Chapter Text
Chapter One
Six hours in the armor.
Rhaegar had stopped counting after that. The sun was lower now but the heat hadn't broken, and inside the great helm his breath came back at him hot and stale, tasting of metal and his own exhaustion. Sweat ran down his spine beneath the gambeson, the quilted linen soaked through hours ago. The arming cap under the helm was plastered to his skull. He could feel individual drops crawling down his temples, his neck, pooling where the gorget met flesh.
He wanted the helm off.
Couldn't. Not in Dornish territory. Not moving through lands that owed him nothing with a pregnant woman hidden in a silk-lined wagon and enough armed men to look like an invasion force.
The column stretched a quarter-mile, van to rear. Rhaegar knew because he'd planned it that way—close enough for command and control, spread enough that they didn't look like an army about to do something stupid. One hundred forty souls. Maybe two hundred animals. Moving through the Princes' Pass like a slow hemorrhage of steel and horseflesh while the mountains watched from the north and south.
At the head rode Arthur.
Ser Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning, white cloak brilliant against Dorne's dust and rock. Thirty-two years old and looked it—the kind of aging that came from competence, not decay. Broad through the shoulders in a way that spoke to decades of training, the specific build you got from learning swordwork at age four and never stopping. His armor caught the lowering sun and threw it back in shards. Polished steel, not enameled black like Rhaegar's. Practical. Dawn hung at his hip in its pale leather scabbard, the meteoric steel blade that had made House Dayne legend.
Arthur rode like a man who'd spent more of his life mounted than afoot. No conscious thought to it. Just sat his saddle with the kind of perfect balance that came from muscle memory older than deliberate skill.
Behind Arthur, the household knights rode two abreast. Ser Richard Lonmouth on the left—thirty years old, dark-haired, with the easy posture of a man comfortable in his own skin. Childhood friend. Trained together since they were boys. Richard had the look of minor nobility: good armor, well-maintained, but not the extravagant plate Rhaegar wore. He sat his horse well. Not Arthur-level, but competent.
Beside Richard rode Ser Jonothor Darry. Younger. Twenty-five, maybe. Still had that edge of belief in things—honor, glory, the idea that wars were won by the righteous. Good fighter. Rhaegar had seen him in the practice yard. Fast. Precise. Still thought tourneys meant something.
Behind them, Ser Myles Mooton. Solid. Unremarkable. The kind of knight who did his job and didn't philosophize about it.
Then Rhaegar himself.
The armor was a statement. Black plate from gorget to sabatons, every surface worked and chased and enameled to mirror-brightness despite the dust. Twelve rubies the size of quail eggs studded the three-headed dragon on his breastplate, set in red gold, catching light like frozen fire. The dragon's heads snarled at the world with mouths full of individually engraved scales.
Beautiful. Expensive. Impossible to miss.
That was the point. You didn't travel quietly and then dress like a mummer's version of a Targaryen prince unless you wanted people to know exactly who you were the moment you revealed yourself.
His destrier was a dark grey gelding, seventeen hands. Not Shadowmere—his warhorse was back in the baggage train, too aggressive for daily riding, too valuable to tire on a march. This was a palfrey, bred for endurance. Steady temperament. The kind of horse that didn't spook when armor clanked or men shouted.
Behind Rhaegar came the rest. Sixty-three knights and men-at-arms in varying qualities of plate and mail. Some could afford full harness. Most wore mail hauberks over leather, open-faced helms, steel caps. All carried weapons. All wore Targaryen colors somewhere—black and red, the three-headed dragon.
And in the column's heart, surrounded by twenty mounted knights who never left their positions: the wagon.
Purple silk curtains embroidered with silver stars. Reinforced oak frame. Iron-bound wheels with extra suspension because pregnant women and rough roads were a combination maesters warned against and Rhaegar ignored because there was no choice, there was never a choice, the prophecy demanded this and he'd already sacrificed too much to stop now.
Four matched horses pulled it. Their harness jingled with silver bells—too expensive, too noticeable, exactly the kind of detail that marked this as a prince's household, not a merchant convoy.
Lyanna was inside. Silent. Resting, he hoped.
Eight months pregnant. Moving through Dornish summer heat. Her face had been pale this morning, sheened with sweat before they'd even broken camp. She'd tried to hide it. Lyanna hid everything. Hated vulnerability the way Rhaegar hated the guilt that sat in his chest like a stone whenever he thought about—
No.
Don't think about that.
The prophecy. The child. The realm. Those were the things that mattered.
Three more days to the Tower of Joy. Then he'd leave her there with guards and midwives and ride north to Yronwood, gather what forces Dorne would give him, march to the Stormlands, break Robert Baratheon's war machine before it killed everyone he'd ever—
Stop.
Focus.
The column moved through afternoon heat that turned the air thick. Scrub and stunted pine clung to the foothills. The true mountains rose north and south like broken teeth. Rust-colored stone. No shade. Just heat and dust and the steady rhythm of hooves on packed earth.
At the column's rear rode Ser Oswell Whent. Kingsguard. Forty-three years old, broad-shouldered, scarred. The look of a man who'd seen too many battles to romanticize them. Practical. Pragmatic. Followed orders because the alternative was chaos, not because he believed in divine right or prophecy or any of the things Rhaegar used to justify this.
"My prince."
Arthur's voice. Rhaegar turned his head—awkward in the tall helm, vision restricted to a narrow slit—and found the Sword of the Morning riding beside him.
Arthur's helm was strapped to his saddle. Of course. Arthur Dayne could ride through the Seven Hells in full plate and still look like he'd just stepped out of a song. No sweat. No visible discomfort. Just that aristocratic ease that came from being better than everyone at everything and knowing it without needing to prove it.
"Dornish outriders." Arthur's hand rested on Dawn's pommel. Casual. Ready. "Light cavalry. Two dozen. They've been pacing us along the north ridge for the past hour."
Rhaegar looked. Saw nothing but heat shimmer and red rocks.
"Whose banners?"
"None visible. Local levies. Manwoody or Fowler, given our position." Pause. "They've seen ours."
Of course they had. Hard to miss a hundred and forty men flying Targaryen dragons through Dornish territory. Harder still to miss the covered wagon surrounded by enough guards to protect a king's mistress.
Or a crown prince's pregnant lover, depending on which story you believed.
Rhaegar's hand tightened on the reins. Leather creaked. The destrier's ears flicked back—sensing tension, too well-trained to shy.
They'd send riders ahead. Report to their lord. Who'd report to Doran. Who already knew Rhaegar was here but would want to know why, would want details, would want to understand what exactly the Crown Prince thought he was doing moving through Dorne with his wife's family's bannermen watching.
The answer was complicated.
The answer was a sixteen-year-old girl eight months pregnant with a child prophecy said would save the realm from darkness.
The answer was that Rhaegar had made choices he could barely justify to himself, let alone to Doran Martell, and now he was living with the consequences and praying they didn't kill everyone he'd left behind in King's Landing.
Elia. The children. Mother.
Don't think about them. You can't afford to think about them. Focus on what you can control.
"How long until they approach?" he asked.
Arthur glanced back toward the ridge. "Moving now. Truce banner. Eight men. One knight, from the look of him."
Eight men versus one hundred forty.
Not subtle.
Rhaegar raised his voice, pitched to carry. Years of singing had taught him projection—breath from the diaphragm, resonance in the chest, the trick of making sound travel without shouting. "Column halts! Defensive formation around the wagon!"
The order rippled backward. Knights reined in with the smooth coordination of men who'd drilled this. Turned mounts outward. Created a bristling wall. Men-at-arms dismounted—you didn't fight from horseback with polearms, any fool knew that—and formed a second rank.
In the center, the wagon stopped. Its escort tightened. Twenty armed men in full harness between the outside world and whatever was inside.
Good.
Rhaegar dismounted.
Awkward in full plate. Always was. You had to swing your leg high, drop with more weight than grace, land heavy and hope your squire was there to steady you if the sabatons skidded on loose stone.
His feet hit ground with a crash of steel on rock.
Edric appeared immediately. Fourteen years old. Rode the entire journey on a mule, never complained. Offered a leather flask with the kind of nervous efficiency that came from serving a prince who was either a prophetic genius or a madman, depending on who you asked.
Rhaegar took the flask. Tilted his helm back just enough to drink. Warm water. Tasted like leather and dust. He drank it anyway, felt it cut the dryness in his throat.
"My thanks, Edric."
The boy flushed. Pleased at being named. Bowed jerkily and retreated.
Arthur had dismounted beside him. Moved with that unconscious economy—thirty years of wearing armor had taught him exactly how much energy each movement cost, how to conserve it. He looked concerned.
Not afraid. Arthur didn't do fear. But concerned in that particular way that meant he was calculating odds and didn't like the mathematics.
"They want to talk," Rhaegar said.
"They want to know what we're doing in their lord's lands with a covered wagon and enough swords to start a war."
"We'll tell them what they need to know. Nothing more."
Arthur's expression suggested he had opinions about that but was too professional to voice them in front of the men.
The Dornish riders came slowly. White flag raised. Light cavalry—leather and mail, small round shields, short spears. Their horses were desert-bred. Smaller than northern destriers. Built for speed and endurance in heat that would kill a northern warhorse in a week.
The knight leading them was middle-aged. Weathered brown by sun and wind. His mail was polished but showed patched repairs—the kind of maintenance that spoke to long service on a limited budget. No helm. No device. But his sword's scabbard was quality work and his spurs were good steel.
Thirty yards out, he raised a hand. His men stopped.
He came forward alone.
Dismounted deliberately at twenty yards. Walked the rest of the way on foot.
Respect. Approaching a prince on foot, showing you weren't trying to intimidate.
Rhaegar appreciated that.
The man stopped six feet away. Inclined his head—not quite a bow. The nod you gave another warrior, not a subject to a king.
"My lords." His voice had the particular cadence of Dornish nobility—slightly musical, vowels shaped different from northern speech. "I am Ser Myles Sand, sworn to House Manwoody of Kingsgrave. I command the garrison patrols for this stretch of the Princes' Pass."
Sand. Bastard-born. Knighted anyway and given command of border security.
That spoke to competence over birth, which meant Lord Manwoody was either progressive or desperate or both.
"Ser Myles." Arthur's voice carried that aristocratic courtesy that could mean warmth or imminent violence depending on context. "Ser Arthur Dayne of Starfall. My companion and I travel through your lord's lands on urgent business."
Ser Myles's eyes went to Rhaegar. Took in the black plate. The rubies. The three-headed dragon blazing in raised relief.
Took in the quality of the armor—the kind of craftsmanship that cost what a minor lord earned in five years.
Took in the fact that sixty knights had just formed defensive positions around a single covered wagon.
The man was no fool. Rhaegar watched understanding dawn in his weathered face even as his expression stayed carefully neutral.
"Ser Arthur." Carefully. Testing. "Lord Manwoody received no word from Sunspear regarding noble travelers in the Pass. Had we known to expect such a distinguished party, arrangements might have been made for proper welcome."
His gaze drifted to the wagon. Lingered.
He knows. Or he's guessed. And he's trying to decide whether to say it aloud or pretend he hasn't noticed that the Crown Prince is moving through Dorne with a wagon full of something he won't explain.
Time to end the pretense.
Rhaegar reached up. Removed his helm.
The rush of air on overheated skin was shocking. His hair was matted to his skull in damp silver curls. The arming cap beneath was grey with sweat. He wanted to shake his head like a dog shedding water but that would look undignified, so he just held the helm at his side and met Ser Myles's eyes directly.
Violet eyes. Valyrian features. The face that appeared on coins throughout the Seven Kingdoms.
Let him see. Let him know exactly who's asking for his silence.
"I am Rhaegar Targaryen, Prince of Dragonstone." His voice was quiet. Measured. The tone he used when he wanted to sound reasonable instead of commanding. "Ser Arthur speaks true. We travel on urgent business and require discretion. I trust this will not be a difficulty?"
Ser Myles went very still.
Wind over stone. Harness jingling as horses shifted. Nothing else.
Then the Dornishman dropped to one knee. Smoothly. Without hesitation.
"Your Grace." Head bowed. "Forgive me. Had I known—"
"You could not have known. Nor should you have." Rhaegar let silence do the work for a moment. Then: "Rise, Ser Myles. I would speak with you as men of honor, not as prince and subject."
Ser Myles rose. Wary now. Calculating.
"You have questions." Rhaegar kept his voice level. "I cannot answer them all. But I will answer what I can, and I trust you will respect the answers I cannot give."
The knight's jaw worked. "Your Grace, my duty to Lord Manwoody—"
"Is to report unusual activity in his lands. I understand. You've sent riders ahead already, yes?"
Surprise flickered across Ser Myles's face. "I... yes, Your Grace. Two men. To Kingsgrave."
"Good." Rhaegar allowed himself a faint smile. "When Lord Manwoody receives that report, he will know that Prince Rhaegar travels through Dorne with armed escort and a covered wagon. He will draw conclusions. Some of those conclusions will be correct."
A careful truth. Technically accurate. Doran knew Rhaegar was coming to Dorne—he'd sent letters weeks ago. What Doran thought about that was a different question, and not one Rhaegar wanted to examine too closely.
"What matters," Rhaegar continued, "is that Lord Manwoody understand this journey is undertaken with Prince Doran's knowledge. Dorne is not ignorant of my presence."
Ser Myles absorbed this. "Prince Doran knows you are here."
"He knows I travel through Dorne. Yes."
"And the... cargo?" His eyes went to the wagon despite himself.
Steel entered Rhaegar's voice. Gentle. Unmistakable. "Is under my personal protection and is no concern of House Manwoody's. I mean no disrespect to your lord, Ser Myles. But some matters remain private, even from loyal bannermen."
"Of course, Your Grace." The man's expression said he understood exactly what was being left unsaid. "And your destination?"
"A tower in the Red Mountains. Remote. Defensible." Rhaegar paused. "I do not believe Lord Manwoody will find my presence there troubling. We will remain out of sight."
"The Tower of Joy," Ser Myles said quietly.
Not a question.
Arthur's hand tightened on Dawn's grip.
Rhaegar held up a hand. Forestalled whatever his friend might say. "You know of it?"
"It's in our maps, Your Grace. Old fortification. Mostly abandoned. Foothills east of here, three days' ride." The knight hesitated. "If Your Grace intends to garrison it—"
"I intend to ensure the safety of my dependents. For a time." Rhaegar let the implication hang. "We will require supplies. Sent from Kingsgrave. Discreetly. I would pay well for such service."
Understanding lit in Ser Myles's eyes.
A prince. A covered wagon. Payment for silence.
The mathematics were simple: keep quiet, receive gold. Speak, and invite royal displeasure from a man who commanded dragons—or would have, if dragons still existed. Either way, not someone whose anger you wanted.
"I will convey your requirements to Lord Manwoody, Your Grace. I'm certain arrangements can be made."
"My thanks." Rhaegar inclined his head. Then, because a small gesture cost him nothing and might buy much: "Ser Arthur tells me you command the garrison patrols for this region. That speaks to your lord's trust. A man of competence and discretion both."
The compliment landed. Ser Myles straightened. Pride warring with wariness.
"You honor me, Your Grace."
"I honor capability." Rhaegar replaced his helm. The world narrowed to restricted vision and his own breathing. When he spoke again his voice was muffled but audible. "We continue to the Tower. I trust we will have no further interruptions?"
"You have my word, Your Grace. I will personally ensure your journey is untroubled."
"Then we are done here." Rhaegar turned toward his horse. Edric waited to help him mount—you couldn't mount in full plate without assistance, not gracefully, another indignity Rhaegar had learned to accept. Over his shoulder: "Safe travels, Ser Myles. My compliments to Lord Manwoody."
"And to you, Your Grace."
The Dornishman remounted. Signaled his men. Rode back up the slope at a measured pace—not hurried, not slow. Professional.
Rhaegar watched him go.
"Well?" Arthur asked quietly.
"He'll report everything to Manwoody. Who will report it to Sunspear." Rhaegar mounted with Edric's help, settled into the saddle with a crash of plate on leather. "Doran will do nothing. Not yet. He's cautious. He'll wait to see what I intend before committing."
"And if he decides your intentions threaten Dorne?"
"Then we deal with that when it comes." Rhaegar's hand found the reins. "For now we continue. Three more days to the Tower. Then everything changes."
Arthur's expression was unreadable. "You are certain it's a son."
Rhaegar was certain of many things. The prophecy. The dreams. The absolute necessity of this child, regardless of cost.
Whether that made him a prophet or a madman was a question he'd stopped asking months ago.
"I am certain," he said.
He didn't elaborate. How could he? Arthur knew about the prophecies. Knew Rhaegar had read every text, consulted every maester who'd study the old Valyrian scrolls. Knew about the dreams that woke him sweating in the night, visions of ice and darkness and a realm that froze while he played dutiful husband to a woman he respected but could never love the way prophecy demanded he love the mother of the prince that was promised.
Arthur thought him half-mad for it.
Perhaps he was.
But the alternative was watching the realm burn. Watching the darkness come. Watching everyone he'd ever cared about die because he'd been too cowardly to do what was necessary.
Elia would understand. Eventually. When this was over and he could explain. When he'd won the war and taken regency from his father and secured the realm and brought her and the children somewhere safe.
The children. Rhaenys and Aegon. His legitimate heirs. The ones he'd left in King's Landing with a mad king while he rode through Dorne with his pregnant mistress.
Don't think about them. You can't afford to think about them. They're safe. Barristan is there. Jaime is there. They'll protect them.
And when this is over you'll explain everything and somehow it will be all right.
It won't be all right. You know it won't be all right. You've destroyed your marriage and humiliated your wife and started a war and the only thing that makes it bearable is believing the prophecy makes it necessary.
No.
Stop.
The prophecy. Focus on the prophecy.
The column resumed its slow progress through the Pass. Horses. Men. Wagons. The rumble of wheels and the steady clop of hooves and the jingle of harness.
From the silk-lined wagon, no sound emerged.
Lyanna resting. Or awake and silent. Either way, enduring. The way she'd been enduring for months—the pregnancy, the heat, the knowledge that in three days he'd leave her in a tower with guards and ride north to face a war that would probably kill him.
She'd chosen this. They both had. Six months in Essos pretending the world outside didn't exist, and now the bill was coming due and they were both paying it, just in different ways.
Three more days.
Then the Tower. Then Yronwood. Then gathering what forces Dorne would give him. Then the Stormlands.
The sun touched the western peaks. The heat didn't break. Inside his armor Rhaegar sweated and prayed to gods he wasn't sure he believed in that the prophecy was real and the child would matter and that somehow, despite everything, this would all be worth it.
Three more days.