Chapter 45: Prince Aerys's Repentance
In 263 AC, King's Landing was filled with an atmosphere of rare joy.
Peace reigned across the Narrow Sea, and the realm appeared stable. Since the war in the Stepstones had ended, the remnants of the Ninepenny Kings had retreated across the sea, preoccupied with their own survival and showing little interest in Westeros. The Iron Throne stood firm.
If there was any lingering concern, it lay with the dwindling numbers of House Targaryen.
After generations, the bloodline of the dragonlords had reached its weakest point.
For three generations, the Iron Throne had relied upon a single heir. Fortunately, Prince Aerys and Princess Rhaella were still young, and it was widely believed that the royal line would yet grow stronger.
Although King Jaehaerys II was frail, he continued to steer the realm. In 262 AC, the king had fallen gravely ill, and many believed the end near. Yet he survived. During that time, all members of House Targaryen came to attend him, most notably Prince Rhaegar, who remained at his bedside day and night, displaying a maturity far beyond his years. As the king's health slowly improved, even the maesters whispered of providence, crediting the prince's devotion.
Prince Rhaegar's reputation as a lucky child spread ever further. Born amid the tragedy of Summerhall, he was said to carry fortune itself. Rumors claimed his presence had saved both Lord Ormund Baratheon and King Jaehaerys II.
Ser Jason was conveniently forgotten. His father, Lord Gerold Lannister, the so-called Golden Lion, was widely suspected of kinslaying—retribution, some said—and even the prince's fortune could not save him.
So widespread were the rumors that peasants traveled from distant lands hoping Prince Rhaegar might bless them with children or cure their illnesses. Thankfully, such people were driven away by the Gold Cloaks or redirected to the Great Sept of Baelor, restoring quiet to the Red Keep. Rhaegar himself was unsure whether to laugh or sigh; at this rate, he feared becoming known as a charlatan. Perhaps he truly should use the Flame of the Eternal Spring more sparingly.
At present, King's Landing buzzed with two great pieces of news.
One concerned Prince Aerys.
The other concerned Ser Tywin Lannister, newly appointed Master of Coin.
By royal decree, Ser Tywin had been granted permission to wed his cousin, Lady Joanna Lannister, within the Great Sept of Baelor itself—an honor almost unheard of. The realm needed celebration to wash away the lingering sorrow of Summerhall, and few things accomplished that better than a magnificent wedding.
Backed by the wealth of House Lannister and the favor of the crown, the wedding promised splendor rivaling even that of a crown prince.
Thus, lords great and small flocked to King's Landing, joined by curious onlookers from across the Narrow Sea.
Ser Tywin had arrived the year before and quickly brought a sharp, disciplined air to the Small Council. Though young, he was resolute and efficient, earning widespread respect.
Prince Aerys wished to see his friend named Hand of the King, but Lord Ormund Baratheon, the Old Stag, had no intention of relinquishing the office. He might one day step aside, but not be pushed. In age, prestige, and blood ties to the crown, Ser Tywin could not yet compare.
Still, Lord Ormund often traveled to Storm's End to see his grandchildren, and King Jaehaerys II looked favorably upon Tywin as a future pillar of the realm.
As for Prince Aerys himself, this year had brought him nothing but misfortune. A constant shadow clung to his expression.
Outside the Red Keep, spearpoints bore severed heads—men and women of all ages—for all to see.
Those in the know understood: they were sycophants, mistresses, and retainers who had surrounded Prince Aerys, indulging his excesses and whispering treason during the king's illness.
Such was the wrath of a dragonlord king.
Rhaegar thought grimly that it was better they died now—otherwise, when his father truly lost his mind in years to come, entire families would perish.
He had no time to mourn them. His father, Crown Prince Aerys, was now humiliating himself before all of King's Landing.
The servants of the Red Keep appeared calm and content, far removed from war and fire. Yet their gazes lingered strangely upon Rhaegar, tinged with curiosity.
Could the prince truly bring fortune?
Standing high upon the walls of the Red Keep, the sea wind tugged at Rhaegar's silver hair. Below, he watched Prince Aerys walk barefoot through the streets, clad in plain garments, having cast aside jewels and crown as he made his way toward the Great Sept.
Prince Aerys had fasted for five days before beginning his penitential procession through the city, there to pray alongside the High Septon.
Though dressed as a commoner, his Valyrian features and silver hair drew crowds wherever he passed. To either side walked Ser Tywin Lannister and Ser Steffon Baratheon, sworn brothers and childhood friends. Kingsguard knights and Gold Cloaks lined the route, for the city was dangerously crowded in anticipation of the wedding.
Beside Rhaegar stood Cesar, the wandering Braavosi swordsman. He hesitated before speaking.
"My prince," he said at last, "perhaps this will temper him."
"I hope so," Rhaegar replied flatly, feeling little sorrow. He had long despised the men and women who led his father into excess.
"Where is Ser Lucerys Velaryon?" Rhaegar asked suddenly, recalling one particularly shameless flatterer.
"He fled to Driftmark the moment things turned sour," Cesar answered. "Claimed illness. The king spared his life—only three months' labor in the shipyards."
"Slippery as any sea snake," Rhaegar said with a faint chuckle.
Crown Prince Aerys's disgrace was of his own making.
When King Jaehaerys II lay dying, Aerys believed the throne already his. He spoke carelessly, surrounded by fools who mocked the king and dreamed of reward.
But the king lived.
And when word of those words reached him, his fury was terrible.
Lord Ormund Baratheon coordinated with the Gold Cloaks, sweeping the city clean. Heads fell. Tongues were cut. Blood ran through alleys.
It was said that when the king confronted his son, he smashed a crystal goblet against Aerys's brow, blood spilling freely.
"You mistake this city for a brothel," the king reportedly said. "Next time, it will be your head."
Prince Aerys emerged shattered. Balls and feasts no longer interested him. His former companions were dead or maimed.
Now he sought redemption.
Rhaegar watched his father kneel before the Great Sept, posture humble, expression devout.
A thin, colorless flame flickered briefly at Rhaegar's fingertip before vanishing.
Learn your lesson this time, he thought.
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