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It was his wife’s suggestion that he play before the hundreds gathered at the Harrenhal tournament. Rhaegar never had performance in mind when he wrote music. There was pleasure enough in the act of creating something from nothing, taking a flash of imagination and transforming it into a union of sounds.
Elia’s thoughts flew further afield than his own. They will see the warrior on the field tomorrow, and they will love you, she told him, her hand on his arm. Let them see the musician tonight, and they will love you even more.
Rhaegar turned the idea over in his head as he wandered the tournament grounds, alone. The realm’s love for his father was fading, he reflected, and its loyalty was anchored in fear - fear of fire and blood, though the Targaryen dragons were no more.
He raised his eyes to the five towers looming over the great castle Harrenhal, their charred and misshapen appearance a dark reminder of the power his ancestors had once wielded over the world.
HIs mind made up, he approached the tourney’s host, Lord Whent, to ask if he might perform at the feast. The good lord was overjoyed, and set about ordering a place of honour to be prepared.
The song he had chosen was a somber one, one he had written after visiting the ruins of Summerhall. It did not particularly suit the jovial atmosphere of the feast, but a song of sorrow and fire was fitting for Harrenhal.
As the silver notes fell away from his fingers, he let his gaze drift out over his audience. The names of those he knew came to mind as he took in their upturned faces. The lords smiled at being acknowledged, and their wives and daughters stared at him with moist eyes.
But one face stood out from the rest, like a stone in the stream of smiles. It belonged to a dark-haired girl whom he did not know. She appeared to be listening intently with her eyes shut. Her hand was balled into a fist and pressed against her chest.
The heads of those gathered turned to see who held the prince’s attention. As if sensing the ripple in the room, the girl opened her eyes and looked right back at him. Slowly, dreamily, she raised a hand to her face and brushed away a tear.
There was magic in music, Rhaegar realized - a subtler magic, maybe, but older than dragons, older than Old Valyria - and it drew its power from love, not fear.