| Author's Note:
Sorry for the delay gentlemen, but I do think that some time is needed sometimes, to better play out the story on my head and make sure it stays fun and consistent in quality.
That said, I would like you guys to help me with one thing. I am terribly bad at managing pace,— how should I make pace in this story? Jump from pov to pov? Follow Maegor's daily pov, with an ocassional pov change? What do you guys think?
Anyway, have fun!
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| With Elia Martell, Harrenhall, 281 AC:
It was now evening of the same day, and not much had happened until now, not with all the houses of Westeros still settling in on their tents and rooms, inside and around the ancient and slightly burned castle of Harrenhall.
Her husband, Rhaegar, was still nowhere to be seen, but that much was expected from him as of late. And since her younger brother had arrived, leaving his Citadel studies earlier than expected, just in time for a tourney that would either be a boon to her, or a disappointment,— well, she would choose to think that perhaps things for her would be better soon,— Elia felt distracted once more from her worries, even if just momentarily.
Amidst her straying thoughts, she felt a cool, and yet summer-warm breeze enter her chambers from the opened window, making her shiver slightly. The orange light of the evening found its way through the windows also, as it filtered through the mist that clung to most of Harrenhal's towers. It fell across the chamber's long, only table, where half-eaten fruit sat forgotten beside two cups of watered down wine.
She sat by the window with a book in her hands, though she had long ceased to read it, thanks to her mind, and a certain someone pacing around her. The words she tried to focus on blurred together when her thoughts wandered, and they wandered often these past moons...
Somewhere beyond the walls, the trumpets of the tourney musicians began to sound, faintly, a reminder of the tourney that had drawn the realm's great houses here,— and of the husband who had called for it all, and was not beside her.
"Now that I think about it,— I haven't seen my good-brother even once, since I arrived. Where is he, sister?" Oberyn's voice cut through her drifting thoughts, as her brother leaned against the table's edge, all restless grace and desert charm that seemed so out of place amid the chill of the Riverlands and not on the deserts of Dorne.
"Honestly, I would not know." Elia said, turning a page she hadn't read, as her brother's brows drew together at her uninterested answer, not that she cared much about it, at least on the surface.
"What does that even mean, you don't know? Surely you should know where your husband is, no?" He asked, and Elia played with the book pages on her hands, her voice still even and falsely unpreocupied. "I said what I said, brother,— I don't know." Her eyes kept on the book, as that was easier then to meet that familiar, protective gaze of his.
If only Rhaegar was like that still. She thought, and Oberyn in turn, straightened himself, pacing a few steps, again,— as he had never been one to sit still, not even as a younger boy. "And how come? He told you nothing of where he would be going, or doing, today?"
If only it had been just today...
That made Elia close the book on a finger, letting out a quiet breath, and a snarky comment. "I seldom know where my husband is, or what he's about,— sometimes for whole sennights even. Such has been my life since the maester back at the Red Keep told me I was with my second child, a few moons back." She breathed in, "He now spends his hours shut away in either some library, ever since the Maester told us I couldn't bear any more children,— or doing whatever it is that he does with Arthur,— chasing shadows and riddles, of how the dragon must have three heads as he likes to remind me..." she swallowed empty air, eyes shutting close in hopelessness, "I swear, I do not understand his aim at all. I thought that I did once, but not anymore."
She could still picture him there, Rhaegar hunched over some old tome, candlelight glinting off his pale hair, speaking softly to himself of their world's supposedly destiny and some prophecy as if they were companions closer to him, than her,— his own wife, and the mother of his soon to be, two children.
Oberyn gave her a short, humorless laugh, though his expression showed he was worried for her. "What now, is he trying to be a maester?"
"He could very well be one by now." Elia said, finally setting the book aside. "For all the hours he's poured into his old scrolls and pages."
He was watching her now, she noticed,— her hands, her posture, and even her voice. He always did that when he was worried about her, and it warmed her heart, it truly did.
"So you've been kept at court all this time, alone? Without your husband by your side?" He asked her, and she had to swallow down her growing emotions,— her mother had taught her better than to be unable to hide them.
"That's exactly what I just said." And she noted the way he shook his head, frustration rolling off him in waves, and she bit down her own as he turned to face her once more, his voice low. "I don't understand, sister. Shouldn't he be here? Shouldn't he be with you, now that you are pregnant, of all times?"
"Yes, he should." She said simply, and there was no venom in her voice, only the quiet truth and resignation of her current life.
"Then why,—..."
"Were he a great husband..." she interrupted him, "... he would be by my side whenever he could. But he is not that man any longer,— perhaps he once was, but not now, not anymore." The words stung her even as she spoke them, and she hated herself for the bitterness that had crept in, but there it was,— sharp and familiar.
She could still remember the gentleness of him in their early days however, before his thoughts had turned wholly to dreams, and the way it made her feel all giddy and hopefull back then.
Though perhaps this was her fate, for not being able to deliver any more children after the current one, as the Red Keep's Maester had so painfully told her...
Oberyn stopped his pacing, frowning deeply at her almost unbothered state. "That isn't right. You are his wife, you carry his babe,— his second child. He should be here, not buried in books with Arthur as his sole companion, or whatever else you said he might be doing!"
"I am resigned to this life, so enough about this, Oberyn." Elia rose from her chair, smoothing her skirts with a practiced hand.
She had learned, over the years, that grace could hide exhaustion, and her frailty, above all. "I have no wish to speak of him further, so let us speak of something else."
Her brother stood still for once, studying her, his silence worse than his explosive temper.
"Would you have me speak with him?" He asked her, and Elia gave a small shake of her head. "No. Let things be as they are, for I find more peace in his absence than in his company lately."
Oberyn tilted his head, disbelief flickering behind his eyes. "Peace? Sister you are husband and wife, for life..."
She snorted. "It is however, the only peace I'm likely to get as a princess who is not of their Targaryen blood, brother." And she heard him exhale through his nose, but thankfully for her, he said nothing more.
The fire nearby, which the servants had come to light not long ago to fight the growing night's chill, crackled faintly in the hearth, its warmth not even reaching her fingers yet, as she played with them to take her mind away from darker thoughts.
After a moment, his voice softened. "And my niece? Has he been a father to her, at the very least?" Elia hesitated at that question, her gaze drifting toward her bed by the window, where her daughter had slept with her the night before. "Somewhat. She adores him still, whether he is present or not,— though his visits grow rarer. She also grows sad when he leaves, and he always leaves these days."
Oberyn sighed, rubbing his temple in frustration. "Rhaenys deserves better than that."
'So do I.' She thought bitterly.
"Do not trouble yourself." Elia said, turning from the window. "She has enough company in her uncle to keep her distracted from Rhaegar's absence."
Now it was Oberyn's arched brow that took her interest, and she now whished she had kept quiet. "Uncle? You mean Maegor? Or that child, Viserys?"
"Maegor." She told him, though Viserys was also her uncle, he was young, and too deep in Aerys clutches.
"He spends time with Rhaenys?" He asked, not picturing the colder, and more withdrawn Targaryen prince to dote on his niece.
"He does." Elia said, and for the first time her lips softened into something near a smile, and she noticed that he found himself suprised, and berated herself mentally again. "He plays with her, and lets her ride his horse beside him, at times. I do think that she adores him as much as Rhaegar."
"Only her?" Oberyn asked suddenly, though his tone was light, almost teasing, and Elia's eyes narrowed, faint color rising to her cheeks.
"What do you mean by that?"
"Nothing." Oberyn replied, too easily. "Only that I know that look of yours, sister,—..."
"I think that's enough, Oberyn."
"But,—..."
"No buts, Maegor is my good-brother, and I'm married, such comments are in bad taste,— now come." She drew her shawl around her shoulders, hiding the tremor in her hands. "Let us fetch Rhaenys from her maids. It's nearly time for us to make an appearance at the feasting hall."
Oberyn's grin was small and knowing as he followed her to the door. "As you wish, but know that this conversation isn't over."
"It is for me." She told him, before they stepped out into the corridor together, the castle's chill wrapping around them once more. Somewhere below, laughter echoed from the yards and the faint sound of a harp drifted from a distant hall,— Rhaegar's music, perhaps, or perhaps it was just any other musician, and her mind was playing tricks on her.
Elia kept walking, head held high, her dornish beauty shinning through,— and she smiled.
...
| With Maegor Targaryen, at Harrenhal, during the year of 281AC:
Rhaenys laughter trailed behind him like birdsong as they crossed the inner yard.
Maegor did not look back to her, he didn't need to. Rhaenys's delight was unmistakable,— high, bright, and unrestrained. A sound untouched by courtly decorum, the kind of sound no one else in this cursed castle dared make.
"I told you I would catch you, did I not?" he said, as she ran to keep pace with his long strides, clutching the hem of her small crimson gown so she wouldn't trip.
And that's when he finally turned, and catched her in his arms.
"You cheated!" she cried, her tiny silver braid bouncing away from her brown hair. Maegor glanced down at her, one corner of his mouth twitching. "You wound me! A dragon prince never cheats, niece."
"Not fair, I was winning..." she declared, puffing out her cheeks in protest.
"No, perhaps it is not." he agreed quietly with a toothy grin, messing her hair, "But life rarely is, you know?"
Behind them, Ser Gerold Hightower followed at a measured pace, silent as his shadow.
The old knight's white cloak brushed the flagstones as he kept his watch, pale eyes flicking from Maegor to the handful of lords and squires crossing the yard.
The great and lesser of the realm were making for the hall by now,— sigils of different colors and forms, all drifting past toward the feast that would start at dinner time.
Men bowed their heads to him as they passed, some with real deference, others merely out of duty. Maegor returned none of it, he had never cared for hollow courtesies.
"Ser Gerold." he said without turning, "I trust that you did not tell her maids where we were going, when we whisked away my niece?"
"I did not, Your Grace."
"Good. I still think they coddle her too much."
"She is three, my prince." said the old knight mildly, a deadpun expression on his slightly hidden face, though Maegor simply smirked.
"A fine age to know that she can skip her dreadfull lessons with mine own help." The garden lay just beyond the stables,— a quiet stretch of grass and hedge that few visited during the chaos of the tourney.
The sound of hammers and horses faded as they entered the greener area, replaced by the soft murmur of a small nearby fountain, the birds singing and the rustle of leaves ever present.
Rhaenys now ran ahead again, chasing a small white rabbit that ran for his life near the flowerbeds.
Maegor watched her with something caught between fondness and calculation. She was small, but she already carried herself with half of that peculiar grace all Targaryens royals seemed born and taught with,— a tilt of the head, a proud spine, as if the very world itself should make way for her, and it amused him.
Though such a concept is laughable, since we are just as human as everyone else.
Well, the rest of my family that is.
It did it in a way he did not often admit.
"She looks like her mother." Gerold said quietly, while Maegor crouched beside the fountain, dipping a hand into the cool water.
"Indeed she does, in more ways than one." He straightened, watching as Rhaenys tried to catch the rabbit again,— and failed,— and he laughed as it darted away from her.
He wondered if Rhaegar had ever seen that laughter, if he even knew what it sounded like,— though he deep down knew his brother knew it as well.
Rhaenys was after all, only three namedays old. She did not yet know why her father spent so much time away from her, and did not hold it against him.
"Uncle, look!" she cried suddenly, pointing toward a rosebush. "It's red as dragonfire from the books!" He got up, and crossed to her side, bending low so his eyes were level with hers.
"That one?" he asked gently, "Mhm!" she nodded eagerly, and he plucked the rose carefully, mindful of the thorns, and held it out. "Then it's yours." She took it with a small gasp of wonder. "Mama says red means courage. Is that true, uncle?" She said.
"Your mother's right." His voice softened, just slightly, and she smiled at him.
Behind them, Ser Gerold stood beneath an elm, arms crossed, his expression as unreadable as old stone. He had seen Maegor in battle, be it against criminals or bandits,— seen the way he moved when steel was in his hand,— quick, ruthless, and efficient.
There was a certain unease in watching that same man kneel before a child, patient and gentle as if she were a fragile thing made of glass.
Rhaenys began circling the fountain, humming to herself, the rose clutched like treasure, and Maegor watched her for a while, his face still. It was strange, how peace could be so loud,— the laughter of a child you cared for, the rustle of the wind, the distant clamor of the tiltyard.
He almost hated it for how much he wanted to keep it to himself.
"Thought it is not my place, I do think that you brood too much, my prince. Try to enjoy the small moments some more." said Ser Gerold, while Maegor's eyes lingered on his niece.
"Right..." He glanced toward the castle's high windows, where banners stirred in the breeze.
Somewhere behind those stones, his good-sister would be resting,— perhaps reading, perhaps wondering where her daughter had gone and cursing his name. She always looked tired when he saw her, unlike when he first met her all those years ago, though she tried to hide it with those courtly smiles of hers.
He thought of his brother then, of his 'orders' to him, though Rhaegar would probably be locked away again in his chambers, pouring himself into one of his books again.
A 'fine' father, and a finer fool, Rhaegar was...
Rhaenys came running to him then, giggling and patting him on the leg, holding out her small hands. "Your turn to chase, uncle!"
Maegor sighed,— softly, perhaps even indulgently,— and dropped to a crouch. "If I catch you, I'm keeping the rose."
"No!" she squealed, backing away with mock horror, and he lunged, slow enough to let her think she had escaped, and her laughter pealed across the garden once more.
And for a moment,— just a small, stolen moment, he smiled.
Though in his mind, deep down, he did wish he had been the one that was older, not Rhaegar. The one to marry Elia... to be Rhaenys' father... just briefly, he wondered how it would've all been like.
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Important Author's Note: It would've been a longer chapter, around 2.000 words more, but I hit a mental-wall on the supposedly next pov, which would be Lyanna's, and I simply lost too much time trying to come up with it (PLEASE someone comment and let me know how I should best write Lyanna[16yrs], she will be VERY MUCH important to this story, and I don't want to fail her!). I will leave it to the next chapter.
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| Game Of Thrones: The Dragon's Shadow |