Chapter Text
Dragonstone, six weeks before the Great Tourney of Harrenhal.
Rhaegar stared at the small, clumsy bunch of flowers sitting on Elia’s desk—white snowdrops, lilac crocuses with a golden yellow center, and ash roses. A gift from little Rhaenys, picked on her afternoon stroll.
“Spring has come, at last,” he whispered, brushing his fingers on an ash rose’s petals, a lavender so pale it looked silver, streaked with red. “At least according to old wives’ tales.”
Elia didn’t lift her head, her quill still scratching amounts of grain and firewood left in the stores. “The air grows sweeter each day, and the sea calmer. Still…” She put down the quill, a frown wrinkled her forehead as she stared at the numbers. “I shall be more at ease once the Citadel’s white raven arrives.”
“The maesters are being too careful, or they prefer to check one more time their astronomical calculation,” Rhaegar replied, pulling his silver harp closer.
Elia didn’t reply. Not right away.
“Or perhaps they fear what early spring might bring.”
The plucked string snapped under Rhaegar's fingers—the sight of blood dewing on the tip, like a ruby encased into ivory, sent a wave of ominous foreboding through his veins.
In six weeks, his plans for the kingdom would start.
Every lord of the Seven Kingdoms, be he petty or paramount, would attend the tourney at Harrenhal for seven days of jousting and pageantry. The prizes were so alluring that no one would miss their chance. Rhaegar had everything planned: the first two or three days to gauge who would support him, then discuss and plan how to depose a mad king with as little blood as possible.
Through the rumors he had garnered, Rhaegar knew King Aerys’s supporters were dwindling.
The rift between him and Lord Lannister was almost unbridgeable; the Velaryons stood by him for tradition rather than loyalty. None loved the pyromancers his father surrounded himself with, and his mental state had taken a turn for the worse since the loss of Lord Baratheon, the last man still capable of making the king see reason.
“Do you think the Citadel will stand with us when the time comes?” Rhaegar asked, his gaze fixed on the bloodied, broken string. “And the Faith?”
Elia placed her quill down and faced him. “The Faith may have an issue if your father dies by your hand or command. However, the whispers about wildfire caches beneath the Red Keep grow louder.”
She went to sit by his side, gently wrapping his wounded fingers with her handkerchief.
“Once they’re proved true, the Citadel can but declare your father unfit to rule, and the Faith will not wish for a king who will burn to ashes the Great Sept of Baelor, filled with faithful and pious followers.”
Rhaegar nodded. “Indeed, deposing my father and placing him in gilded confinement is the best outcome. Yet he won’t step down willingly, and he will put up a fight for as long as he breathes. Although few, my father still has supporters.”
Elia opened her mouth to reply but closed it. “Why would they wish for a second Dance of Dragons when the realm could enjoy peace under a wise king?” She chuckled, shaking her head. “They will make noise out of appearance, of course, but won’t act.”
A lump formed in Rhaegar’s throat. The only way he may appease the loyalist faction was to betroth Rhaenys to his younger brother. Viserys was growing into a spoiled, entitled princeling. Would taking him out of the king’s influence suffice to curb his character? And then there was his Winter Maiden. Would she come to Harrenhal? Would he find her among the young noble ladies? What if she was a commoner? What if she was a bastard daughter? Would he be able to step aside and let his little brother Viserys reign after the coup?
“When I am king and the realm is secure…” He looked into her eyes. “The Ice Maiden, Elia. Within the Small Council, only Lord Tywin and Maester Pycelle entertain the idea of a second wife—as long as she is Lady Cersei. I even tested the High Septon on the issue—”
“When you are king, the Small Council will serve at your pleasure.” Elia’s voice hardened. “If the Lannisters wish for blood ties with the Royal Family, Lady Cersei can marry Lord Baratheon. As for the Faith… you have my blessing and permission, as long as my conditions are met. Besides, kings have different needs than common men. Aegon the Conqueror took two wives, and Maegor more than two.”
“And he was called cruel for it.”
“He was called cruel for many other things, my prince.” Elia went to the window. “The Seven Kingdom would hardly accept Rhaenys as your heir and successor. You need a son, Rhaegar. A son I am unlikely to bear.” There was no longer pain and bitterness in Elia’s voice, but Rhaegar found the matter-of-factness in her tone was harder to bear. “The Green Grace Oberyn brought from Mereen was clear about the… damages Rhaenys’s birth left.”
The words were like a rusty blade stabbing Rhaegar’s heart. Elia’s recovery had been slow, and even now she tired easily. And yet she spoke as if her days were numbered, and that made the guilt that had become his constant companion sharper.
“Elia, I never wanted—”
“We did our duty to the realm, my prince. Rhaenys is healthy and beautiful, and she is enough. When you find your Ice Maiden, I ask only that she treat our daughter with kindness.” She turned to smile at him—a trembling smile with watery eyes. “As I will do with every child she would bear you.”
Rhaegar opened his mouth to reply, but a gentle knock came from the door. At Elia’s permission, Maester Carn entered with three maidservants.
“Your Grace, Your Highness,” the maester said with a stiff bow. “According to—”
“We are aware of our marriage’s terms, Maester,” Rhaegar cut him off, waving his hand in dismissal, while Elia pinched her lips hard not to laugh.
They would shake the bed and make noise, as they had done since Elia had been deemed healed enough for marital duty. It was nothing more than a necessary mummery, a pretense to preserve Elia’s life and ensure none but the Ice Maiden would replace her.
He started to take off the broken string, but a cough made him look up. Maester Carn was still there, stiffer than usual.
“What is it?” Elia asked.
The maester bowed as deeply as his old bones allowed. “My prince, my princess, the archmaesters convened that it would be best if the marital duties are performed not only on Your Highness’s most fertile day, but also at the most appropriate hour. Which, regretfully, might happen during the day. Like… today,” he stammered, his face as red as Cornish spicy peppers. “I was also tasked to… err… confirm that the marital duties have been properly fulfilled, given the delays in producing a second pregnancy.”
Elia’s body stiffened. “An examination?”
“The Small Council agreed such measures should be taken, given the importance of securing the succession. No one wishes for a new Dance of the Dragons.”
Rhaegar tightened the broken string so hard it cut through his skin. The words were like a mace in his chest.
They had been maintaining the pretense for months, playing their parts when required while keeping their actual relationship chaste and respectful. But now…
“We understand,” Elia said quietly, her voice steady though her body trembled. “We… we shall fulfill our obligations.”
The maester and servants bowed but did not depart. Rhaegar and Elia exchanged a glance, then headed to her bedchamber.
“They give us no choice,” Elia whispered, once alone in the bedchamber where she had almost died.
“I am sorry, my dear friend.”
“It is not you who should apologize, my prince,” she replied bitterly. “It is not you who sees me as a breeding mare, and it is not me who sees you as a stud.”
Rhaegar pressed his lips together. “You deserve better than this, Elia. To be forced into something you do not enjoy, into something that may end your life—”
“We are together in this. And when you are king, no one would ever dare to do this to us again.” She paused. “We might need it, so to be done and over with this chore fast.”
She took a deep breath and retrieved a small vial from a chest under her bed—one of her brother Oberyn’s wedding gifts, a concoction of his own creation that, according to him, would make a man as hard as Valyrian steel and a woman as wet as the Sea of Dorne within moments after drinking.
The taste was pleasant, but neither of them took any pleasure, be it in the drink or the act.
If anyone asked Rhaegar why he was walking Dragonstone’s battlements late at night, he would call his restlessness an aftereffect of Oberyn Martell’s concoction. Truth was, his heart was a tangle of shame and yearning.
Shame, because the kingdom’s interest had forced Elia and him to share a bed again—to put at risk her life once more. Elia, fragile as glass yet steadfast as iron. Elia, who might not live to see their Rhaenys grow into maidenhood, to see her walking up the steps of the Great Sept of Baelor, draped in the Targaryen bridal cloak. And if the Maester’s calculation were right and they did conceive another child… would Elia survive to see the babe’s first breath, or would they lose their lives?
The ghost arms of his Ice Maiden wrapped around his shoulders, offering comfort and solace, but Rhaegar’s mouth was still bitter at the thought that a good woman like Elia would pay the price.