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2016-10-04
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2018-06-11
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The Price Of Your Song

Summary:

Once upon a time a daring she-wolf extracted from a woodswitch precious knowledge of a hero to come. And with it, she promised to herself that the honour of carrying the seed of hope would be hers. Little did she know that the foreign words, too remote to touch, could ever bear the consequences they have.

Or, Lyanna Stark makes the mistake of thinking that prophecies entail smooth sailing, when, quite the opposite, they bring griefs unnumbered.

AU! The girl who believes in prophecies snares a reluctant prince who is not at all pleased to have been caught.

Chapter 1: Foreword

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

Thick fog was still rolling in. Waves and sheets clouded the sharp peaks, jagged rock but a dim shadow somewhere far ahead. The chilly air streaming through the high lancets caught onto the spider-web-thin curtains. Despite that, fire burnt in the fireplace still, light sluicing over the stones, wrestling shadows upon the ground. The long-length from the hearth to the lone table was covered in thick rugs, the washed-out colour paling even further under the caress of the glow.

At the table the solitary occupant of the chamber sat, peering without at the mist-covered landscape. Distinguished from her surroundings by the thick dark velvet of a formless kirtle, the woman drummed her fingers against polished wood. In her other hand she held a crumpled strip of paper. Neat writing decorated the pristine surface, words flowing in what seemed to be a single curt sentence. The woman toyed with it absently, bending its corners further.

One of the doors parted with a light screech, breaking the even crackling of the fire. A servant poked his head in. “A word, Your Grace?” he spoke in hushed tones, creeping within. The door closed in his wake. From without footfalls poured into the chamber.

Her head lifted, brows knitted together. The bloodied corner of her lip was the only blot upon otherwise unblemished alabaster. “Speak.” It was a croak. He’d not expected any differently. When the mistress did speak ‘twas always a croak, guttural, uncomfortable, never allowing for one moment of forgetfulness. Likely it was meant to keep the memory of it alive, burning within her chest. He held back from offering sympathy.

“They spotted a ship. It should arrive near sun-down. Our good maester has just received the raven.” She blinked slowly at the news, then turned her head slowly around, staring into the wall of haze once more. Her shoulder rose and fell in an exaggerated manner for but a couple of times. “The three-headed dragon rides the waves, Your Grace.” He lingered near the door in hopes of further instructions. He anticipated, near tripping over his feet when the woman spoke once more.

“Make light. The keep is too dark. Every candle.” Her croak retain its jagged cadence, those words a scratch rather than a caress. The servant bowed to her turned back.

“As Your Grace commands.” He tried not to stare long at the back of her head, to ignore the fingers still tapping away. He tried to act as if, for all the world, there was naught wrong.

Just as he made to depart, her voice rose from the silence once more. “Engage all the help you need; I want my son’s every need seen to.” There was little reason to tell her the maester had seen to it all since the first raven carried its dark plumage over from the Red Keep.

She’d no need of such details anyway. ‘Twas not as if the transitory state of wellness would not melt like the last snowfall before summer. “Your Grace,” he murmured, stepping without gingerly.

On the other side a young girl held a tray. “She is awake?”

“Aye. Devils have no need for sleep.”  

Notes:

I saw a prompt for someone and it sounded so good that I couldn't help myself. No expectations for this one, because real life and expectations. But hopefully you'll enjoy it anyway.

Chapter 2: Prologue

Notes:

SET BEFORE THE FOREWORD

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

 

 

 

 

 

 

The light drizzle without beat a steady rhythm onto the rose bricks of the keep, the sad song inviting melancholy’s slender yet strong arms to embrace them all. There was naught unusual about it. Daenerys had grown in this embrace, both protective and at times horrifying. ‘Twas not the fear of strange creatures prowling the dark roads deep into the night to grab at innocent maidens and unknowing lads. She’d never feared such things. After all, dragons could withstand any such assaults from inferior creatures.  Nay, it was other dragons who frightened her; dragons with sad songs and even sadder smiles.

All the other dragons she’d ever known were ever one step away from weeping. She smiled softly at that, sympathy welling within her breast at the thought of her kin. She supposed it all started with her father. Daenerys had not known him. Not well, as it were. Some whispered that he’d been mad, but all she recalled of his were those long fingernails and scraggly hair her fingers could never comb through. That had never frightened her. It was his eyes though. His eves never smiled, even if the rest of his face did; which was in itself rare. But he perished long before she could hope to understand it. Thus came her mother’s grief into play.

Rhaella Targaryen smiled. She smiled when she told her stories and when Jon caught his fingers in her dress. But there was aught about that stretch of lips, the slightly cracked skin never quite stretching smoothly. Daenerys had never asked about why she acted thus. She supposed it had to do with her own lack of courage. There had been times when she’d seen red lines on her arms. That had been father’s work, for some reason causing her pain. But then, Daenerys had not been concerned with such matters as mother rarely ever allowed her to catch glimpses of it.

Her brothers had been only slightly different. Viserys was forever crying over something, pulling on mother’s sleeve to be satisfied in his desires. But he was never truly pleased with aught. When he was a boy that was. Ever since Summerhall had been rebuilt, she’d not seen hide or hair of him. Better not to have him chase her about, she supposed, although there were times when she missed his antics. Her brother had been a wild one. Daenerys shifted under the covers, delicious warmth sliding against her. Rhaegar, of the other hand, had never cried. Not in front of her. She’d never seen him do aught but frown when dismayed or somehow hurt. She’d asked mother about that; if her brother felt like others did. But the woman had simply chuckled as if Daenerys had made a witty jest. She’d even asked Jon once if his father ever wept. As expected Jon had answered that men do not weep and had tugged on her braid to set the notion as particularly unreasonable. If Rhaegar ever displayed his emotions though, it was not in the presence of others.

And then there was Jon, her most beloved Jon. Daenarys sighed and twisted, covers imprisoning her legs. He was not unwell precisely. But the sombre set of his face rarely ever changed outside of her presence or his kin’s on his mother’s side.

The mother, of course; no one ever spoke about the Prince’s mother. For as long as Daenerys could recall, the woman had dwelled on Dragonstone, away from court and her son and, for the most part, away from any one soul. She lived a solitary life, as it were, and there had never been even a whispered suggestion that might be a wife and mother’s place was with her husband and her son. Daenerys had never even seen the woman. Rumour had it the King, her brother, kept her likeness somewhere in his bedchamber. Only she had never found evidence for it. On multiple occasion had she had entered his sanctuary, in search of Jon or a hiding spot during their bouts of play. She knew the chamber well enough and she’d even opened a few drawers. Her search had never turned up aught of interest at any rate.

Maester Pycelle once said she preferred her quiet life on Dragonstone and had elected to make her home there even before her son had been born. Daenerys would not even have been in her mother’s womb then. Yet that made little sense to her. How could she possibly choose to live so far away from her son, a son to whom, Daenerys knew, she wrote extensively. She’d seen some of them. Jon did not share all with her, but the idea she got from perusing the few lines Jon did allow her to see, it looked as though Lady Lyanna would have indeed preferred to dwell closet to her son.  

It did not add up. Despite all the insistence of Pycelle and even her mother, occasionally, Daenerys did not believe for one moment their assessments. Jon mustn’t have either for he’d been asking over and over again of the King if he might make for Dragonstone for his nameday. It was to be his present, he’d insisted upon her brother’s initial refusal and he’d accept no substitute. Such had been his commitment to the cause that in the end, unable to refuse his son’s wish, the King had agreed rather reluctantly.

They would set sail soon enough, to be there by Jon’s nameday. And if all went well, the King and Queen would solve whatever dispute had kept them all these years apart. It was the strangest thing, to be sure, but Daenerys was certain, and she’d told Jon so, that his mother kept away out of necessity. Aught had happened between his parents and if they were to ever close the gap between those two, they needed to find out what it was and what could be done to bring peace about.

If only her brother were not so difficult.

In those days long past, when summer reigned supreme, and the sun sat upon the bright bold sky hours upon hours, rays tangled in leaves and grass and gently swaying kirtles. Those long past days when little ever clouded the horizon. Those had been the same days when Viserys lurked about, waiting to tease her mercilessly. He’d known about Lady Lyanna. But even Viserys was uncharacteristically tight-lipped about what it was that had driven a wedge between their eldest brother and his wife. He’d only ever said there had been some monstrous disagreement between them and that he could not remember what it had been about, all the while his thumb pressed into his index finger. No matter what she’d promised him in exchange for his knowledge, Viserys had refused.

All that she and Jon had left to do then was cook up a plot of their own.

Which brought Daenerys to her yet of most concern matter. How in the name of the Seven was Jon’s plan going to work? She understood the most of it, of course she did. But how could he be certain that aught would be as he predicted. Granted, the King’s reactions were not much of a mystery. But he knew Lyanna Stark as well as she knew her. Good gods, he’d not seen her in nigh over a dozen years. For all he knew, the woman would not want to confront Rhaegar.

She would have measures the probability of success in even more depth had the door of her bedchamber not creaked something fearful, announcing that her rest was to be cut short. Poking her head out from beneath the furs, Daenerys came face to face with Sansa Stark, the girl looking as if she were attempting to muffle a giggle. Nevertheless, she held one finger to her lips, flushed cheeks reddening even harder with the effort of keeping herself silent.

“You must breathe sometime,” Daenerys murmured after what felt as if it were an interminable heartbeat. Still her companion shook her head. With a huff, Deanerys threw all hindrances away and slipped out of bed, standing fully before the other only in her chemise. “My gods, you’ve not gone mad, have you?”

That set her off. Sansa lost herself in peals of laughter, shaking with mirth. Her unbound hair glittered with yet unbroken water droplets. Her nose was red, no doubt having been caressed by the brisk wind without.

Unable to hold back in the face of such jollity, Daenerys soon found herself joining in, clutching Sansa weakly by the shoulders, trying to find the cause of such a good disposition. But Sansa only ever managed to babble a garbled explanation for her state and Daenerys understood no more and no less than a name from it all. Ever so slowly the laughter died down, its embers wrought into faint giggles, covered by cold kissed palms and unrolled sleeves as the two of them held one onto the other.

“If the septas hear us, we’ll both get a caning,” Daenerys said mournfully, aware that the two sour-faced hags were bound to have woken up. “I can still feel the last punishment.” But that more her fault than Sansa’s. Sansa had always been an obedient child, skilled at her needlepoint work, soft spoken and well-prepared. Daenerys preferred Jon’s company to the dull lessons in running a keep or doing accounts or those blasted needlepoint lessons. She’d nearly stabbed her own finger off with one of those needles.

“You should not have done that,” Sansa chided slowly, young voice atremble. “But they won’t hear us , not today. The Queen-Mother woke with the dawn and left for the Red Keep. I’ve heard she sought out the Grand Maetser.”

“Pycelle?” That worm. Daenerys shuddered at the thought of his beady little eyes examining everything in a skirt. “That old bastard just won’t quite, will he? He’s practically ancient and can barely lift his arms. Why not allow one of the younger acolytes to see to his duties?” At that her companion merely shook her head. “Now that our legs are perfectly safe, tell me what had you doubling over.”

A rose blush coloured Sansa’s cheeks once more. She shuffled her feet silently, looking away from Daenerys. It was almost as though she was ashamed. Realisation dawned upon her. She was just about to ask Sansa more insistently for the details when the other spoke of her own volition. “Ser Domeric,” she whispered breathlessly, cupping her hands around her mouth. “He kissed me.”

Daenerys parted her lips to respond, but then her mind caught up with her mouth. “I beg your pardon?”

The blush burned even hotter. “Not like that,” Sansa denied, holding one of her hands out. “But here.” The other hand came to pat a spot on the back of it. Then both her hand came to cup her cheeks. “I must be as red as a lobster.”

She did not deny it outrightly. Instead Daenerys’ stare took on a searching quality. “I don’t know, cousin. Might be a bit redder.”

“Dany,” Sansa complained as she chuckled. “I was very happy though. That he kissed me.”

That was not a kiss. Not a kiss proper. Daenerys did not reveal that to the girl though. She sighed affectionately and patted Sansa’s shoulder. “See? Aren’t you glad know that your lord father betrothed you to him?”

Feigning contemplation Sansa cocked her head to the side, staring at no point in particular. She licked her lips slowly, the tip of her tongue resting momentarily upon the lower one. “Would it be wrong to say that I have changed my mind? I do not think he’s so bad any longer.”

“And very glad I am to hear that. Ser Domeric is such a nice young man.” Albeit she understood Sansa’s disappointment at not having been matched with Loras Tyrell. That boy was as pretty as a picture. “Do you know, I’ve been standing here long enough for my toes to freeze off.”

She made a show of drumming her toes against the thick carpets. Sansa wrinkled her nose and waved her hand. “’Tis not a great loss,” she offered. “Less hide needed for your slippers.”

Pretended affront marred Daenerys’ features. “I have tiny feel. Tiny,” she emphasised, going as far as to point at one.” In truth the two of them were of a size, as it were, never mind that Sansa was some years younger. They shared a great many things between the two of them, including kirtles and slippers and pins and combs.

A chortle left Sansa’s lips. “There, there. Don’t take on so. You’ve slept in rather late. ‘Tis nigh time to break out fast and you are not even dressed.” And that was not even mentioning that her ribbon had come undone during the night releasing her mass of silver waves to dance and tangle to their heart’s content. There was naught to be done with those particular unruly denizens of the Seven Kingdoms other than straighten them out and pin ever sliver out of the way.

“When did you get up?” she asked of the girl, sliding her feet into the soft soled slippers which had been ignored up until that point. The fur-lined inside provided a much-needed heat. Daenerys smiled at the feeling. Her feet were almost always cold.

Her companion tsked. “Long before you,” she answered, moving about to open trunks and pull out fitting garb. “If we are too slow Jon will have eaten every last morsel and we shall have to go hungry. Do you relish the possibility or have your limbs simply fallen asleep.”

“He does not eat that much.” The feeble protest was met with a bland stare. She sighed. “Aye, well, he does.” Of a time at any rate. But she’d noticed he’d grown in height some, thus it mad perfect sense that he needed greater amounts of sustenance. “But he’s hardly liable to eat every last morsel.”

“So you want to have your fill of Dornish peppers then,” jested Sansa, pushing into her arms a high-collared mass. “I believe that is the one thing he does not eat.”

Sighing her capitulation, Daenerys divested herself of the shift she wore and accepted a clean one from Sansa. She put it on and then the kirtle, turning her back for the laces to be tied. Several laces into the task she winced, “Not so tight, I’m not a bone.”

“Nay, but you are exceedingly fussy,” her friend met with good humour, loosening the ties. “There, is that any better?”

“Sweet air in my lungs; it is the best yet.” The elbow to her back did not nock the wind out of her. “You do know ‘tis rude to mistreat your kin, nay? Have you no mercy, Lady Sansa?”

“None at all for those who would waste the day asleep. Come then, Your Grace, the feast awaits us.” She tied the last of those pesky laces and clapped her hand together in muted noise. “All done.”

Most everyone had risen long before Daenerys it seemed for the hall was filled with courtiers and the like, murmuring over their plates. Some of them looked as if they’d rather be sleeping still. She looked about in the sea of familiar faces. “There is Ser Domeric,” she whispered to Sansa, nodding in the young man’s general direction.

“And there is his brother,” Sansa answered with decidedly less enthusiasm, eyes peeled upon the lower benches where the one called Ramsay Snow ate his food. “Gods, I wish he’d not been brought along. But Domeric insists that though a bastard he’s still his brother.”

“All you need do is let Ser Domeric know his brother makes you uncomfortable. I am certain he’ll contrive to keep him at a distance,” she offered as several occupants of the benches took note of their arrival and greeted them. Plastering a smile to her face, she smiled her way towards the dais, tugging Sansa along. “Never you mind him. Today you break your fast with Jon and I.”

She did not know Ramsay Snow, but his countenance had inspired less sympathy for Sansa’s brash judgement of the man and a good dose of disquiet. Ser Domeric’s brother might well turn out to be an innocuous enough individual upon further acquaintance, but she would not seek it out to learn aught.

“Are you certain, Your Grace. I would not wish to be a third wheel.” Daenerys looked over her shoulder at that with a chiding glance. “I did not mean aught by it,” Sansa insisted. “’Tis a pity the two of you cannot spend a little more time together before,” she trailed off, brow furrowing, “before we leave, that is.” Light crinkles formed around her eyes as a smile bloomed upon her lips. “That is all.”

“Bit that tongue,” she warned in turn, “or you shall find yourself breaking your fast with the loathsome creatures without.” But Sansa knew well enough not to think the threat serious. She nodded her head in mock obedience and released a light snort. “So it is like that?”

“Precisely, Your Grace.” The incongruity between the decorous address and the subtle intent strengthened the hilarity even further.

“Sansa, Sansa. What am I to do with you?” They’d reached the steps leading to the highest bench. Daenerys climbed first, feeling Sansa just a measured step behind. “Look, there is yet food upon the table.”

The middle seat, elegantly carved dark wood, lacquered and gleaming in the low light streaming from without, bore no person in it. Jon sat at the left and the Queen-Mother somewhere on the right, one of her ladies at her side. Daenerys sighed and took her seat alongside Jon, despite the look her mother threw her.

“Awake, I see,” the heir managed to speak around a bit of bread sopped in golden yolk.

“Nay, I walked in my slumber, guided by my very sharp senses,” she replied, scrunching her face in disbelief at him. “And what has prompted this bout of sharpness for you, Jon? Not quite up to par yet?”

“I am very much up to par,” he answered nonchalantly, greeting his cousin with a fair smile. “I hope my aunt is not making you miserable this fine morn.” A bit of yolk slid towards the thickly cut ham. “It would be dreadful indeed, for you know Ser Domeric would not stand for it and I am honour-bound to protect Dany.”

Sansa rolled her eyes. “Your Grace, Ser Domeric has better things to do than tail me about the keep and see to my treatment.” And if that was not entirely accurate, then it was at least true in that the master-at-arms of the keep had long since requested that the knight help train the squires.

“How perfectly sensible of you, my lady.” Jon lifted his cup in approval. “I almost envy my friend his good fortune.”

A sharp elbow in his ribs later and he swallowed the wine wrong. “Dear me,” Daenerys murmured, “Your Grace must be careful. Whatever shall the realm do if aught were to happen to you?”

Once his coughing fit had subsided, Jon struck his tongue out at her. “Jealousy does not suit you, dearest aunt. There is this green hue about you, you know; clashes horribly with those fine eyes.” And then he merely ducked out of her way when she raised a hand to slap him. Not that she’d put much effort into that. Jon grinned, even wider than before. “Bloodthirsty thing,” he teased catching her hand in his own. “’Tis to you great advantage that the King is absent. He would not stand for such behaviour.”

“My brother routinely makes it his business to not stand for aught that is fun and might bring some much needed cheer within these halls.” But as soon as the words had left her mouth, she regretted it. It was all Jon seemed to need to recall where they were and his countenance slipped into the usual bland mask he wore.

“He is not as bad as all that,” her nephew whispered, as though he spoke to himself. “He is truly not that bad.” That had been addressed to her. “You needn’t take to heart all his failing, you know?”

“All that I know,” she whispered back, “is that I am surrounded by oppressive sorrow from all sides. I am an island in the middle of this sea. I do not wish to be an island.”

He shrugged and returned to his food, commencing his meal once more under carefully guided movements. Daenerys knew better to try luring him into another spell of lightness. He would fight her tooth and nail if she did. And in the end he’d remain his morose self and drag her mood down as well.

Throwing a discreet look Sansa’s way she could see the girl shaking her head. Aye, Jon’s cousin knew well enough what any of those attempts would bring.

Thus Daenerys filled her plate and attempted to act as if naught was amiss. It was a part she played so well.  

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Blood dripped down his thumb, tumbling onto the pristine cloth covering the table. Rhaegar glanced towards the cut. It was not a large thing, barely long enough to merit attention. But the blood kept pouring out. It might well be that his keeping still was not helping matters.

“Your Majesty,” the girl’s trembling voice roused him from the earlier state. He glanced at her and blinked away the remnants of a memory. “Allow me.” She moved around him, stepping on his other side, taking the knife away. “’Tis best to be mindful when wielding knives.” Her hand was soft, smooth-skin touching his.

There was still a touch of shyness to her. He allowed her to do as she would, leaning back in his seat. “’Tis not a grievous wound,” he assured her nonetheless as she pressed her own fingers over it to stem the blood flow. He supposed she might have licked at it were she inclined towards a romp. But then again, the girl was ever rarely so inclined. Or if she was he’d not seen it. But then again women in her profession rarely were. ‘Twas business after all.

“Nay, those are for the heart, Your Majesty; the truly grievous wounds.” Her voice was even lighter than before, trickling sweetly past his ear. “There, now ‘tis better.” She pulled her fingers away. The blood flowed no longer.

“Methinks you know a bit about those manner of wounds as well,” he offered after a brief silence. Dressed in a fine silk kirtle and draped in golden ornaments, she presented a slightly amusing view with the still tumbled hair. Of course, she had dressed long before morning came. “It would be indiscreet to ask.”

“And it would be difficult for me to tell. I need no one’s pity, Your Majesty. Better to be admired and sought after.” Her smiles, at least, never seemed forced. Flashing strong teeth, she moved back to her own seat, busying herself with choosing bits and pieces from the larger tray. “But if it would suit Your Majesty, I would listen. I am a very good listener.”

He smiled in turn and shook his head. “There are some matters I’ve no wish to discuss with anything other than the flames which will take me after death.” She inclined her head in understanding and pressed no more. And Rhaegar had to admit he was slightly disappointed by it. But he shook that of.

She was not his wife to listen to him prattle on about regrets. In fact, his wife, Rhaegar suspected, would not listen to even to gregarious speech. She had been and likely still was a prisoner of her own schemes and desires. As his mood was wont to do whenever he considered his wife, it soured, taking with it his appetite. Quite suddenly, his stomach protested at the mere sight of food. Rhaegar lifted his cup and sipped at the wine within. Nay, he would not think upon that matter. It was long past.

“I trust you find these accommodations satisfying?” he inquired after noting that she had placed her fork down.

The woman nodded and smiled once more, lips curving. “’Tis more than I deserve, Your Majesty. You are very kind.” The claim was not disputed. “I am ever so fearful of overstepping myself.” Though she ended the statement with a light laugh, Rhaegar sensed she truly was uneasy.

“Naturally all those who dwell within the Seven Kingdoms are my subjects. It would behove each and every one of them to measure their step in my presence. But I hardly require aught more than decency.” The half empty cup was picked up once more, making its way to her lips as he watched her.

Dark hair tumbled in loose waves down her back, uncombed and unpinned, slightly wild. She must have run her fingers through it quite a few times. Those tresses framed a delicate heart-shaped face, possessing a pair of fine eyes, light blue, reminiscent of the summer sky, and a pair of red lips; red from whatever she had used upon it.

He knew why he’d chosen her. There would always be differences to take not of when gazing at her. He would never find himself confusing her with another. Nay, he could not. He’d tried in those first days, those horrible, endless, heart-wrenching days. He’d made all manners of attempts. Best that it had not worked. There were still night when the memories crept into his dreams, taunting.

“I shall strive for that then, Your Majesty.” He caught her answer and nodded. She bit into honeyed biscuit, crumbs falling onto her plate. Without doubt some had managed to fall in her lap. It was a similarity. He took note of it with some unease and tried not to be bothered by the flash it brought. another lifetimes, sunny gardens and crumbly biscuits.

“And your son; he is no longer mad then?” What possessed him to ask, he did not know. In truth, her son mattered little to him. Force of habit, he supposed. Long silences were awful, maddening even.

She laughed, this time loud and gay. “He is but a silly boy, Your Majesty, and yet prone to such fits. Once he calmed and saw the house, he said naught. I trust he is somewhere without, playing in the streets. ‘Tis what children do.”

“Indeed,” he agreed. Jon had been like that, he recalled fondly. “They grow up very fast.”

“So they do. Your Majesty has a son of about four-and-ten, aye? And to think a short few years ago he’d been picking up his first training sword. But they are wonderful, children are.” His chuckle seemed to embolden her; she joined him. “My son was for the longest time the only beacon of light I had.” That he understood. “Look at me, babbling like a child. Your Majesty will have grown bored by now.”

“Not at all. You are charming company, after all.” He finished his wine and placed the cup upon the table.

Sensing that the scene was at an end, she pushed her own plate away and looked at him, straight into his face. “Is there aught amiss, Your Majesty. ‘Tis rare for you to remain at my table.”

In the past he had done so with more frequency, he seemed to call to mind. But then, she’d not had a private residence with a child underfoot. The boy had been there for a certain, but the establishment had had him running all sorts of errands. This was different. There was aught which stopped him from spelling out so very clearly what the boy was bound to know anyway.

Cruelty did not come easy to him. There were other men who would have not thought twice upon the matter. But he, he found himself contemplating at times if he should not settle a sum of money upon her and send her off somewhere. But then, it seemed to him, he should be very lonely. He’d grown used to her. She was a good listener, never pressed for more and saw to it that he had to meet no demands from her side. And he liked her, as a person.

“I am leaving.” The words produced the slightest of reactions. She frowned, barely. “I know not when I am to return, but I do not wish to keep you from other pursuits in the meantime. Just as long as you are careful. You will, of course, still benefit from the stipend as was our understanding.”

“And where is Your Majesty going that will keep one so long away?” she questioned, the earlier lightness returning. “To Essos might be. There it would be warmer, I reckon.” She sighed to herself, eyes darting towards a lancet. What serene a creature. He wondered at her equanimity and then shrugged.

“Not that far, nay. My son insists that he celebrate his nameday on Dragonstone. I find myself unable to shake the idea loose from his head.” Although the Seven knew he’d tried all manners of bribe he could think of. Naught would pry the child away and he saw no other option but to give in or forever regret the injury he might cause. Jon was all he had.

“On Dragonstone,” she repeated, a wealth of meaning in her tone of voice. Even her face had changed somewhat. As if she were thinking for a moment to offer pity. But she knew better and just as quick her smile returned. “Does Your Grace not fear those stone creatures twisting around the keep might one day come to life and leap down from their peaks? I’ve heard they are very frightening.”

“They are not so frightening,” he offered absently. Stone he did not fear. Flesh and blood was another matter altogether. “I daresay one gets used to them.” Slowly for some, but surely. It was only a matter of time. And willingness, he amended. “I expect to return with all my limbs even.”      

He parted from her then, leaving behind only a vague promise of return and the certainty of coin. Arthur and Oswell he found in the small garden, speaking quietly among themselves. They seldom entered the house during daytime. But at night, there were rooms for them to slumber in, or even just to rest. At his arrival his oldest friend gave a knowing look, the smile of his face growing tame.

“And, how did it go, Your Majesty. Shall the doors be open when you return?” It was said in jest by a, Rhaegar suspected, slightly inebriated Arthur. Thus he nodded. “That is as well; the wine is good.” Most definitely inebriated then.

“I tried to put an end to his antics,” Oswell offered, throwing Arthur an amused stare. “But the more I pushed, the more he resisted. Rather like a maiden with her first man,” he drawled.

“Not that you would know, Whent. You’ve never even had a woman to begin with,” Arthur snapped, “let alone a maiden.” He lifted the wineskin up and took a long drag. “Your Majesty, drunk or not, I am your best fighter. Whent is still sour about his loss.”

The two men continued to bicker back and forth good-naturedly, leaving little doubt in Rhaegar’s mind that their night had been wasted in drinking and possibly knocking swords in the yard at ungodly hour. He would never know thought, as he’d been asleep in his chamber at the time, after partaking in the small pleasures money could purchase. After all, if he was to never feel joy again, then at the very least he should be allowed some pleasure.

With that in mind, he went for the wheelhouse, climbing into the small conveyance. The sparse interior belied its purpose. This was no travelling wheelhouse and held little furnishing to accommodate those within during a long road. But within King’s landing it called less attention. How easy it should be to melt away in the crowds and never return, Rhaegar considered, toying absently with a ring on his finger. He gave one quick glance to the filigree, and was stared back at by a snarling wolf. Fangs bared, the beast looked as if its maw would open at any time and take his finger off. Might be the whole of his hand if he let it. He’d learned enough about wolves to know greed was second instinct to some of them. And the one upon his finger looked greedy indeed.

From without the pounding of hooves reached his ears. Rhaegar did not look. He knew how long arriving to the keep would take. Instead, he continued to drag and pull at the ring, never quite lifting it off. He ought to have thrown it out a long time past, he considered, but one look at the beast and his heart would thud painfully with a vicious unwillingness to have the thing away from him. Thus he’d kept it. Upon his little finger, a tangible reminder. How quaint it sounded.      

 

 

 

 

 

              

Notes:

Oh well, I tried. Extra points if you figure you who Rhaegar's lady friend is.

Chapter 3: VERY IMPORTANT

Chapter Text

Hi everyone,

Sol here. So, I’m sure you’ve heard about the new link-tax and copyright reform the EU is looking to introduce into the member states of the union. To those of you who haven’t or are not from the EU, basically this new piece of legislation is looking into regulating all activities dependent on content (be it videos, songs, news articles, books etc). They would do that by monitoring what the users of a platform post and if copyrighted content is determined to be used, it would be considered criminal activity.

The only way it wouldn’t be deemed criminal activity is if the users paid a tax (hence why we call it a link-tax).

The vote will be held on the 20th of June and in case the law gets passed, I think it’s obvious I won’t be able to post anymore on any platform (be it this or FF.net or some other site). So what happens is this:  I am starting to archive all of my fics. Those of you who want to request a certain fic can find me here.

Further updates information is: here.

Questions are welcome, but for discretion’s sake, sensitive ones are better posted on discord, or if you must on my e-mail address.

Thank you for your time and sorry to bring you somewhat unpleasant news.

P.S. Every story with more than 20 subs will get a post like this. If you’ve read one, you’ve read them all. I’ll take them down after the 20th.