King's Landing smelled exactly as I remembered.
Horse shit.
Smoke.
Salt.
Too many people packed behind too many walls.
I breathed it in as we passed through the Lion Gate.
"Home," I said.
Tywin looked at me from his horse.
"No."
"No sense of humor after five years?"
"No."
"Good to know some things haven't changed."
His eyes remained forward.
I thought I saw the corner of his mouth move.
Probably imagined it.
The streets were familiar, but I wasn't.
At seven, the city had seemed impossibly large. Every tower had required me to tilt my head back. Every armored man had seemed enormous.
Now I rode beside Tywin rather than behind him.
People noticed.
"Lannisters!"
Heads turned.
My father's reputation reached them first.
Then their eyes found me.
I was no longer a little boy hidden beneath a cloak.
Some knew who I was.
I heard my name twice before we reached the Red Keep.
Tycen Lannister.
Heir to Casterly Rock.
It felt strange hearing strangers say it.
Then the Red Keep rose above us.
And at the top of the steps stood Rhaegar Targaryen.
I smiled.
He had grown.
A lot.
At fifteen, Rhaegar had begun to look less like a boy and more like the prince I remembered from descriptions.
Tall and slender.
Long silver-gold hair falling past his shoulders.
Violet eyes.
He wore black, with the three-headed dragon picked out in red across his chest.
For one uncomfortable second, my old memories supplied another image.
Armor.
Rubies.
A warhammer descending.
I pushed it away.
Not today.
Rhaegar descended the steps.
Tywin dismounted first.
"My prince."
"Lord Tywin."
Then Rhaegar looked at me.
His formal expression lasted perhaps two seconds.
"You got taller."
I dismounted.
"So did you."
"I'm still taller."
"You're three years older."
"Excuses."
There he was.
I held out my hand.
Rhaegar ignored it and embraced me.
Several nearby courtiers noticed.
So did Tywin.
I didn't care.
Rhaegar released me.
"You took too long."
"It takes time to cross half the realm."
"You had a horse."
"So did everyone else."
"I expected urgency."
"I came as quickly as Father travels."
Rhaegar looked toward Tywin.
"Then I offer my condolences."
I laughed.
Tywin did not.
"Prince Rhaegar," he said, "I assume your father is expecting us."
Rhaegar's smile faded slightly.
"Yes."
That single word reminded me of the letter.
Something was wrong.
Aerys had aged more than five years.
That was my first thought when I saw him.
Not dramatically.
He wasn't the Mad King from my memories.
Not yet.
His silver-gold hair remained carefully kept. His clothing was magnificent. His posture still carried the easy certainty of someone who had spent his entire life knowing everyone else must bow.
But his face had sharpened.
His eyes moved more.
Across servants.
Doors.
Guards.
People.
Always people.
"Tywin."
My father bowed.
"Your Grace."
Aerys descended from the Iron Throne.
His gaze found me.
"And the little lion."
I bowed.
"Your Grace."
"Not so little anymore."
He walked around me.
Actually around me.
I resisted the urge to turn.
"Look at you."
His fingers briefly touched one of the lighter golden strands in my otherwise dark-gold hair.
My entire body stiffened.
"Still that strange gold."
Tywin's voice came immediately.
"His mother's coloring."
Aerys looked at him.
Then smiled.
"Yes."
One word.
Nothing more.
But I remembered being seven.
Your mother would have been proud of you.
I didn't like the way the room suddenly felt.
Aerys stepped away.
"I hear you have become quite skilled with a sword."
"Skilled enough to know how much better others are, Your Grace."
That made him laugh.
"Tywin taught you that answer?"
"Ser Harys taught me the lesson."
"Good."
Aerys returned toward the throne.
"Perhaps we'll see how good you are."
My attention sharpened.
"Your Grace?"
"There are boys at court who have become very proud of themselves."
Aerys smiled.
"Humility is useful."
Tywin said nothing.
Neither did I.
But that sounded considerably more interesting than pouring wine.
Rhaegar found me less than an hour later.
He entered my chambers without knocking.
"You still do that?"
"Yes."
"What if I had been naked?"
"I would have regretted my decision."
I threw a glove at him.
He caught it.
"Come."
"I just arrived."
"Exactly."
"Where?"
"The library."
I stared.
"Five years and that's your grand adventure?"
"This is important."
The humor disappeared from his face.
The letter.
I followed.
The Red Keep's library hadn't changed much.
Rhaegar knew it better.
He moved past the main shelves, through a narrower section and toward a small table beside one of the windows.
Several books were already waiting.
Old books.
Very old.
One looked ready to disintegrate if I breathed too aggressively.
Rhaegar closed the door.
That was unusual.
"What did you find?"
He placed a book in front of me.
"Read."
I looked at the page.
The handwriting was terrible.
"I can't."
"You can."
"I mean whoever wrote this should have been executed."
"Tycen."
"Fine."
I leaned closer.
It concerned House Targaryen.
Nothing surprising.
Dragons.
Dreams.
Prophecies.
More dragons.
Targaryens truly had one subject.
Then I saw the phrase.
The Prince That Was Promised.
I stopped.
Rhaegar noticed.
"You recognize it."
"You've written to me about it."
"Before that."
Dangerous.
I shrugged.
"I've read things."
"Where?"
"Casterly Rock has books."
"Not this book."
He was too observant.
Always had been.
I looked back at the page.
"What's important about it?"
Rhaegar sat opposite me.
"I think it's about me."
There it was.
Not surprising.
Still bad.
"Why?"
"Because of Summerhall."
That name carried weight.
Even for me.
The tragedy at Summerhall.
Fire.
Targaryens dead.
Rhaegar born amid the flames.
I remembered enough.
Not everything.
But enough.
Rhaegar continued.
"I was born there."
"I know."
"The same day."
"I know that too."
"Then you understand."
"No."
His eyebrows drew together.
"I was born while Summerhall burned, Tycen."
"That makes your birth unusual."
"More than unusual."
"According to whom?"
"The texts."
"Books say many things."
"Not like this."
His voice had changed.
More intensity.
I didn't like it.
Not because he sounded mad.
He didn't.
He sounded convinced.
There was a difference.
Perhaps a more dangerous one.
Rhaegar pulled another book toward me.
"Look."
I did.
Fragments.
Prophecy.
Smoke.
Salt.
A promised prince.
The blood of the dragon.
Some of it I recognized from my old life.
Some I didn't.
That worried me.
"What do you think it means?" I asked.
Rhaegar hesitated.
"I don't know yet."
Good.
At least there was a yet.
"But you think you're this prince."
"I think it's possible."
"That's different."
"Is it?"
"Very."
He leaned back.
"You don't believe in prophecy."
"I believe dragons existed."
"That's not what I asked."
"I believe strange things happen."
Rhaegar waited.
I sighed.
"I believe prophecy is dangerous."
"Why?"
Because I'd seen what happened to him.
Because one day he might decide the fate of the world depended on having three heads of a dragon.
Because Lyanna Stark wasn't even part of his life yet, and I could already see a road stretching toward the Trident.
I couldn't say any of that.
"Because if someone believes something has to happen, they can start making it happen."
Rhaegar went quiet.
"Perhaps that's the point."
"Or perhaps that's the trap."
Neither of us spoke.
Outside, bells rang somewhere across the city.
Rhaegar looked back at the books.
"I thought you'd understand."
The disappointment in his voice annoyed me more than it should have.
"I do."
"No, you think I'm being foolish."
"I think you're fifteen."
His eyes narrowed.
"You're twelve."
"Exactly. We're both idiots."
That almost got a smile.
Almost.
I leaned forward.
"If you want to study it, study it."
Rhaegar looked at me.
"Really?"
"Yes. Read everything. Find contradictions. Find who wrote what and when. Ask why they believed it."
His expression changed.
Interested now.
"But don't decide the answer first and then search for things that prove you right."
Rhaegar considered that.
"Maesters do that."
"Everyone does that."
"Including you?"
"Especially me."
That finally made him smile.
"Fine."
"Fine?"
"I'll prove it."
I groaned.
"That is almost the exact opposite of what I said."
We spent another hour with the books.
Not because I suddenly cared about prophecy.
Because Rhaegar did.
And that mattered.
Eventually he pushed one aside.
"There's something else."
"More prophecy?"
"No."
"Thank the gods."
"My father."
The room seemed colder.
"What about him?"
Rhaegar stood and walked toward the window.
"He thinks someone is plotting against him."
"That isn't new."
"No."
Rhaegar looked down into the courtyard.
"But it's worse."
"Who?"
"Everyone."
I remembered Tywin's answer.
Enemies.
"Your father told you nothing?"
"Very little."
"Mine too."
Rhaegar looked at me.
"Father has men reporting conversations to him."
"Spies?"
"Perhaps."
"Kings have spies."
"He had a servant beaten because another servant claimed he mocked him."
I said nothing.
"Last month he accused one of Mother's ladies of stealing letters."
"Did she?"
"No one knows."
"What happened?"
"She was sent away."
That could have been worse.
The fact that I thought that bothered me.
Rhaegar continued.
"He asks me questions."
"What kind?"
"Who speaks to me. What they say. Whether anyone complains about him."
"And?"
"I tell him the truth."
"All of it?"
Rhaegar looked at me.
"No."
Good.
Also dangerous.
"Be careful."
"I am."
"You snuck out of the Red Keep with me when you were ten."
"That was five years ago."
"And you still owe me a lemon cake."
"I do not."
Some tension disappeared.
Only some.
Then Rhaegar said:
"Your father and mine hate each other."
I didn't answer immediately.
"Hate is a strong word."
"Is it wrong?"
I thought of Aerys touching my hair.
Tywin answering immediately.
His mother's coloring.
I thought of years of letters.
Arguments.
Insults.
Competition.
"No."
Rhaegar nodded.
"I didn't think so."
That evening, I found Tywin alone.
"Why did Aerys summon me?"
He continued reading.
"I told you—"
"No."
His eyes rose.
"I don't think it was because he missed me."
Tywin put the parchment down.
"What happened today?"
"He asked about my swordsmanship."
"Anything else?"
I hesitated.
"He touched my hair."
Tywin went completely still.
There.
Five years older and I finally understood that reaction better.
Not what caused it.
But what it meant.
Anger.
Controlled so tightly it became silence.
"What did he say?"
"That it was still strange."
"And?"
"You said it came from Mother."
Tywin stood.
"Anything else?"
"No."
He walked toward the window.
I watched him.
"Father."
"What?"
"Why does he care about Mother?"
Silence.
I'd asked versions of that question before.
At seven, Tywin had dismissed me.
I wasn't seven anymore.
"They knew each other."
"I know."
"Then you have your answer."
"No, I don't."
His head turned.
I pushed.
Perhaps stupidly.
"Every time Aerys mentions her, you become angry."
"Tycen."
"He remembers things about her. He looks at me strangely. You told me never to discuss her with him."
"Enough."
The word struck harder than shouting.
I stopped.
Tywin faced me fully.
"Your mother is dead."
"I know."
"You will not allow Aerys's fascination with the past to turn her memory into court gossip."
Fascination.
Interesting choice of word.
"Was he in love with her?"
Tywin's face became stone.
For several seconds, I wondered if I'd gone too far.
Then:
"The king desired many things that were not his."
My stomach tightened.
Tywin walked back to the table.
The conversation was clearly finished.
But this time he had answered.
Not completely.
Enough.
I left with more questions than I'd entered with.
The next morning, Rhaegar woke me by throwing something at my head.
I sat upright.
"What the hell?"
A wooden sword landed beside me.
Rhaegar stood at the foot of the bed.
Dressed for training.
"You told me I was predictable."
"Five years ago."
"See if I still am."
I looked toward the window.
The sun had barely risen.
"I hate you."
"No, you don't."
Unfortunately true.
Twenty minutes later, we stood in the training yard.
A handful of squires were already there.
So were several knights.
And someone else.
A white cloak.
Ser Barristan Selmy.
He looked almost exactly as I remembered.
Older, obviously.
But still composed.
Still dangerous.
His eyes moved from Rhaegar to me.
"Prince Rhaegar tells me you've become quite the swordsman."
I looked at Rhaegar.
Traitor.
"I've improved."
Barristan smiled slightly.
"A safer answer."
Rhaegar handed me a blunted sword.
"He's being modest."
"Stop helping."
Barristan stepped closer.
"Ser Harys Kenning trained you?"
"And Ser Denys before him."
"I know Ser Harys."
That wasn't comforting.
Barristan looked toward one of the older squires.
Perhaps fourteen.
Maybe fifteen.
"Edwyn."
The boy stepped forward.
"Ser."
"Would you indulge us?"
Edwyn smiled when he saw me.
Not cruelly.
But confidently.
He was taller.
Broader.
Older.
Good.
I smiled back.
Rhaegar folded his arms.
"Try not to embarrass yourself."
"Which one of us?"
"Both."
I raised my sword.
Edwyn did the same.
Barristan stepped between us.
"First clean touch."
Then he stepped away.
Edwyn attacked.
Fast.
Much faster than Jaime.
I blocked.
He attacked again.
I moved.
His blade missed my shoulder.
Mine came toward his side.
He caught it.
Strong.
Very strong.
He pushed.
I gave ground.
He smiled.
He thought he'd felt the difference between us.
He had.
So had I.
Five years ago, I would have tried to overcome it.
Now I knew better.
I changed my grip.
Changed my stance.
Edwyn saw hesitation.
He pressed.
One step.
Two.
I retreated.
Rhaegar watched.
Barristan watched.
Edwyn attacked high.
I blocked badly.
Deliberately.
His confidence grew.
There.
He struck again.
I moved inside.
Exactly as I had against Harys.
Except Edwyn wasn't Harys.
He reacted.
His elbow slammed into my chest.
I stumbled.
His sword touched my shoulder.
"Dead," Barristan said.
Damn.
Edwyn lowered his weapon.
I breathed hard.
Rhaegar smiled.
"Very impressive."
"Shut up."
Barristan approached.
"What happened?"
"He knew."
"Knew what?"
"What I was trying to do."
Barristan nodded.
"And?"
I looked at Edwyn.
"I assumed because it worked before, it would work again."
"Against whom?"
"Ser Harys."
Edwyn's eyebrows rose.
Barristan's did not.
"Once?"
I frowned.
"How did you know?"
"Harys told me."
Of course he did.
Barristan smiled.
"A good trick becomes a habit. A habit becomes something another swordsman can kill you for."
Ser Harys would have liked that.
Then Barristan looked toward Rhaegar.
"Your turn, my prince."
Rhaegar's smile disappeared.
Mine appeared.
"Oh, this should be good."
He glared at me.
I sat beside the wall.
For the next half hour, I watched the future Prince of Dragonstone get beaten repeatedly by a fourteen-year-old squire.
It was wonderful.
Afterward, Rhaegar collapsed beside me.
"I dislike Edwyn."
"He's excellent."
"I still dislike him."
"That's because he hit you."
"He hit you too."
"Yes, but I possess maturity."
Rhaegar shoved me.
We sat there beneath the morning sun.
Sweating.
Bruised.
Laughing.
For a while, the future didn't exist.
Then a horn sounded from somewhere beyond the walls.
Rhaegar looked toward it.
I looked at him.
Fifteen.
Alive.
Annoying.
My friend.
One day, if history held its course, he would ride into a river wearing black armor covered in rubies.
And Robert Baratheon would kill him.
I had years.
Not forever.
Years.
When I was seven, that had seemed like an eternity.
At twelve, it didn't.
I couldn't stop every event I remembered.
Maybe I couldn't stop any of the great ones.
But when Rhaegar eventually rode toward the Trident, I would not be a child standing helplessly in Casterly Rock.
I would be there.
And I would try.
Even if history fought back.