyed, “It was always going to be you, silly.”

“What do you mean? Father didn't seem to agree with that.”

“Father is an old fart who still thinks you're some brain-addled fool. He can't see what we all see, Terrance.” Melissa cups his cheek and squeezes, a horribly embarrassing habit from their days as children. He permits it, so long as no one else sees them.

“And what is it that you all see? I've… I endangered everyone, I'm hotheaded and can never read a room. Father is probably right about me.” Terrance felt his cheeks grow hot, and he thought of Harrold, sparring with him in the yard. Telling him he needed to control his strength, not let it rule him.

He always told him he'd grow to be a warrior. Those ideas were put to the side when his dreaming became more important. There's no way he'd last in a real fight. He's never even tried to kill someone before.

“Terrance, we all see that at the end of the day, you're the best of us. Youngest you may be, none of us can hold a candle to you.” Melissa stops cupping his cheek and places both hands upon his shoulders. “You're a dreamer, and you have a calling that nobody else can answer.”

Melissa steps away from him, a sly look on her face. “Now, don't tell anyone I said that, they'll think I've gone soft.”

Terrance scoffs, “I wouldn't dream of it.” He pauses, then takes his sister in another embrace. “I love you.”

“I love you too, brother.” They separate and Melissa moves from his path. “Now, please, stay safe, whatever you're about to do.”

“I'll try.”

“Oh! And if you can, put in a good word for me, would you?”

With a smile on his face, and a feeling of acceptance upon him, Terrance strides down the hall, straight to the clinic. Despite father going with them, Terrance suspects that accommodations haven't been made, and might not, if Rhaegar leaves as quickly as he is able.

Stepping inside the clinic, he’s instantly greeted with the sight of the three travelers, with father probably off to fulfill any wishes they might have made. The Prince is sitting next to a robed monk, and what must be the sailor rests on a nearby bed.

Terrance doesn't waste any time, “Hello.”

The monk and Rhaegar raise their heads to look at him.

“Hello?” The Prince stands, walking forward to meet Terrance eye to eye.

“I need to convince you to go to the capital, instead of your mistress.”

“My what?!” Rhaegar grabs Terrance's collar. “First you threaten my life with the very blade your brother used to protect it, and now you come in here insulting my wife's good name?” His face reads as incredulous, but Terrance can't parse if it's more about the life-threatening part or the insulting part.

Rhaegar smells like Chrysanthemums. “Do you want to throw your life away?”

“You seem sure you won’t be the one throwing your life away…” He truly hadn't meant to escalate things so fast, but Rhaegar's face was just so punchable.

Before Rhaegar could retort, the monk is between them, shoving them both back.

Silence permeates the room. The sailor just stares at the three of them, a somber look to him. Now that Terrance has seen him, he realizes that he's a Cracklaw native. This must look absurd to a commoner like him. Two noble men going at it like children.

Focus.

He looks at the monk. He's holding his hands out, but then suddenly turns on Rhaegar and grabs a hold of his ear. Like a parent scolding a child. Terrance can't help but laugh.

Then, with quick precision, the monk grabs hold of his ear as well, twisting it in pain.

“OW, OW!” Terrance exclaims. This close to the monk, Terrance realizes he smells like a sparrow.

The both of them are now subdued by this man, completely humbled. Then, after they've both had their ears twisted, the monk lets them go.

He gestures wildly at the both of them. Terrance can't make out much of it, but he does seem to be implying that they're both idiots and to stop fighting.

“I apologize.” Rhaegar looks at Terrance. It makes Terrance mad that he says it completely genuine.

Terrance acquiesces. “I do as well.”

The monk and Rhaegar make for a starkly contrasting duo. With the time to look them over close up, and get their smells, Terrance can't see how two men so completely different to each other could work together.

“You're the monk? What's your name?”

“He's taken a vow of silence. Not even I know his name.” Rhaegar waves his hand, the tell-tale signs of exhaustion clear upon his face. He slumps on to the clinic bed, facing away from them.

The monk smiles and pats Terrance's hand. Then, he points to a ray of sunlight coming from one of the windows above them. The distant sound of bird calls can be heard.

“Light?” Terrance guesses.

The monk shakes his head, waves his hand through the ray of sunlight itself.

“Ray?”

The monk nods, smiling.

“Why did you never tell me?” Rhaegar says, suddenly turning back to them.

The monk shrugs.

“Maybe because you never asked, Prince.” Terrance says with not a small amount of derision.

“Mind yourself, boy.”

“We're near the same age, I'll warrant, so call me boy again, and we'll see how this boy can send you on yer ass.” Terrance's more crass accent takes hold of him at the last part of his sentence, forcing him to course correct.

The monk holds his hand up again, a look of annoyance blossoming where a smile was.

“Sorry. Look, can you let me talk you out of your dumb idea, or not?”

“Nothing you said has changed my mind. It's what needs to be done… For destiny's sake.”

“Destiny? What destiny?”

“Mine and the monks. Lyanna's, Elia, and our children.” He faces back toward Terrance. “The Song of Ice and Fire. Azor Ahai.”

“A children's story?”

Rhaegar grunts and turns. “Why would you ever believe me? Just, leave us. You can't change my mind.”

Ray, momentarily put off by their displays of childish argumentation, grumbles to himself, careful not to actually speak. He takes a small knife (startling the seven hells out of Terrance), and with a precise cut, makes an incision on his left palm. Terrance is taken off guard by the sudden blood, and then even more off guard when Ray closes his hand into a fist and reveals the cut is closed.

“Woah.”

The monk smiles and nods. The man is an odd one, on one hand he looks a capable soldier, and on the other a peaceful brother of the faith. If only he hadn't taken a vow of silence, Terrance had many questions.

“You can heal yourself? Is it some kind of magic?” The complete change in how the conversation was going has Terrance just questioning everything.

Ray nods, then points to Terrance.

“Me as well?” A giddy sense of curiosity took hold of him.

Terrance takes the knife from Ray and cuts his own palm. It's not that Terrance disbelieved the idea, it's just so fascinating that he can't help but see what it feels like to have a wound instantly healed.

Ray comes forward and closes his eyes in a strained motion, before holding Terrance's hand and pressing down on the wound. All at once, the pain and feeling of seeping blood is quelled. There isn't even really a sensation, more like a cessation.

“Ray… This is amazing. The good you could do with this. The lives you could save.” Terrance looks into Ray's eyes and finds tears forming in them. His face speaks volumes where his voice doesn't. It's saying, ‘someone else understands’.

They hold gazes for a while before Rhaegar interrupts them. “So… Will you leave now?”

“You're not going to gush over the fact your friend can quite literally instantly heal wounds? Granted, it does seem harder to heal others than it does yourself, and I'm sure it exhausts you, but seriously? This is unheard of. Healing magic is… Rare! Which is strange if you think about it because if revivification magic exists, you'd think healing magic would be way easi-”

Ray cuts him off with a gentle hand on his shoulder. A nod, telling him, ‘that should suffice’.

“Right.”

“Oi!” A voice comes from behind. Turning, they see the sailor propping himself up. “O’im wit ta lordling, what he can do is a miracle from God. Save me loife, that one.”

“See Rhaegar, everyone thinks it's way more awesome than you.” Terrance jabs, but the ribbing falls flat, as Rhaegar just blankly stares at him.

“I understand its importance. It's not lost on me that… Ray… is an important man. But I can barely focus on that now. When there is time, I will showcase his abilities to the High Septon, and then with his support, changes can be made.”

“Changes?” Terrance says. Ray looks just as confused, meaning they hadn't discussed anything like that.

“Yes. There will have to be, if I'm to have two wives.”

Ray and Terrance openly balk at this.

Terrance's mind is brought to a standstill. “What?” Why would anyone want two partners, if Kaeren and his wife are anything to go by, that seemed like a terrible idea.

“Elia and Lyanna. I will have both as wives. I assure you, it will be a small change, not a total upheaval. They could make it a unique situation, for this one time.”

“What you're suggesting would result in a division of the faith. You Targaryens already got brother and sister fucking, polygamy too? They won't have it.”

“Which is why I might trade the former for the latter.” Rhaegar looks thoughtful, like this entire line of thought isn't suicidal in the slightest.

“You're actually mad.”

The sailor coughs, “Honestly? Oi rather a man gots two wives than him shaggin his siblin.”

Rhaegar smiles. “Thank you.”

“Ah yes, the support of an uneducated sailor-”

“Oi!”

“-is obviously the most credible source of how not-fucked you'll be.”

“You don't have any idea what I’m planning.” Rhaegar's smug tone nearly sends Terrance off the deep end.

“I've just about had enough. Prince or no, doesn't make you any less unreasonable.” Terrance starts pacing, trying his best to control his anger.

The simmering hate Terrance has for Rhaegar is nearly outweighing his want to explore the dream he’s had, but…

The dream.

Terrance recalls it vividly at that moment. Like a vision, clear as cut opal.

“If you agree to at least have an open mind, I'll tell you about my dream. It concerns you.”

Rhaegar sits up in interest, his ability to move past their argument is at least respectable. “Dream? Your teacher said something about that.”

“Yes, well, when I say it concerns you I really mean things related to you, I suppose. I'm a dragon dreamer.”

Terrance can see with Rhaegar’s look that he’s now far more intrigued than insulted. “Well, let's have it then. I haven't heard of a dragon dreamer since… Well, Haelena was suspected, but verifiably Denys.

“There's plenty of us. If you had stuck to the old ways, you'd know us Valyrians have cults dedicated to each God. Fourteen, to match the Fourteen Flames. Vermax presides over knowledge, craftsmanship, and creation. It's under him that all dreamers and truth seekers follow.”

“No need for the lesson. I know these things, I'm a Targaryen.” Rhaegar sighs. “I suppose I didn't know about the dreamer part, though. Continue.”

“As I was saying. There's plenty of us, we just have never had the chance to cause any impact. What's one crab against a whole world?”

“You downplay it.”

“I'm being realistic about it. Don't twist my words.”

Rhaegar shrugs.

“Anyway. The dream.” Terrance takes a seat upon one of the cots inside the clinic and faces both Ray and Rhaegar.

He has so many swirling emotions right now. He wasn't sure he'd even be able to recall it, but somehow he was. Terrance would have to chalk it up to luck.

Terrance breathes deeply, and closes his eyes. “I dreamt of a cloudy sky. Thick, icy flakes landing upon blackened stone.” The vision was still fresh, but with that came an intense feeling of sadness.

“Down the blackened stone road stood a tall tower. Naught but desolate waste all around it, scorched and deserted. The door is cracked and inside lies a corpse. Her body is cold and in her arms are the remnants of a babe.”

“Lyanna!? No… I must go to her-”

Terrance breathed deeply in anger. He hated being cut off. “I'm not finished.”

Rhaegar very obviously forces himself to listen, his body tensing with the impulse to run. As if he could reach Lyanna in a day's ride.

“Up the stairs and under the bed, lay another body. Just a little girl. Above her was the blackest scorpion, and the tallest hound. Their smiles reached their ears, the blood pooled at their knees. Far away, a lion's laughter echoed up the stairs.” Terrance breaths, shaking his head. “Forgive me for this next one it is… A lot.”

Terrance sits and holds his head to calm himself. A hand rests on his shoulder, Ray's. His eyes carry wisdom that is off with the man's age.

Terrance continues, patting Ray's hand in gratitude. “The tower began to melt. Slowly bubbling like a pot of oil. Screaming, screaming, screaming. That was all that could be heard amongst the flames. Red and blue and green. Dragonfire spewed from a venomous snake. Men, women, and children all felt the lick of its flaming poison. Despair, delight, and death. The whole of the earth collapsed, swallowed it all whole. No one to save them, no one to help. Hands and hands reach up from the depths of hell and eternally burn. They burn and burn and burn and burn… until it's all dust. Ash and cinders.” Terrance sheds a few tears, his forehead is slick with sweat from the exertion of remembrance. “Gods… The dragon dances in the ashes. He dances and will never die. His lips part to sing, and flame spouts out like a fountain— gouts of deadly fire. He will never die. He will live forever. The dragon lives forever…”

Silence rules the room for seconds— minutes— until Ray releases his hold on Terrance and looks to Rhaegar. Unsaid words are exchanged. The Prince's deathly pale visage all but confirms his understanding now.

“Elia… They are under threat, but… Jaime will protect them. I laid the charge to him.”

“Does it sound like it matters?”

Silence. No retort. The Prince's mouth opens and closes.

He regains himself. “What of Lyanna?”

“What of her, Rhaegar? She lays protected at Starfall, does she not? Tended by the finest nobility of Dorne and you worry about her?”

“She- She is not at Starfall… She resides in a lone tower high in the mountains. About a three-day journey from Starfall. It was to keep her secret— keep the child secret.”

Terrance's eyes widen, as do Ray's. “You… You got her with child, and she's alone in a fucking tower?”

Rhaegar winces. “Not… Alone. She has two wetnurses and three Kingsguard to guard her.”

“Oh yes, because two common women and three brutes will help birth a baby. Do you hear yourself? My mother-” Terrance grips his fists tight. “My mother died in childbirth, with all the help in the world, at an older, more experienced age, and you're leaving a young girl alone? You need to send ravens, now, tell the Dayne’s of Starfall to take her and tend to her, or send people- or something!”

“I… I thought I could end this quickly. Whilst a war still rages-”

“What battles are at Starfall, my Prince? Tell me one, and I will drop the matter. If you cannot tell me, then send a raven. Give that girl a chance to live, if you love her as you clearly do.”

Rhaegar squirms like a petulant child, somehow unsure of what he should do. Then, suddenly, like a whirlwind, Ray stands before Rhaegar and slaps him. Then another, and another. By the end of the assault, Rhaegar's cheeks are glowing red.

Ray makes multiple gestures, unreadable to Terrance, and seemingly just as unreadable to Rhaegar, who wears a look of confusion and shock at both Ray's attacks upon him and his rage. Then, without any ceremony, Ray leaves the clinic, stalking into the halls beyond.

The sailor, silent up till this point, nods his head. “Tha’ man roit thar’ is a good man. Knocked some sense into ya, yer Highness.”

“Thank you.” Rhaegar spits through gritted teeth. He stands, slower than his anger probably fancies, and leaves the room as well. His limp is more noticeable, but his pain is more than physical now.

Without anything else to do, and figuring his mission was an instant failure, Terrance leaves after a while. He does end up talking to the sailor for a stretch of time. Terrance tells him he’ll go home soon after he’s healed and not to worry about anything.

Upon leaving and heading back to Taya's tower, he's ambushed by father.

“What did you say to him, you vile boy?” He rounds on him quickly, cornering him against a wall. “The Prince is wandering the halls, maddened with rage. Not only this, but you threatened his life! Do you understand what danger you've brought to our house?”

Terrance tries to retort. “I-"

“No!” His father grabs him by the scruff, hauling him behind. “You will be sent to your room, where you will stay until the Prince leaves. Then, I will give you a proper punishment. Taya will not save you now, boy.”

“Don't call me boy!”

“I'll call you whatever I like. You're my child, and you will answer to me only.”

Two guards step in with the father before they start dragging him away. Terrance is practically thrown into his room before the door is shut, a guard probably outside to ensure his stay there.

Damn it all…

~~~

Later that night, Terrance just can't find it in himself to sleep. He tosses and turns in bed, unable to keep his mind from envisioning that mother and her children in the tower. The little girl and littler babe. A nightmare that couldn't be stopped, because nobody would be there to stop it.

Terrance had resigned himself to his imprisonment now. Dinner had been brought and not even a single person had been allowed to see him, not even his siblings.

The moon was softly glowing, alighting the balcony. It must have been the hour of the wolf when a shadowed figure appeared upon its precipice.

Given that Terrance is pretty much just twiddling his thumbs, he notices it immediately. Jumping to his feet and running for his dagger, he's stopped when he hears the voice of Nora outside.

“Terrance.” She says in half-whisper. “Come out.”

With great trepidation, he does. Opening the balcony doors, he's greeted by Nora. She looks exhausted, shivering from the apparent exertion to get onto the balcony from the floor above.

Looking up, Terrance spots a loose line of rope, at the head of which sits Kaeren and Melissa, who wave down at him.

“What's going on? Are you okay?” He grabs Nora by the shoulders, attempting to help her relax after the descent.

“We don't have much time. The Prince leaves for King's Landing tonight, and you need to go with him.”

Terrance pulls back in confusion. “What? He changed his mind?”

Nora closes the distance. “Yes, because of your dream. Taya told us that something bad would happen if you didn't go with the Prince, and… well, as much as I'd rather know you're safe here, I also know that you're a dreamer, and that means something. It means you may yet change things.”

“What about Melissa and Kaeren? They agree? I thought they'd side with our father for sure.”

Nora smiles awkwardly. “They did, until Taya gave them a stern talking to.” She giggles. “They've gone above and beyond for you.”

Without explaining that, she jumps back onto the rope. “Come on!” She clambers up the thing with surprising efficiency.

Terrance himself is far clumsier at it. It takes him double the time to lift himself up, nearly falling thrice. When he does reach the top, and climbs into the above window— this room being an unused nursery— he finds not only his siblings, but also traveling supplies fit for an adventure across Westeros. A backpack, cloak, multiple sets of clothes, rope, and more. Probably too much.

The most unexpected of everything, though, is Crab's Pincer and Lady Forlorn, set atop the pile of supplies. Crab's Pincer's silvery black waves glisten in the moonlight, whilst Lady Forlorn remains sheathed in black leather.

Kaeren pats him on the back. “Got everything ready for you, brother. We've got only one chance to get to the boat, so we best make this quick. Not to mention, father will probably notice those two gone soon enough.” He looks pointedly at the two kingdoms-worth of gold in the shape of weapons.

Terrance swallows his apprehension down and smiles. “Thank you. I'm really surprised you helped, Melissa.”

Melissa blushes in embarrassment. “Just because I don't like Taya, doesn't mean she isn't right sometimes. Just… Please be careful, brother. I packed your supplies with every eventuality in mind.”

“Every eventuality.” Nora mumbles.

“I will. Thank you.” He wraps Kaeren, Melissa, and Nora into a tightly held hug. “I… I'm going to try my hardest to change things.”

Kaeren chuckles. “You've done so before, you can do it again. Don't doubt yourself.”

“And please be careful.” Melissa chimes in.

Nora snorts. “He'll be okay. There'll be plenty of soldiers fighting in the capital, and plenty of boats to get him home.”

“I suppose that's true.” Melissa says uncertainly.

With that, they go. Piling on the supplies (which weigh entirely too much) and making their way down, they don't have any trouble making their way out and across town. Any guard is usually simple enough to not question them, and the ones that would aren't any they run into. The route seems made by Nora, who has better knowledge on guard patrols than anyone, due to her… adventures… into town.

When they reach the docks, they're relieved to see the ship given to Rhaegar has yet to sail off.

“Well, this is goodbye.” Terrance says lamely. He's never had to say goodbye like this before, he's never the one leaving.

“Goodbye, brother.” He and Kaeren grip each other's forearms.

“Be safe, and fight well.” Melissa wraps him in a hug, which Terrance diligently returns.

Nora comes up after and kisses Terrance's cheek. In an uncharacteristically serious tone, she says, “Come back to us, Terrance.”

Terrance nods. “I will.”

He turns and walks up the gangplank.

Getting onto the deck and past the Claw Isle crew, who definitely recognize him but aren't going to say anything, he finds Rhaegar speaking with the captain of the ship. It doesn't take the Prince long to notice him.

"Ser Terrance." Rhaegar nods, no smile, but at least not a grimace either.

"Oh! I'm not a knight... So... Just Terrance."

"Yes, of course."

An awkward and unsteady silence takes hold as they both stand there. Terrance isn't quite sure how to carry the conversation, so instead just takes Lady Forlorn off of his back and hands it to the Prince.

"What is this? Why are you giving it to me?" Rhaegar takes hold of the sword, looking it over and then looking back to Terrance.

"My brother, he killed for it. Seems a waste to let it be sat on my hip. I'm more of an axe man anyway."

"Well... I will just borrow it then, thank you."

Another unsteady silence.

Terrance decides if he's going to actually be of any use, he might as well actually try with the Prince. He did change his mind, so... Maybe he wasn't all that bad.

"My Prince." Terrance starts, Rhaegar seemingly taken by surprise at the sudden use of his title. "The dream I had... It changed your mind on where to go?"

Rhaegar thinks for a moment, his eyes looking here and there. "It did. I can't help but think that what you saw was no mere odd symbols, that... If I was brought back and set down this path, why should I ignore what is plain before me? If Elia and my children are in such imminent danger, then I have no choice."

Terrance ventures further. "And the letter? To your mistress?"

Rhaegar immediately flares up with anger. "She is not my mistress. She is my second wife. I've talked of this... But yes, I sent a letter to a trusted friend."

Terrance, wanting to argue but far more relieved he'd done at least something good already, just sighs in relief. "Good... Good."

Ray, the monk, interrupts their strange conversation before it can go on much longer. He looks happy to see Terrance joining them, and he points to his oversized pack, seemingly questioning what's in it.

"Oh. Right, I haven't even checked what's all in the pack. Thanks, Ray." Terrance starts unpacking in front of Rhaegar, who seemed amused at the idea Terrance didn't know all that he'd gone adventuring with.

All three of them gasped when inside the backpack came spilling forth a full suit of half-plate armor, with Celtigar surcoat to go along with it.

"I knew Melissa was planning for everything but... I didn't expect this." Terrance warily started putting the armor back in the pack, unsure of how it even fit in the first place.

Rhaegar is baffled. "You carried that whole thing around?"

"I was starting to get tired, I'll admit."

Ray laughs, a deep, exhilarating laugh, the kind that makes you want to laugh with it. In fact, that's just what Terrance and Rhaegar do. The surprise of hearing Ray do anything but snort and scoff sends them both into shocked bouts of laughing and wide-mouthed stares. It isn't long before it becomes a cycle, as the three of them buckle with laughter.

The ship sets its sails soon after, and after they've recovered, Terrance looks back at Claw Isle.

Deep down, he knows he should really relish the sight of its faint lights glittering across the night sea, but he can't bring himself to look too long.

He doesn't want to admit that it might very well be the last time he ever sees it.

Chapter Text

A new dawn encroached upon the apartment’s windows, rays of sunlight dispersed through painted glass. A sight that many in King’s Landing could only dream of, and in a location only the most prominent ever found themselves in. It was the height of comfort and royalty.

To Elia Martell, however, it was only a prison.

Enclosed in her blanket of red velvet, she shuddered awake to the rising dawn. Her daughter, Rhaenys, snuggled close beside her. A warm lump of snoring, drooling cuteness.

Aegon slept within Elia's arms, safely coddled in his own blanket.

Rhaenys’ and Aegon's cute little sleeping faces were what made waking up every day worth it, and made every night feel less lonely than it would have. A constant reminder of what she still had, after everything else had gone.

Ever since Lewyn’s death, and the loss of all the Dornish soldiers at the Trident, it was like all the hope had been sucked out of Elia’s life. An encroaching sense of doom permeated all her actions now.

Not even the letters from Doran could assuage her fears. No matter how many times Jaime assured her he would not let her come to harm, the feeling that she would not be long for this world remained an ever present thought in her mind.

Not once had she felt so defeated in her life. Not once had she ever felt so at a loss for what to do. A trait her mother always wished to erase in her children. She never wanted them grasping, scared and fearful of the future.

Elia wondered what her mother would do if she were in her situation. Two infant children, a decimated army, a dead husband, and on the brink of a full-scale siege. Not a single ally in sight, not even the presence of a friend. She wondered if mother would still have made the match if she had known all that would happen.

A soft wail slithered its way into Elia’s waking ear. A mother’s instinct took hold, and she found herself lifting out of the sheets, the blankets rippling as if made of water. Aegon held tight in her arms.

Rhaenys let out a despairing whine, but very quickly rolled herself up into the blankets. Determined to go back to her slumber. Her head of brown hair with a streak of white, the only visible part of her.

The sun was newly risen in the sky, a creeping pink hue coming over the sea's horizon. A haze of dark blue stretched over the rest of the world, a peaceful illusion of cloudless summer. Out there, somewhere, was her family, despairing and grieving. In another place, the rebels laughed and celebrated the Prince's grisly death. His chest caved in with a mighty hammer. She would have laughed with them, if it didn't mean her children's lives were in jeopardy.

Elia rocked Aegon back and forth as she paced the cold stone floor, slipping on her Myrish slippers before making her way to the seat of the window. His little stomach gave a rumble, and his mouth gave out a whimper.

“Oh, I know, my sweet little Prince, mother will feed you.” She moved her shift and brought Aegon close.

He was a very hungry baby, even hungrier than Rhaenys had been. Both were ravenous things and seemed to grow too quickly for Elia’s liking. Elia took it as a sign that she had not passed down her weakness to her children. If she had, she would never have forgiven herself.

When Aegon had his fill, she carefully held him and paced through the room, whispering a sweet Dornish lullaby to him so he might return to sleep.

Just as his bright lilac eyes fluttered closed, a loud knocking echoed from the heavy oak door at the far end of the room.

Instantly, Aegon gave out a hearty cry, completely appalled that someone would wake him from his sleep. Elia continued to rock him to no avail.

“Princess, you've been summoned by His Grace.” Jaime's voice exclaimed, too youthful and high to command fear or respect. Still a young boy, really.

Rhaenys sprang up from her bed, disheveled and irritated. “Momma!” She wrapped the blanket around her as she cried out.

“Just a moment, my sweetling.” Elia crossed the room and placed Aegon down. “Momma has to leave for a while, I'll have Menny come to care for you both, okay? Until then, watch over your brother.”

Rhaenys swiftly shook her head. “No momma… Don't go. I'm sleepy!”

“Oh my sweet, I know. Please, momma needs to go visit the king.”

“I hate the king! He's bad, momma!”

Elis shushed her with a hug. “Be a good girl for me, Rhaenys, please.”

Elia felt a muffled whimper in her shoulder. “Okay…”

She drew away from her daughter, as much as she was loathed to do so. “Stay safe, my precious. Remember what we talked about.”

“If you or Menny aren't around, hide.” She said, a conspiratorial look to her eyes.

It's all a game to such an innocent mind, isn't it?

“Good…” Elia laid a kiss against Rhaenys’ head, then Aegon's.

It took Elia a matter of moments to dress herself. She wore simple clothing, a gown of orange silk, red lace forming the straps around her shoulder and a Dornish sun emblazoned across the front. She pinned up her hair into a bun, then expertly tied an orange strip of silk into a knot around it.

After laying on perfume and exchanging her slippers for black heels, she fastened a yellow samite sash around her waist to cinch the gown, and lastly applied a hint of eyeshadow, to hide her deep bags from countless sleepless nights.

Exiting her room, she found Jaime awaiting her. His golden hair smoothed back and his face cleanly shaven. His golden armor shimmered in the brightly lit hall, and his sword, a simple piece of steel save for the lion paw pommel, remained sheathed in his sword belt. The white cloak fastened to his shoulders lay flat against his back, straight and clean.

“Princess Elia, I'm sorry for waking you.” His voice barely above a whisper. His eyes, although youthful, held the look of someone who did not sleep often, or at least not well.

“It’s alright, ser. Take me to him.”

Jaime did as told, leading her down the apartments and across the various hallways leading from the Holdfast to the throne room. Elia hobbled as time went on, her weakness getting the best of her, but with all her might she straightened herself and kept her head high. She would not look weak to Aerys, not now.

Jaime spoke suddenly. “I wish I knew what he wanted at such an early hour, my Lady. A messenger only said it was important.”

Elia closed her eyes to regain composure. “I’m sure it is, Ser Jaime.”

Surely he would not harm her… Surely.

When they entered the throne room, they found it uncharacteristically empty. Only Symond Staunton resided within, hanging on the precipice between the throne room and the stairs which led to the council's chambers.

“Ah! My Lady and Ser Jaime. You are both required in the council chambers, follow me.”

Elia needed a warning before entering the room, so as not to be totally caught unawares. “What is this business about, my Lord? Ser Jaime tells me it's important.”

Symond smiled crookedly, a whipped dog if there ever was one. “Our Grace and Grand Maester Pycelle will reveal all, my Lady. Have patience.”

Elia steeled herself as they came upon the door, regarding Jaime one last time. Their eyes met, and she saw fear.

Inside the chamber resided what was left of the council. Varys, Pycelle, Symond, and the worst of all Aerys' simpering hounds, Rossart. Their cruel faces already lined with thoughts of intrigue as they watched her arrival. Ser Jaime, the last Kingsguard left under Aerys, or anyone for that matter, stood behind the king to his right.

“Princess, so good for you to join us.” Pycelle rattled. His farce of a decrepit old man enraged Elia, still incensed that no one else had called it out yet.

“Indeed, may we get started and learn of this important matter?” Varys cloyed.

Aerys, slumped in his chair, gave a chortled laugh, eyeing everyone closely. His hair was long and knotted, a dark unwashed shade of white. It nearly hid his yellowed, bloodshot eyes. He raised his gnarled and long fingernails toward Pycelle. “Show them the letter.” His raspy voice like that of a ghost out of children's stories, a horrific sound that grates the ears and sets hairs on end.

Pycelle, ever in need to ensure his fake act, slowly and with great effort drew forth a scroll of parchment from his sleeves. On it was the opened wax seal of house Velaryon.

From Lord Lucerys? Or his wife?

“A letter arrived early last night, but as I thought it was only a small note of import about the usual worries from Lord Velaryon, I did not read it until this morning.” Pycelle then slowly opened the scroll, Elia noting how small it really was, only a paragraph or so written on the small parchment.

Varys titters. “How good that the king can trust such an able-bodied man, who cannot even stay awake to ensure a letter's importance.”

Pycelle ignored him. “This is a copy, originally from Lord Brune of Dyre Den. It is apparently written by Rhaegar… After the battle at the Trident.” He says with disbelief in his tone.

“What?” Symonds squeaks.

“Do not interrupt him.” Comes Aerys’ terrible voice, his eyes trained on Symond like he was imagining how he'd crackle and pop under flame.

“Forgive me, Your G-Grace.” Symond nearly chokes. Aerys merely turns back to Pycelle, a sneer on his face.

The news itself is disconcerting, but such a thing could not be possible. The rebels surely would have the Prince killed, and Dyre Den? Why would he be there?

Pycelle continues, putting on spectacles and bringing the letter close. “It states: I, Rhaegar Targaryen, Prince of Dragonstone and heir to the Seven Kingdoms, hereby state that the news of my death is false. I survived the battle at the Trident, though grievously wounded, was tended to by friends to the Crown, and now make my way home. To all those who would question this, I implore you to seek verification with the capital. All will soon know, the dragon has three heads.”

Elia's heart stopped for a single second. Frozen in realization, she could barely hear the argument forming between the council.

“This proves nothing, Your Grace. I assure you that this must be a trick of the rebels, to shake our confidence.” Varys explained, caution being his fondest ally. The coward.

“Shake our confidence? By making us believe our Prince yet lives?” Symond questions.

“There is no knowing what they may be up to.”

Rossart speaks for the first time, his voice snarled and high-pitched. “Perhaps he has been captured, there is no possibility he could pass the rebel army.”

“Unless he traveled not by land, but by sea.” Pycelle chimed in.

“SILENCE!” Aerys screamed, his voice straining under the disused vocal cords. His ghoulish hands gripped the armrests tight. “Dornish whore.” He glared straight into her eyes from under his hair. “You've laid in my son's bed, you'll know best. Is it him?”

Elia bit back her tongue, her mind conjured images of Chelsted being slowly lowered into a vat of burning wildfire, his bones falling off of him one by one as he screamed.

“Yes.” She swallowed. “It’s him.”

Aerys cackled, grinning ear to ear. His laugh turned into maddened heaving and retching, and then back to laughter. “Yes, yes! I knew your Dornish snake of an uncle couldn't have gotten away with his betrayal that easily! My boy lives!” He pushed up from his chair, giddy with excitement like some boy of ten instead of the thirty-year-old man he was.

He began walking out. “Council adjourned. My son returns, and we shall see how he punishes you for your uncle's misdeeds, whore.”

Before he can fully leave the room, a knock comes to the door. “Come in.” Aerys mutters.

A guard strides forward, a little surprised to see the king right before him. He bows, handing a scroll to the king, which Rossart quickly intercepts.

Unfurling it, Rossart raises an eyebrow. “It says Lannister soldiers have been spotted marching down the Blackwater Rush.”

Pycelle perks up. “They've come to assist us, Your Grace! Does it say how close they are?”

Rossart nods. “Tomorrow at the latest, maybe tonight. Tywin leads them with twelve thousand men.”

“Your Grace…” Varys tittered. “Tywin is a ruthless man, he may seek to take hold of the capital itself, and force terms on us.”

“Nonsense!” Pycelle calls out, nearly betraying his ruse. “Tywin has been an able lord, and although… silent on the war, it is most like he was gathering his swords in secret, to better surprise the rebel host.”

“That rebel host which recently has broken past Duskendale? More like the Lannisters will be the ones surprised, Maester. The rebels may even beat him to the capital.” Varys says, a subtle venom in his words.

Aerys turned slowly to look at both the men, his voice was like a predator poised to strike. “Did I bid any of you to speak?” The two of them wore faces Elia had only dreamed of them making.

“I will wait for my son, and then a judgment shall be made.” He flashed a crooked grin, his teeth stained a dark yellow. “We shall burn them all.”

As they made ready to leave, Aerys stopped Jaime as he and Elia were exiting the stairwell.

“You, boy. You will stay with me. When your father arrives, it will be to see his little lion collared in white.” He runs his hands through Jaime's cloak, a wicked glint to his eyes.

Jaime visibly swallows, a grimace taking form. “Of course, Your Grace.”

Aerys laughs. “Such a good little lion.” He looks at Elia, knowing he's removed her one and only safeguard. “Begone, wench. Your Dornish taint is nearly too much for me, and I can only bear it so long.”

Elia curtsies, and begins walking away as fast as she can, determined not to show Aerys how horribly scared she is.

When she finds herself back in her apartments, she sees Menny and her children, Rhaenys counting her numbers whilst Aegon babbles.

Menny is dressed in her usual Septa clothes. A pure white tunic with rainbow sash containing seven knots for the Seven. Her coif and wimple were rainbow as well, and around her forehead was a circlet of white gold, a crystal of many colors in its center.

She was the only one left of her household from Dorne. The only one who would not leave when Elia had ordered it. She had stated her oaths were to the Seven, and that they had bid her to keep her and her children. Not even an order from Elia herself would change that.

Elia smiled fondly at her, before Rhaenys came running into her arms.

“Momma! Was the stinky King mean to you?” Rhaenys’ little hands turned to fists, clenching her gown, as if she'd go and beat the wicked man herself if he had. That would be a worthwhile sight, Elia thought.

“No, my sweetling. All is well.” Elia scooped Rhaenys up before joining Menny with Aegon.

Menny looked up, skeptical, “My Lady, your Aegon has made a mess of himself.” A secret code between them. She was asking if there had been trouble.

“We'll have to clean him up later.” Elia's code to talk at a better time. There was much to say. The Lannisters on their way, the rebels, and of course… Rhaegar.

“Was Ser Jaime not accompanying you?” She asked, probably noting the fact she did not see him outside the door before Elia closed it.

“He's with the King. I should have seen it coming, really.” She set Rhaenys down, bidding her to continue her numbers.

“Then we are truly alone.” Menny said with a somber finality. She had seen it coming, then.

The rest of the day was spent tending to her children. Going through Rhaenys’ lessons, taking them out to the gardens, and then a walk through the Holdfast. She told Menny at one point all that had transpired, and so then they waited.

Soon enough, Elia would be face to face with her husband again, and she noted sadly that she felt no relief at that fact. She hadn't even yet told Rhaenys of her father's supposed death, so at least that was one horrible experience she could stop worrying about.

The day was late when Rhaenys grew tired. The sun was low over the horizon, a soft orange glow that reminded Elia of home.

Elia and Menny were making their way back to her apartments to let Rhaenys sleep when a man, Ser Jaremy Rykker, met them down the hall.

“My Lady. Septa Menny.” He bowed to each of them. “Your Grace requires your presence in the throne room, Lady Elia.”

Elia shared a look with Menny, before placing Aegon in her arms. “See them in bed.”

“Yes, My Lady.”

“Momma no!” Rhaenys squealed, she wrapped herself around Elia's leg. “No more stinky King!”

“Rhaenys.” Elia stated, soft but firm. Immediately, Rhaenys let go. “Go with Menny, and do as she says.”

Rhaenys looks close to tears, but runs to Menny, grabbing hold of her hand. “Yes momma…”

“Ser Rykker, lead on.”

They walked the grounds of the keep, a bit of a distance to the throne room, all in silence. Rykker was a loyal dog, just like Staunton and Varys, so there was little to speak of between them.

As they entered the throne room, Elia had to shield her eyes before the bonfire that emanated from the middle of the room. The smell of charred flesh assailed her eyes, causing them to water.

A burnt body hung above the fire, making Elia recall Lord Stark in his steel armor. On the throne sat Aerys, his eyes widened with pleasure. Jaime, beside him, his face was cloaked in the flickering shadows of the room.

As Elia and Rykker made their way around the pyre, that's when she saw him. On his sides stood two men Elia had never seen.

On his left was a man who dressed like a monk, though his face and figure spoke of soldiering and war. To his right was a knight in full plate, a glistening axe resting on his shoulder, and his helm in the crook of his arm.

Rhaegar himself was a completely new man to the one Elia had watched ride off to battle. His hair was cropped close, dyed brown and greasy from days without a proper wash. Along his forehead and dipping down his left brow was a gnarly gash from some blade; it would scar badly. His left arm and shoulder were clasped into a splint, and what little she could see told her that he'd never wield a shield again.

‘Chest crushed by a warhammer.’ is what they had said, and they hadn't been wrong…

When their eyes met, it wasn't one of happiness. It wasn't the look two lovers gave when finally reunited. To Elia, all she saw was a deep sorrow and even deeper guilt. His eyes went to the bonfire behind them, his expression becoming relieved for a split second.

Elia could not continue to hold herself upright, her exhaustion catching up with her weakness of the joints. Losing her footing, she began to fall, before a pair of arms held her up. Expecting to see Rhaegar, she was instead surprised to see the knight. His purple eyes looked to be in despair, and sleepless besides. She noticed his surcoat, emblazoned with Celtigar crabs, and realized this must have been Harrold Celtigar. The same one who had been present for the execution of the Starks. Elia thought he had been taller, but it had been some years since then. He was an honorable man, if a little boisterous.

Aerys’ voice came from above them. His voice a sinister snarl. “Well, my son, tell me of the Dornish betrayal. This whore and her children have been plotting, and now the truth comes to light.” His eyes twitched, looking back to the raging flame.

“Tell me of their betrayal!” He screamed, making Elia wince. She looked to Rhaegar, who was looking not at her, but Harrold, who held her.

Turning back to his father, Rhaegar held his gaze. For a long while, nothing was said. Only the sound of crackling flesh and roaring fire filled the hall.

Rhaegar breathed. Elia noticed a new sword sheathed on Rhaegar's belt. In its pommel laid a ruby heart. Rhaegar's right hand twitched as if he would grab the hilt.

“Father,” Rhaegar finally breathed, “There was no betrayal. When the battle commenced, I-”

The throne room doors were slammed open. All of them turned to look, at the head of a group of Goldcloaks was Ser Thorne. When he was at the feet of the throne, he spoke loudly.

“Your Grace! Lord Tywin sits with his men at the Lion Gate awaiting your decision to raise them!”

Aerys muttered to himself, his eyes roaming over everyone. “My son, you will go with the little lion to meet with Tywin. I leave the decision to you. When you return, we will ensure proper punishment to the Dornish whore.”

“Father, there was no betrayal, as I said. My wife will not be accused of treason, nor her kin.” Rhaegar's voice was even, measured. It was the first time Elia had seen him truly stand up to Aerys.

A tense silence followed, the flames of the pyre finally having faded. Elia realized the body was Staunton's, burnt and blackened, hanging uselessly above the smoldering remnants.

Aerys snarled. His lips pulled back to reveal his pale, tight gums. His eyes were wild, like an animal when caught in a corner. Briefly, she saw him smile.

“Go.” His voice strained. “Do as I said.”

Rhaegar hesitated, before turning to the crowd behind him. “Terrance, take my wife back to her room. Guard her.”

Elia looked back at the man. Terrance, then, not Harrold. A brother? She realized if it was not Harrold, then what kind of man was being asked to keep her? Could she trust him?

Rhaegar continued his orders. “Ser Rykker, you will muster the men closer to the Lion Gate. Keep a watch to the north, however, should the rebels arrive. Thorne, you and your men will follow me. Ser Jaime, at my side.”

He turned briefly to the monk. “Ray, stay near, but out of sight.”

The monk nodded, pulling over his cloak.

They all left as one. When they were outside the throne room and away from the eyes of Aerys, Rhaegar pulled aside to speak with Elia and Terrance.

Rhaegar seemed at a loss. “Elia…”

“Rhaegar.” Elia kept her voice icy. “You survived.”

“I survived…” His face became slack with sorrow.

A breeze of wind trailed past them, the slow winds of summer dying out.

Their eyes, speaking and hiding a thousand things. A love they once glimpsed. The children they adored, even if Rhaegar saw them as more than just children. The girl and all that Elia had warned had come to be.

It would be exulting to throw it all in his face. Chide him. Insult him.

There was no time for that, however. Her husband, the father of her children, had come back from what she thought was death, and now he already rode off again into the jaws of war.

He hadn't even laid eyes on their children yet. Elia knew better than to ask it of him. She knew he'd say no. He'd make a promise he couldn't keep.

She didn't want to hear it. So, instead of talking about any of those things. She simply turned, and left him upon the steps of the Red Keep, Terrance following close behind.

Despite her husband's survival. Despite the new knight at her side. After everything, Elia still felt the end drawing near, and so, pretended that Rhaegar really had died upon the Trident. What difference would it make?

She had given up on hope, and all she wanted was to see her children's sleeping faces. To cuddle beneath a blanket of red velvet, and never awaken again.

It was the only thing she had left.

Chapter Text

Lyanna awoke with slick sweat coating her body. She felt as if she'd drown in it. The air didn't help matters, it was too heavy and hot, making her feel as though her skin burned, even when shaded from the sun. Her swollen belly felt like a hot, heavy boulder strapped to her body.

None of those, as horrible as they were, were the reason she awoke. In fact, she'd grown quite used to these things. After Summerhall, it was out of necessity, since it got so damnably hot so far south.

What awoke her were the sounds of hoofbeats upon the rocky trail leading up to the tower. Their party had left all but three horses, and two had gone off with Richard and Myles. Lyanna wondered how they were doing now, and hoped they were safe.

So when the sound of hoofbeats of what seemed a miniature army started slithering up to the tower, Lyanna was immediately both scared and hopeful. On one hand, she thought it might be the two squires and their Prince, her husband. On the other, she was terrified it was one of the many people Rhaegar had warned her about. Those who would see her and her child slain.

For a moment, she did not move. Too sweaty and tired to want to move, and yet very curious as to who had come to the tower. It certainly couldn't have been the Kingsguard, they wouldn't even leave to get her some pickled eggs, even though she hungered for them constantly. Gerold Dayne, Arthur's squire, had at the very least tried, but was caught and reprimanded harshly. Lyanna felt terrible for him, and had even slapped Oswell when he made a jape about the whole thing.

Oswell was the worst of them. Always picking on Gerold and making crude jokes no one laughed at. Gerold was second, old and mistrusting of every little thing. A worm on a rock could send the old geezer into a tizzy so hard it almost seemed like he was the one heavy with child and not her.

The hoofbeats died down, and then there were steps hurtling up the stairs. Ser Arthur's, no doubt. Not as heavy as the White Bull's and not as rhythmic as Oswell's.

The wetnurse stationed outside spoke to him, and then came in. They got her up, a more difficult task than ever now that she was nearing the end of her pregnancy. They dressed her in a loose fitting gown, though it was so large to fit her belly it might as well have been a blanket.

When she was dressed and proper, Arthur was allowed inside. He wore his armor, even in the shaded tower it shone like a star in the night sky, perfectly white. He had obviously been ready for a fight, if the shield already hooked to his arm was any clue.

“My Queen,” Arthur bowed, his long white hair drifting down his shoulders as he did, “We have visitors. You must stay hidden, and away from the windows, until we can ensure your safety.”

To Arthur's side was Gerold Dayne, his gambeson loose and his hands clutched tight to his sword's hilt.

He must have awakened just now and had little time to arm himself.

Lyanna regarded Arthur. “I see… Who are they?”

“It matters not, my Queen. Soon enough I'll have them ridden off and we may have our usual morning walk. I apologize for the interruption to our routine.” He bowed again, deeper. Out of all the Kingsguard, he was the only one so reverent in his duty. Most likely due to the fact she carried a head of the dragon within her. Though, even she had misgivings about that.

“Thank you, ser. I will await you.” Lyanna curtsied and was led back to the bed to sit. She was always being coddled and moved about by her wetnurses, who, although earnest in their work, seemed to be a little too protective. Lyanna had to fight tooth and nail to even get walks, which only succeeded when she noted the fact that a mother wasting away in bed would not do for the babe's health. She might have also used Rhaegar's name once or twice to give more authority to her words.

She tried her best to live up to the title of Queen, but no matter how many times they called her that, she just couldn't make it fit. Her mind's thoughts turned to Elia and her children, and she still worried at the idea of two Queens, of what father and Brandon must be thinking right now. She worried about Robert and Ned, though mostly Ned.

Arthur and Gerold soon left, leaving her to be washed and tended to. Outside, she could hear the distinct sounds of Arthur, Oswell, Ser Gerold, and a woman's voice arguing. At first, she could barely make a word or two out, but as time passed and Lyanna was finished being groomed, she could hear the entire argument unfolding below. The echoes of their fight rebounding up the valley and into the tower.

“And I say she will die here!” The woman's voice flared.

“She is perfectly safe here. She is our charge.” Arthur's voice countered.

Oswell's voice joined the fray. “This is suspect, Arthur. I say we send the bitch running. There are too many people who know our location now.”

Arthur rounds on Oswell. “If you ever dare insult my sister again, Whent, then I'll take that tongue of yours that you love so dearly.”

The White Bull interrupts whatever Oswell is about to say. “Stop it, the both of you!”

Silence enters the valley quickly, and Lyanna cannot hear anything else. She imagines a tense standoff between the two knights, whose relationship had only gotten worse the longer they traveled together. It makes her itch with anticipation. She feels useless up here, doing nothing but feeding the growing babe in her belly. Was she not a queen?

If she was one, what kind was she going to be if she continued on like this? The meek Naerys who allowed her King to abuse her?

Or would she be like Alysanne? Defiant and progressive, a force to be reckoned with, both by her subjects and her husband.

Lyanna knew which one she'd choose. She chose it when she went with Rhaegar, when they took their vows.

Sprinting past her wetnurses with speed they didn't know she had, she burst through the door to the highest level and began a mad descent down the stone stairs of the tower.

It was reckless, and perhaps foolish. If she fell, she might as well have dug her own grave, and the babe’s… But she couldn't just sit there and listen to people talk about her whilst she sat in a tower like some helpless princess.

When she reaches the bottom, she crashes straight into Gerold Dayne. His sleek frame goes tumbling out the front door, with Lyanna going with him. Lyanna is only barely stopped from hitting the ground by a pair of rough hands grasping her arm.

She turns to see Oswell, who has a face of both confusion and disdain.

“What in the Seven Hells are you doing, girl?” Oswell's hands clutch her arm tight, pulling her back toward the tower.

“She's your Queen, don't handle her like some wench!” Gerold yells out, trying to get in between Oswell and her. It's no use, as he's far too young to deal with Oswell's bulkier frame. Within moments, Gerold is on the ground, his cheek red and scratched from the resounding smack Oswell gave him.

“Mind yourself, boy.” Oswell spits.

Lyanna tries to pull herself away, but finds her arm completely stuck in Oswell's grasp. Looking out, hoping Arthur or the White Bull will help her, she sees the visitors.

The whole group is made up of around twenty or so people, ranging from all kinds of different looks and statuses. At the head of the group rides a single woman, more beautiful and ethereal than any other Lyanna has seen. She knows this woman, Ashara Dayne, Arthur's sister. Hadn't she and Ned danced? That felt so long ago…

Their eyes make contact and hold for a while, before Oswell is drawing her back again. Her arm will surely bruise from how rough he handles her, and the pain makes her scream.

“Unhand me!”

“Stop, you petulant shit!” Oswell grasps her other arm, nearly hauling her off the ground, before Ser Gerold Hightower comes up the tower steps and pushes Oswell off of her.

“You will stop this! Do not ever touch the Princess again, unless it is to save her life. Do you hear me, brother?” His voice is deep and guttural, more masculine than any other Lyanna has encountered. It makes her deeply uncomfortable. Like prey beneath a great beast. Thankfully, that beastliness is aimed at another in this instance.

“I hear you fine…” Oswell mutters. He returns quickly down the stairs, holding off the small party with Arthur, who looks at Oswell with his own sort of disdain.

“My Princess, you are bruised. Go back inside, it is not safe.” Ser Gerold's gentle hand smooths her mussed hair as the other stabilizes her. Gerold Dayne is picking himself off the ground, irritably trying to get his gambeson on right.

Ashara, her voice a husky deepness that reminds Lyanna of her mother, calls out to her. “From what I can see, it seems she's only in harm's way when near you all.”

Lyanna's wetnurses have finally caught up, their slow reaction probably exacerbated by having to go slow down the stairs with their more intricate garments.

Ashara speaks again as they begin looking over Lyanna for any other signs of hurt. “It's even more clear now that you have no idea what you all are doing. Where is your maester? Where are the physicians?”

“It's none of your business, sister. We are doing fine. Now, you will answer me. Why did you bring these people here, and yourself, when I told you not to do anything of the sort?” Arthur retorts.

“You told her of our place here!?” Oswell shrieks. His face contorts into unveiled rage. “You could have doomed us.”

Ashara scoffs. “Here, a letter from your King. I would have shown it earlier, had mine own brother not acted like his sister was some stray dog to be sent away.” Arthur visibly bristles under her venomous chastisement, but despite that, he remains silent.

Ashara takes a letter with a Celtigar seal upon it, Lyanna only recognizing it from her short education by Rhaegar on the Crownlands.

Handing it to Arthur, he reads it quickly and without showing any signs of emotions.

Arthur turns to Gerold, handing him the letter before explaining. “Rhaegar wishes for Lyanna to be kept at Starfall, until such a time comes when it is safe for her return.”

Oswell laughs. “This is all a farce, Arthur. Rhaegar knows the danger inherent in the girl’s-”

“Queen.” Arthur corrects.

“Apologies, Queen's,” Oswell bites back, “pregnancy. There will be assassins, rogues, and worse. Can she even travel?”

Gerold looks up from the letter. “It's his writing. It's his command. If he thinks it's the best move, he most likely has better information than us.”

“I can't believe this.” Oswell rubs his temple, frustrated. “Your emotional sister is going to get the Queen killed! She's hysterical after losing that babe. Just look at her, bringing an entire village of idiots to accompany her!”

Arthur draws his sword, the ring of its meteoric steel deafening to all close enough to hear it. Its brilliant light flashes across the valley, banishing every shadow nearby. Lyanna gasps. Gerold Dayne, who had been at her side after Oswell let her go, takes a step forward, pushing her back.

“Silence, brother.” Arthur barely whispers, his purple eyes trained on Oswell like a hawk.

The White Bull steps forward, pushing Oswell back. “Enough of this. We have orders.”

Once Arthur sheathes his blade, Ser Gerold makes his way to Ashara. “Your companions will keep a distance, and I assume you've brought some kind of carriage? The Princess cannot ride in her state.”

“My companions will need to look over the girl. They are sworn to me, and will not harm her. I did indeed bring a carriage, it is back a way, for it could not climb the steep cliffs up here.” Ashara waves back to her companions, apparently a sign for them to start moving back down the mountain. Then, her eyes lock on to Lyanna's.

“What is your decision, girl? Will you come with me?” Her words feel cold, and deliberate, but her eyes. Those eyes speak of some need. Lyanna isn't sure what, though.

Arthur speaks for her before she can form a reply. “It's an order from our King, she will come.”

“I did not ask you, brother. The girl has just as much say in it as the Prince. For you see, he is not King yet, no matter how many times you call him that.”

“That is-"

“I will go.” Lyanna interrupts. She doesn't want to see the two siblings fight anymore. She just wants to go. If Rhaegar thinks it best, then she will do it.

“There. Then let us prepare. It is a couple of days ride home.” Ashara turns her horse around, and makes down the mountainous trail.

Arthur, still fuming, turns back to Lyanna. All the anger seems to deflate from him as he makes his way over to her.

“I am sorry you had to see all of that, my Queen. Let us prepare for our departure.” He takes a kerchief from under his cuirass, and hands it to her. For what, she knows not, maybe he guesses she might cry?

“When will we go?” She pretends to dab the kerchief under her eyes. If not to just let Arthur feel better after what must have been a trying reunion between siblings.

“Most likely? Later tonight. Ser Gerold will speak with Ashara once we've finished packing, and he'll decide precisely when. I suspect tonight, though.”

“I understand…”

“You don't like the tower?” Arthur puts a hand on her shoulder. She feels like it should comfort her, but for some reason it doesn't. Maybe it was Arthur's recent showing of his blade.

“I just… It is rather uncomfortable, ser.”

He moves a hair behind her ear, too slowly for her liking. Their eyes are locked to one another, and for some reason, Arthur won't even look away just for a blink. Lyanna feels like she's being interrogated. It’s as if he can see her very soul, trying to sense for any weakness.

“Let's get started. We won't have much time if we laze about.” His remark pointed straight at Gerold Dayne.

The squire mutters, then exhales. He's stopped trying to apply his gambeson by now. “Of course, cousin.”

The rest of the day passed uneventfully. They packed, cleaned, and ate in silence for the most part.

It's late in the evening when they finally leave the tower. Gerold decided early on that they'd travel by night, like Arthur said.

Oswell does anything but make it easier on them, constantly japing, jabbing, and joking with everyone. Backhanded compliments, venomous barbs, and deliberate humiliation are his favorites out of them all. Mostly aimed at Gerold Dayne, but some landing on Lyanna as well.

It's the usual play he puts on, but the worst of it is the derision of her pregnancy. Making Lyanna feel like less, and thus, her child. She can take a lot, but to insinuate anything about an unborn babe is too far.

She has to smack him a few times before he gets it through his thick skull to shut his mouth. Even then, Arthur needs to threaten him to comply.

Ser Gerold Hightower reprimands him, but reprimands Gerold Dayne even more harshly. Criticizing every aspect of him when he makes a slight mistake.

When they finish packing and readying themselves for the long trip, Arthur and Gerold spar for quite a while. As much as they like to belittle the young squire, nobody can say he doesn't fight well. Seeing his teacher, it's little wonder why.

Arthur dances where other men fumble, he glides where others fall, and he rises and keeps going when many would flounder and stop. If anyone was made for the battlefield, it'd be him.

His mesmerizing features make him seem like an angel of the Seven, sent to do battle with evil. Many would call them Valyrian, but after so much time with the two, Lyanna can see the subtle difference between Dayne and Valyrian eyes and hair color. The features of the face are stark as well. Where the Valyrian shaping is graceful and serene, the Dayne's are powerful and imposing. There is also a slight dimness to the white Dayne hair, almost making it blonde or sandy brown. Still, it is alien to Lyanna, who was mostly familiar with the thick and heavy-set North until relatively recently.

The difference is made doubly when Ashara returns. Her black-as-night hair flowing down to her chest, and her deep purple eyes even more analyzing than her brothers. The two of them seem made from two sides of the same star. One in the shadow, the other in the light. Even Gerold seems made of a separate cloth than mere men. His silver hair with a streak of black gives the appearance of some hero from a story. A young boy destined for greatness. His own purple eyes are not as strong as either of the siblings, yet still striking in its own way.

Lyanna briefly wonders if all the Daynes are like this, and becomes a little jealous at the idea of it. That a whole family could look so beautiful.

Ashara's reappearance stops the two's sparring, and everyone is moving. Seemingly all ready to leave in a hurry. Lyanna knows they rush so as to get her to safety quickly, and briefly feels guilty for that. That they may endanger their lives for her sake.

Gerold Dayne takes her hand, leading her quickly down the tower steps and down the trail. It is painful to walk, but riding a horse would be much worse, she knows. As much as she wished it didn’t.

The carriage is a good distance away. Lyanna attempts to pass the time with conversation. The rest of the Kingsguard follow closely behind and in front, with Ashara and her own knights ahorse. Ser Gerold is riding the last horse of theirs, a destrier from House Tarly. A fine, hot-blooded stallion. She has ridden him a little before she fell pregnant, though only with Rhaegar accompanying her. He was too afraid the horse may buck her.

“I'm sure you cannot wait to be on a horse after you see me in my carriage, Gerold.” Lyanna remarks, hoping to bring the squire up from his downtrodden state.

His eyes brighten, but carry a questioning tone. “Oh? Um… Not really. I really enjoy your company… Lyanna. I will ride with you in the carriage— to keep you safe, of course.” His stammers and blushing confuse Lyanna. Had she said something inappropriate? She didn't mean to humiliate the boy at all.

Lyanna tries again. “I just meant… I'm sure I'm a burden, is all. You should be with Ser Arthur, not leading a pregnant woman around.”

“I would v-volunteer regardless.” Gerold's blush deepens.

Suddenly, Oswell is there, coming in between the two. “He'd probably get you killed, if he keeps staring like he does.”

Gerold turns his head away. Lyanna doesn't really understand what he means by that.

“Staring?”

Oswell laughs. “You can't be that innocent, can you?”

Gerold turns back. “Address her with her proper title, ser!”

“Or what? What will you do, boy?” Oswell smiles, a flash in his dark eyes shows an intent to harm.

“Stop it!” Ser Gerold's voice comes from above on his horse. “Are you both children? Or men? Get a move on. When we reach Starfall you two can hash out your differences all you like.”

Oswell finally relents and moves back, flanking them. Arthur inclines his head back to Gerold Dayne, a deep grimace on his face.

“I apologize, my Queen.”

“You have nothing to apologize for, Gerold.”

The squire looks away, ashamed. Lyanna wishes dearly to uplift him, and tries one last time.

“You will make a fine knight. Finer than Ser Oswell, Gerold.”

He scoffs. “Sure…”

“No, I'm quite sure. They'll call you the Black Bull. You'll be the largest chapter in the White Book!” She gives a giggle. Gerold smiles and walks with a little more posture to his step.

“You really think so?”

“I know it.”

With their spirits less weighted, they arrive at the carriage. Gerold does indeed stay with her, accompanying her inside. Meanwhile, Arthur and Oswell finally get their own horses and set up a perimeter and formation around the carriage.

With efficiency only the greatest commanders and knights could achieve, they set off without even a second to be bored. Lyanna feels a little freer now that the Tower of Joy is behind them and hidden by the mountains.

No more waiting. Soon enough, she'll be in King's Landing. She'll see her father and brothers, and they'll come to understand, they will. Richard and Myles must have already gotten word to them, she's sure. Robert may be mad, but Rhaegar would be right. He would be on to the next girl within a fortnight.

Elia would welcome her, as Rhaegar promised. Then, both of them would be Queens, and the prophecies would prevail. No more would they have to hide away and in secret. The Song of Ice and Fire would be completed, and the Prince That Was Promised would be born.

Rhaegar thought it'd be a girl, but Lyanna thought differently. It only made sense to him that they'd be complete copies of the Conquerors, but Lyanna, for some reason, thought of them more like parallels. Two sons and one daughter. Similar, but not exact. Maybe that was her Northern blood talking though, as within her faith, nothing was ever a copy. All things were unique, just as every tree and every blade of grass.

Besides, with how hard it kicked?

A boy, definitely.

~~~

The first and second night passed without incident. Lyanna remained in the carriage the whole time. Ashara’s servants and her own wetnurses tending to her under watch by Arthur.

They had found that her waist might be too small to have birthed the babe whilst laying down. Thankfully, the maester had specialized devices and rope to allow her to stand, which should make the process much easier on her body. Arthur still assured her she would have been fine at the tower, but Lyanna is still thankful for the decreased risk regardless.

They also finally get her some pickled eggs when they pass through a small village. She's surprised when Gerold gags at the smell, and tells him that he just doesn't have taste.

Speaking of Gerold, they spend most of the time together. The only other person who speaks to her regularly is Arthur and him, and so it leaves them talking about all sorts of things. Family, friends, aspirations. He is a good friend, and Lyanna tells him as much, embarrassing the boy considerably.

Lyanna finds that without Oswell's constant digs, Gerold is a highly competent person, and she's rather glad to have him as an ally.

Late on their third night, Lyanna is softly dozing in her blanket and makeshift bed. Gerold is already fast asleep by now, but for some reason she just couldn't fall to sleep completely. The jostling of the carriage was the suspected culprit, but just as she was about to ask for a small reprieve to camp and sleep, she heard voices just outside. Ashara and Arthur's. She doesn't mean to, but she eavesdrops all the same.

“-ll break it before King's Landing.” Arthur said confidently.

“And if they don't? What will you do?” Ashara questioned.

“We will fight. There are still many who will seek our cause.”

“Even with the King and Prince dead? The rebels would have a strong leader, whilst the royals would have women and babes.”

Arthur wavered. “Still…”

A pause came and went. Lyanna realized she had no idea what they were talking about. What rebels could possibly threaten King's Landing? Had the Blackfyre's come again? Rhaegar… Dead?

When Ashara speaks again, it's steeped in loathing. “When will you tell her?”

“I don't know.”

“She will learn. One way or another. Do you understand that should she learn from someone else, she'll never trust you again? You must be the one. Before Starfall.”

Lyanna swallows heavily as the conversation stops, her mind slowly connecting the information. She gleams well enough to see now that they're in more danger than cloaks and daggers.

If there are rebels that can threaten King's Landing, that must mean at the very least a Lord Paramount has taken a side. It wouldn't be the Tyrells, nor Lannisters. Had a Great House allied with the Blackfyres? And why would they?

Out of everything that had happened recently, Lyanna could think of only her own elopement that may have started this. She loathed to think it, however, for if that was the case, then the only reasonable suspects to rebel would be… Her own family. Robert. The North and the Stormlands.

Rhaegar would have told her, though… Wouldn't he? If Robert had indeed pursued further? But why a full-scale rebellion? Just for a girl's hand he'd barely known? That would be madness.

Would Ned have ridden with him? Brandon? Father? Rhaegar would have told her… Someone would have told her.

Surely Richard and Myles had delivered her and Rhaegar's messages.

Lyanna's thoughts would not quiet themselves. For hours, until the waking dawn, she questioned and rationalized. She excused and denied.

When the morning arrived, and Gerold awoke, she was sitting still, looking over him. If anyone would tell her the truth, it would be Gerold. If he couldn't, then what chance was there that Arthur would?

“My Queen…” Gerold cautiously rose from his place upon the carriage floor, certainly able to see the state Lyanna was in, and guessing her mood. “Is something,” Gerold swallowed heavily, “the matter?”

“Promise me you will tell me the truth.” Lyanna tries her best to imitate her father's lordly voice, the one he used when he was done with the games and the dueling of tongues. It seemed to work, for Gerold drew painfully pale and sat beside her.

“Truth of what, my Queen? I… I promise I will be as truthful as I can.”

“Who has rebelled against the crown?” She frames the question purposefully. It at once tells Gerold that she knows there are rebels, and that in turn will make it obvious to her if he attempts to deny it.

Gerold flails his words, dumbstruck by the question. “I… U-um! Th-that… There-”

“Out with it.” Lyanna grounds it out, looking straight into Gerold's eyes.

He stammers again, growing paler. Finally, he breathes deeply, in and out, before he answers. “Robert Baratheon… and his allies. They… They rebelled a year ago.”

Lyanna gaped. “Why? For me? That's— That's madness.”

Gerold winces, rubbing his hand across his arm. “I… I shouldn't say. Arthur made me swear, that only the Prince… Only he could tell you.”

“The Prince isn't here.” Lyanna spat, enraged that she had been kept in the dark for this long. “Now… Tell me.” She could barely hold back her fury now. She felt her stomach kick, hard.

Gerold visibly swallowed, a bead of sweat lining his forehead. “It… Robert only rebelled when Aerys called for his and Ned Stark's head…”

“What? Why? Aerys had no reason…” Lyanna felt herself breathing harder, her legs cramped horribly, and a bead of sweat crept down her cheek.

Gerold slowly drew his hand over his face. “A-Arthur would tell it bette-"

“No.” Lyanna gripped him by the shoulder, tighter and stronger than she thought she could be possible after so long whiling away in a tower. “You will tell me, or… I will tell Ser Arthur you told me of the rebels.”

“Wha- No! I…” Gerold places his head in both his hands, acting as if he's the one learning of what's going on and not her. It infuriates her to no end. If she was responsible for another's death, even a commoner, she wanted to know. She had to.

“The King… Lyanna, I’m-I’m so sorry…” Gerold looks like he wants to bite his own tongue off, but finding himself unable, continues. “He executed your father and brother…” Lyanna immediately felt her body tremble, and her heart pace increasing. Her stomach kicked again, hard, painful.

“When they came seeking answers to your disappearance. He… He burned Lord Stark, and had Brandon choked to death. I… I’m so, so sorry, the-they made me swear to not speak of it…!”

Lyanna's heart stopped. Everything stopped. The carriage made no sound or movement, not even to jostle. The sounds of hoofbeats silenced as if stopped dead in their tracks. The wind died down, the chirping of birds flew away.

“Lyanna?”

A horrible, wrenching wail broke through the silence. Lyanna jumped from where she sat. Her stomach felt as if it was ripping itself apart. Her body felt far too stretched and taught, like a bowstring that wouldn’t loose.

Gerold tried to quiet her, his whispered apologies drowned out by the screams and yells of the people outside the cart, coming to see what was going on.

Lyanna’s vision passes in a blur. A hot, wet, sticky feeling slowly creeped down her legs. Her womb felt as if on fire.

Arthur is there, holding her by the shoulders. Gerold is being held by the scruff of his shirt by Oswell.

Ashara is ordering people around. Lyanna is being held by multiple hands. Somewhere, she hears one of her wetnurses scream.

Far in the distance, a great citadel of white pierces the sky, its crown of light like a shooting star.