| Author's Note:
They say that when a new year starts, a new version of each of us is allowed to be born. I would like to think of such words as a possible truth, and so, I present you, my turn to try and better myself as a person, a fan, and of course, an Author.
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History will tell you that the rebellion led by Jon Arryn and Robert Baratheon began with a woman and ended with a falling hammer.
That is the version most prefer, for it is simple, and asks little of the learner.
The truth is less convenient.
Years before the Trident, the realm chose to look away from its own fractures. Lords swore loyalty while sharpening knives, oaths were spoken, then quietly broken, a king ruled by madness, and his sons were expected to mend what fear had long rotted.
My husband believed the realm could be saved without tearing it apart any further. He believed restraint was strength, and mercy a cure for rebellion, and many followed him for that belief.
Rhaegar was a fool for that, but his brother did not share such illusions.
Maegor understood what the realm would demand in the end, and what it would take from those who loved too softly. He did not speak often of loyalty, but when he gave it, he gave it wholly, and without mercy for those who threatened it.
Others rose against the crown, convinced dragons had ruled too long, and that fire could be put out with enough steel and hatred.
By the time the armies met at the Trident, the war had already been decided in my heart.
Only one question remained.
Which prince the realm would be forced to live with?
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| With Rhaegar Targaryen, At The Crossing Of The Trident, 283 AC:
"Give up, cousin!" Rhaegar's breathing was labored as he spoke, each breath burning his lungs as he stood with his sword clenched in his right hand. Its tip was aimed at the kneeling bulk of a wounded man, his purple eyes staring down at his distant, dark-haired cousin.
Robert Baratheon remained still, head bowed. Around them, the clash of battle slowly faded, armies on both sides turning their attention toward what would forever be remembered as a turning point in the history of the Seven Kingdoms.
"This rebellion of yours has gone on for too long." Rhaegar pressed, voice strained but firm, "Too many innocent people have suffered and perished because of it, so let us put our ill wishes aside." His eyelids fluttered as exhaustion finally took its hold, long having taken refuge behind his gaze. "We both want the same thing, to dethrone my father, and to right the wrongs he has done to this realm and its people."
Robert let out a dark chuckle without lifting his eyes, and Rhaegar frowned, the point of his sword wavering for a heartbeat before his resolve set firm. "Yield to me, and I will see that you and your brothers are spared the executioner." he said evenly. "Your line will endure. Your house, and those you backed this folly shall keep their name, their lands, and their privileges, just as House Stark,— perhaps the most wronged of all,— will be granted the same mercy."
He drew in a sharp breath, pain burning through his arms and legs from the battles that had led him here. "You, Jon Arryn, and Eddard Stark, however, will be sent to the Wall, a kinder fate that most would argue against." Rhaegar continued, voice cold and resolute, "For the folly of backing this rebellion and seeking to usurp my family's legacy by raising you as king, had you prevailed." He finished by nudging the sword tip closer to Robert's exposed neck, the latter's antlered helm long fallen from his head.
"So, let us end this madness." Rhaegar pleaded, his voice anything but soft, and the blade now drew a thin line of blood along his cousin's throat. "This realm has had enough of it."
Silence filled the wide ford, neither side seemed able to continue fighting, and the men were spent, uncertain whether victory or defeat awaited them.
"You-..." Robert began, panting, his voice cracking beneath the weight of the grave wound the prince had dealt him. "You are mistaken about me." He shifted his weight, war hammer held tight in his right hand, and lifted his head, cursing under his breath as blood streamed down his armor.
Confusion flickered across Rhaegar's face.
There was no world in which Robert could still believe he might win. A single flick of the wrist would end his life, and Rhaegar deeply wished his cousin would not test his fading luck.
"Robert..." Rhaegar started, but was cut off by another dark chuckle.
The piercing eyes of the rebel champion finally met his. "I do not fight to depose your father." Robert said, shaking his head, madness creeping into his grin. "Even if his actions started this whole mess." His grin widened, wild and furious. "No. I fight because you bastard took Lyanna from me. You kidnapped her! You raped her! And the gods be willing, I will see your house and your kin bleed out, slowly, right in front of me, fucker."
In a sudden movement that caught even the ever-honorable prince off guard, Robert scooped a handful of dirt with his gloved hand and hurled it into Rhaegar's face.
Blinded, Rhaegar staggered back in panic.
"R-Robert! Please, wai-..." Rhaegar pleaded as Robert rose over him, war hammer lifted high above both of their heads.
All around them, the hushed ford erupted into chaos, filled with shouts of disbelief and desperate cries.
Yet none of it mattered in the end, today, the rebellion would end, and a new king would rise.
"Die!" Robert roared, pain and fury ringing through his voice as he brought the hammer down. It caved in his so-called cousin's black breastplate, shattered rubies scattering across the shallow waters of the river they had fought over for hours.
Rhaegar's eyes glazed with pain and tears, his mind unraveling into a storm of fading thoughts. "I-... I don't…"
Whatever words the silver prince had meant to speak were lost as death claimed him, his vision swimming beneath the darkening waters of the ford.
I'm sorry… Aegon, Rhaenys… Visenya.
Know that I tried.
Once more, the ford fell silent. The loyalists stared at their fallen prince in disbelief, fear and shock freezing them in place. The rebels seized the moment, convinced this was their victory.
With Rhaegar dead, there would be no one left to stand against them. The war, they firmly believed, was as good as over.
Even as the wounded Robert Baratheon struggled to remain upright, coughing a mouthful of blood and staggering back into the arms of a nearing Eddard Stark, the rebels screamed with joy and hope. The loyalists, broken and beaten, cast their weapons aside, while some fled, and some surrendered.
Ser Barristan Selmy stood among them, dazed and badly bloodied, a flesh wound in his torso almost taking his conscience.
He was the only Kingsguard, from the three who had ridden with Rhaegar, still standing and breathing. Ser Jonothor Darry and Lewyn Martell had not been so fortunate.
But perhaps they had died believing their prince would prevail and reign for many years to come.
That, had not come to pass, and it seemed that the Targaryen legacy had come to an end here.
Or so everyone believed. As Eddard Stark and Jon Arryn led Robert Baratheon away from the scattered fighting still echoing across the ford, a sudden sound tore through the air. It vibrated with raw force, bringing men on both sides to a fearful halt.
From the southern treeline, a single rider emerged from a wooded hill, clad in dark silver armor astride a white war-bred stallion.
He cut an imposing, bewildering figure against the fading light, and moments later, two more riders burst from the trees, each armored in silver, white cloaks streaming behind them.
Swords gleamed in their right hands, and in their left, grand and tall banners bearing the three-headed dragon snapped violently in the evening wind.
Shouts of confusion rippled through the rebel ranks, while loyalist soldiers stared in growing hope, hands tightening once more around their weapons.
The leading rider drew his sword fully, its edge catching the dying sunlight as he pointed forward and bellowed, "Charge!"
Behind him, a vast tide of knights and foot soldiers poured from the same trees, an ocean of steel and banners surging onto the ford.
The red three headed dragon, a golden Rose on a field of green, and many more banners whipped through the air as the new loyalist host surged to face the remaining and spent rebels.
Prince Maegor Targaryen had arrived, with Jaime Lannister, Gerold Hightower, and the armies of the Reach at his back.
Too late to save his brother.
But just in time to claim a crown of his own.
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| With Rhaenys Targaryen, Harrenhal, 281 AC:
A princess of House Targaryen, that was Rhaenys's standing. A curious, young girl of three, even if her hair was brown rather than the silver-gold so often associated with Valyria.
As it was, she was young, and so she did what young princes and princesses often did. She played, with little care for what or where, chasing anything that caught her eye.
That habit made it easy for adults to forget her presence altogether, speaking freely of matters that perhaps should not be overheard.
Rhaenys did not mind. In truth, she learned quite a lot that way, simply by being small and quiet and overlooked.
She ran clumsily after a butterfly, careful with each step so she would not fall and make a spectacle of herself before whoever might be strolling through Harrenhal's outer gardens.
Even as she did, she listened, curious, with some effort, to what her mother and Ser Lewyn were discussing nearby.
"The king was sighted earlier this morning on his way here, niece," said Lewyn, the only Martell Kingsguard. At the nod he received from her mother, he continued, "So I took the liberty of keeping myself informed of His Grace's arrival. The king and Prince Maegor arrived not long ago, and are presently being welcomed by Lord Whent and your husband." Her mother nodded stiffly in response.
Rhaenys did not understand the tension in their voices at the mention of her grandfather and uncle. She knew she disliked her grandfather well enough, for he had never been gentle with her, nor particularly kind.
But her uncle was here, and that alone made her heart flutter with excitement, for she had missed him dearly.
She kept moving, now chasing a newly spotted butterfly, knowing there would be little benefit in being caught eavesdropping on what was clearly a delicate conversation.
"Should we go and meet the king as well, then?" her mother asked, and Rhaenys nearly stopped in her tracks, her face pinching as though she had swallowed a lemon whole.
Thankfully, no one noticed.
"There's no need, princess. Otherwise, the prince would have called for you." Lewyn replied, his voice was low and measured.
Even Rhaenys could sense there was more beneath his words. She was proven right when she crept closer, using the bushes for cover, and heard her mother respond in an equally hushed, strained tone.
"No, indeed. Our presence would not be welcomed at such a meeting, not after the sort of discussion I believe is taking place."
Elia Martell rarely sounded so ominous.
Lately, though, Rhaenys had begun to notice her mother speaking more like her grandmother, in careful phrases and lowered voices, every word heavy with something unspoken.
She did not like the change.
She missed the warmth in her mother's voice, though she could not say exactly what had caused it. She suspected her father, or perhaps her grandfather, had something to do with it.
"Rhaenys, dear." Her mother's sudden call made her start. She ran to her at once, wearing her most innocent expression. "Yes, mother?"
Elia's eyes seemed duller than they had been moments before, and Rhaenys disliked her grandfather all the more for it. "Your grandfather has graced us with his presence." her mother said, carefully keeping any resentment from her tone, yet, even at her age, Rhaenys noticed the effort it took.
"Will we go see him, then?" she asked.
Elia hesitated before answering. "We shall go and ready ourselves to dine with your grandfather, your father, and your—..."
She was interrupted by a familiar, confident voice. "Now, I'm fairly certain those preparations can wait an hour or two, my dear good-sister."
Rhaenys spun on her heels toward the nearest castle entrance. There, striding toward them, was her favourite uncle, with Ser Gerold Hightower at his back.
She rushed forward without hesitation, throwing herself at him and wrapping her arms around his legs. "Uncle!"
"Rytsas, byka zaldrīzes." Hello, little dragon. her uncle chuckled, lifting her easily and spinning her gently through the air. Rhaenys laughed without restraint, heedless of decorum, while her mother sighed softly and Ser Lewyn let out an amused breath behind her.
Maegor kissed her cheek before setting her down, patting her head as she clung stubbornly to his leg, barely reaching his knee.
"Maegor, it is good to see you again." her mother said as she approached, her steps slow but steady, and she wore a rare, indulgent smile.
He shifted slightly and took her mother's hand before she could stop him, pressing a kiss to her knuckles. "It hasn't been that long." he replied lightly.
"Has it not?" Elia answered, with a faint, soft laugh.
Rhaenys had however, already turned her attention to the knight behind her uncle.
"Gerold." she called happily, and the aging knight looked down at her, smiling softly.
"Princess. How have you been?"
"Good!" she declared, fingers brushing over his long, white cloak. Her attention was soon reclaimed by her uncle again, who crouched slightly to meet her eyes, his smile warm and familiar.
"Your mother and I need to speak privately for a moment." he said gently. "Could I trust you to do me a great favor and go prepare for our family dinner in the meantime?"
His tone was kind, his eyes pleading, though she knew well enough that it was not truly a request. She glanced at her mother and saw the strain in her expression. After a moment, she nodded. "Of course, uncle."
There was no one she trusted more, aside from her parents. "Thank you, Rhae." her uncle said, pressing a small box into her hands. "Here."
She opened it at once and gasped at what she saw. Inside lay a delicate silver necklace, a round red diamond set at its center. "For you." he said. "Wear it at the tourney feasts."
"I will!" she exclaimed, beaming.
Her mother chuckled, and her uncle smiled at her warmly. Ser Lewyn then gently turned her toward the castle. "Come, princess. Your maids must ready you for dinner with His Grace."
She might have soured at the mention, had the box in her hands not banished the thought entirely.
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| With Aerys Targaryen, Harrenhal, 281 AC:
"You overreached, Rhaegar." Aerys spoke as he gazed down at his son, noting the way his eldest's eyes were fixed to the floor, much like a child caught doing something he knew he should not have been caught doing.
Silence hung thick around them, the kind that made a man keenly aware of his own heartbeat. It was expected, they were, after all, inside Lord Whent's solar, though notably without the lord himself present.
Lord Whent would listen, that much was certain, just not to Aerys himself.
No, that would be beneath him, as king. Let Maegor deal with that traitorous lordling.
The thought drew a smirk to his lips.
Maegor was a dragon indeed, just as he was, and it was a shame, then, that his eldest could not be more like his younger brother.
A shame indeed.
The voice of his eldest broke through his wandering thoughts, drawing Aerys's gaze back to his heir. "Forgive me, father." That was all Rhaegar offered, and it irked him deeply.
They had already gone over this, again and again. Hours had passed since they had first entered this dreary solar, words had been exchanged, accusations had flown, and in the rage that had followed, objects had been hurled against the walls.
Apologies had also been made, hollow ones, Aerys knew, but made all the same.
And regardless of how far his son had gone behind his back, Rhaegar was still his son.
Not a fully fledged dragon, not like himself or Maegor, but blood all the same. And so, for now, he would allow it to be swept beneath the rugs.
Just this once.
He then rose from his chair, rounded the wooden table, and stopped beside his kneeling heir. His uncut nails and damp palm settling heavily on his son's right shoulder.
He leaned down until Rhaegar could feel his breath against his ear. "Go behind my back again, Rhaegar..." he said quietly, "Force me to hear from my Master of Whisperers that my own son plots against my rule,— and I will make you understand that a king may change his heir at any given time, on any given whim."
He felt Rhaegar stiffen beneath his grip, and so, Aerys smiled, wide and cruel, molten eyes of madness widening with glee. "I am certain your brother would do a fine job as heir in your stead, wouldn't you say, son?"
Straightening at last, he stepped away and nodded once to Ser Barristan Selmy, who stood by the door with his head lowered, and quietly trailed after him.
Then Aerys left the solar, his mood hollow but resolute.
Let Rhaegar test his fortune again, he thought, and I will remind him why waking the dragon is something to be feared.
"A council..." Aerys scoffed. "How foolish you were, my son, to try and use this tourney as a means to speak with the lords of the realm,— to have them convene in some future council meant to depose me." He laughed at that, a harsh, maddening sound that echoed too long in the dark and dreary corridors of Harrenhal.
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| Game Of Thrones: The Dragon's Shadow |