Chapter 55 – The Drowned Prince Rhaegar (Part I)
Maegor's Holdfast.
It stood at the very heart of the Red Keep — a massive square fortress said to have been personally commissioned by Maegor the Cruel, the third Targaryen king. It was the final structure completed within the great castle, and owing to its sheer size and fortification, people often called it "a castle within a castle."
Its outer walls were built of pale red stone, thick and imposing, with narrow windows and battlements crowning the roof. A single drawbridge served as its only entrance. Rumor had it that within were secret traps — gas vents, falling stones, even "murder tunnels" — all designed to make it the most secure stronghold in the Red Keep.
That same seclusion, however, also made it the perfect venue for royal banquets and balls.
In the Queen's Ballroom, court musicians played light, lilting tunes while noble ladies swirled gracefully across the floor. Young lords looked on, enchanted — and emboldened by wine, some eagerly joined the dance, hands straying where they shouldn't. So long as the man wasn't too unsightly, the women didn't seem to mind; their steps grew only livelier.
On the dais, Queen Rhaella Targaryen idly swirled her wine, the amethyst gleam in her eyes filled with faint scorn as she gazed down upon the revelers.
By her husband's insistence, she had come dressed in full regalia tonight — the black gown of House Targaryen, a delicate golden crown set with clear crystals resting atop her silver-blonde hair. She looked every inch a queen: noble, radiant, yet never gaudy.
"Are you comfortable?"
Her expression softened instantly as she turned to the young woman beside her.
"Thank you, Your Grace. I'm quite well," replied Princess Elia Martell, her voice so quiet and fragile that Rhaella had to lean closer to catch the words.
"In Dorne, my brother Oberyn often hosts gatherings like this," Elia added softly. "Though… they tend to be rather—"
"—more unrestrained?" Rhaella's lips curved with a teasing smile.
Elia's face turned crimson, her head bowing shyly, though the flush spreading down her neck answered well enough. Everyone knew of Dorne's… liberal customs.
Rhaella's violet eyes lingered on the Dornish beauty — pale skin, fine features, and soft black hair cascading to her shoulders. Fragile perhaps, but with that fragility came a haunting allure.
Classic Rhoynar traits, Rhaella thought.
A gentle heart, no hunger for power — the perfect match for her son.
Tywin Lannister had, more than once, offered his daughter's hand to Rhaegar, but Rhaella found the idea distasteful. The girl was beautiful, yes — golden hair, eyes like emeralds — but there was something about her that set the Queen's teeth on edge. From the moment they first met, the Lannister girl's gaze had strayed to Rhaella's crown — not in admiration, but in a way that spoke of… possession.
As if she already considered it hers.
"Mother."
The voice that followed was rich and magnetic. Elia lifted her eyes — and at once, her breath caught. The young prince approaching wore formal attire of black and crimson, his long silver hair gleaming in the candlelight, his violet eyes deep with melancholy.
Prince Rhaegar Targaryen.
Since Ser Oswell's hand had been severed and Ser Arthur Dayne still lay recovering, only Jon Connington, steadfast as ever, followed in his wake.
"You've come just in time, Rhaegar."
Queen Rhaella's face lit up. For the first time since her husband's return, the shadow clouding her heart seemed to lift.
She gestured eagerly toward the Dornish princess beside her.
"This is Princess Elia Martell. You must have heard of her ordeal."
"She's a brave child," Rhaella continued dramatically. "To endure such horrors and still stand tall — by the Seven, I don't know that I could have borne it myself."
Her praise was effusive — her intent transparent. She was doing her utmost to bring the two young royals together.
Yet poor Rhaella did not know that earlier that very day, her husband had already sent Lord Steffon Baratheon to search for a bride of "pure Valyrian descent" for their son.
"Your suffering is most unfortunate, Princess Elia," said Rhaegar. His tone was courteous — not cold, yet devoid of warmth. A polite nod, nothing more.
But for Elia, that single look was enough to make her heart flutter.
"It was nothing, my prince," she murmured quickly. "In truth, I owe my rescue entirely to your men."
"My men?" Rhaegar's brows lifted faintly.
Rhaegar ignored the princess's flustered tone, his brow creasing slightly as he replied with quiet restraint.
"You should be careful with your words, Princess. Ser Arthur Dayne is a member of the Kingsguard. His loyalty belongs to the crown and House Targaryen — not to me alone."
"N–no, Your Grace, that's not what I meant!"
Elia Martell waved her hands quickly, panicking at the thought she'd offended him. "I wasn't talking about Ser Arthur. Ashara told me it was another knight — the one who saved us at the very last moment."
"She said his name was… Lance… Lance—"
She trailed off, still fumbling for the name, unaware that Rhaegar's expression was growing darker by the second.
Then, from somewhere in the ballroom, a loud, excited voice rang out:
"Lance Lot!"
The shout shattered the delicate atmosphere; even the music faltered to a stop.
Elia's eyes suddenly lit up with recognition. "Yes! That's it — Ser Lance Lot!" she said joyfully.
But as she looked up, ready to share her delight, she realized that every head in the ballroom — even Rhaegar's — had turned in the same direction.
"Huh?"
Puzzled, Elia rose slightly, peering past the prince's tall frame to see what everyone else was staring at.
"It's him! Ser Lance Lot!"
The cries multiplied at once.
Excitement rippled through the crowd like wildfire; nobles were shouting, cheering, their restraint utterly gone.
"Seven above! He's so handsome! Just looking at him makes my knees go weak!"
"Oi, Jason — look at the size of him! I heard he killed fifty men single-handedly during the purge of the Brotherhood!"
"Fifty? You fool! It was one hundred and fifty!"
"Ha! Doesn't matter how many — you wouldn't stand a chance against him even if you brought your whole bloody guard, right?"
"We'll see about that! You never know till you fight!"
The hall buzzed with laughter and boasts.
Curiosity piqued, Elia rose on her toes and craned her neck, trying to see past Rhaegar's shoulder. Finally, her gaze cleared the obstruction — and what she saw stole her breath away.
A line of white-cloaked knights was escorting the King of the Seven Kingdoms himself into the hall.
Their armor gleamed like molten silver — pure, flawless, dazzling — a symbol of chivalric virtue and unyielding honor.
The sight reflected in Elia's dark eyes like moonlight rippling over still water.
Then, as if sensing her gaze, the foremost knight turned slightly.
Their eyes met.
In that instant, Elia felt her heart stutter — those eyes, an icy blue as bright as dawn's first light piercing through frozen lakes, seemed to look straight into her soul.
It was like being toyed with by a playful cat, her heartstrings his ball of yarn.
And then — it was gone.
The knight looked away, his attention already elsewhere.
Elia, however, remained transfixed, a faint melancholy blooming in her chest. "Such a handsome knight," she murmured dreamily.
---
"Didn't I tell you to rest? You shouldn't have come," said Ser Barristan Selmy, shaking his head helplessly at the injured knight beside him.
"Listen to them — all I hear is Ser Lance's name. Seems even I've been outshone tonight."
"I… I'm not leaving," came the breathless reply.
Ser Jonothor Darry looked pale as snow, his every step a battle against pain. He'd stood for hours earlier in the council chamber; now, sweat poured down his brow with every movement.
Yet despite his agony, pride burned stubbornly in his eyes.
"It's not every day I get to show my face in front of the court," he gasped. "I can't… waste this chance."
Barristan sighed softly, watching the younger knight grit his teeth through the pain.
He could understand it. The poor lad had barely been sworn into the Kingsguard when the King was captured. Now that Aerys had returned — and the Brotherhood crushed — this was Jonothor's one chance at renown.
Unfortunately, all the glory tonight belonged to Ser Lance.
Truth be told, nine out of ten souls in Westeros probably didn't even know there was a Kingsguard knight named Jonothor Darry.
"Let him be," Barristan muttered with a weary smile.
He failed to notice, however, that even as Jonothor limped along in pain, his eyes were darting wildly among the crowd — particularly toward the scantily dressed noblewomen nearby.
Despite his wounds, a grin crept across his lips, a droplet of drool threatening to fall as he muttered under his breath:
"So big… so white…"
---
"Such a handsome knight!"
Elia's voice echoed again — louder this time, unguarded in her admiration.
Rhaegar heard every word.
Humiliation burned in the prince's chest.
He had no romantic interest in the Dornish princess — and yet, the fact that she, of all people, would praise another man's beauty stung deeply.
From birth till now, never once had anyone outshone him.
And to have it happen here, before the court, before her — it was unbearable.
"Just a blacksmith's son…"
He muttered under his breath, jaw clenched, determined to reclaim his pride by scorning the man's humble origins.
But when he turned to seek his mother's approval, the words died in his throat.
Queen Rhaella sat frozen, her gaze locked ahead — eyes wide, lips parted — so utterly entranced she didn't even notice the wine spilling from her fallen glass.
"No… she must be looking at Father," Rhaegar told himself quickly. "She has to be."
Yet the dread creeping through him said otherwise.
He followed her gaze — and saw the tall, broad-shouldered knight at the head of the royal procession.
The flawless white armor.
The calm, devastatingly handsome face.
And in that instant, the prince's heart plummeted —
— sinking like a stone into the depths of the sea.
Drowned.