Chapter Text
HOMECOMING
Rhaegar I
He left the city like this: son, husband, prince.
He returns, changed: father, widower, king.
The royal family stands, solemn but not quite sad, as Rhaegar Targaryen rides an aged copper-brown mare into the Red Keep. Brightfyre he named her, when he was a young squire still in Aerys’s graces. A grand name, meant more for a dragon than this tired beast.
The shadow of his father’s hulking throne looms over his family, turning their silver hair grey and veiling the feeling in their purple eyes.
His throne now, for Rhaegar’s entourage brings home his father’s body. Behind him walk the holy escort of silent sisters who prepared the corpse and carried it from Duskendale to King’s Landing. Next will be the guarded wagons ladden with taxes owed to the crown, and the prisoners, Lord Denys Darkyln and his wife Serala, marched through the city in shackles to be tried for their crimes.
He stops and dismounts meters from the greeting line. As one, they all kneel to their new king: the Targaryens, their retinue and household, the kingguard, the lords and ladies of the court.
“King’s Landing is yours, your grace.” Dowager Queen Rhaella intones, voice flat with practiced courtesy. Like there is a gap at Rhaegar’s side where he father should be riding, so too is there a gap in the row of dragons at his mother’s side. Rhaella’s own mother stands sad and proud to her daughter’s right. To the left, the pair of queens are joined by Rhaella’s four other sons. Others are missing, due to time, distance, or his great-grandfather’s folly. But the emptiness that hurts the most is between Rhaella and Daeron, where Shaena should be.
How must his mother feel after so many years, to lose her husband in another man’s madness, instead of in his end? To lose her daughter to the birthing bed, as so many gossiping courtiers thought they would lose the queen? Rhaegar may ask her later, but she is so strong and will never let the vipers of the court see anything but queenly grace.
Rhaegar is twenty, older than Aerys when he came into his crown, yet he feels like a child still. How he wishes he could throw himself into his mother’s arms and seek out her warmth and comfort, but the court is watching for any weakness, and reason to overthrow him and crown instead a younger, more pliable brother. And surely such an immature display would send Rhaella and her bulging belly falling onto the sharp points of the throne.
Instead, he strides across the hall and takes Rhaella’s hands in his to help her rise, taking the fullness of her pregnant weight away from Ser Lewyn Martell of the Kingsguard. “Mother, please. You never need kneel for me, especially in your condition.”
“Your grace, I may not need to kneel to my son, but you are now a king.” Rhaella observes him with her weary purple eyes, appearing far beyond her thirty-four years. This last half-year, she has ruled castle and kingdoms while the King’s Hand and Crown Prince laid siege to the Dun Fort and its city.
The wizened creases in her face bely the stress and strain of carrying her seventh child. Rhaella birthed Rhaegar too young, the maesters said, and each successive birth had weakened the queen and left her bedridden for months.
Rhaegar’s gaze turns to Viserys, so small as he presses himself into their mother’s black skirts. He thought the youngest prince would be her last child, that Aerys would be content with five princes and a princess. But Aerys wanted five sister-wives for his five sons, and the flickers of fire at another execution had engorged his loathsome lust and injured and impregnated his poor wife.
A messenger now rides hard for the Citadel, with a command that their best healers make haste at once to the queen’s side for when her time comes. His heart tightens in his chest. His mother cannot die. Losing his father and his sister-wife is painful enough. He will not lose his mother too, will choose her life over any sibling to come. He is not yet ready to run seven kingdoms, and raise his brothers to be good men, not without Rhaella’s steady, graceful guidance.
As he commands the gathered crowd to stand, his brothers rise and he sees how much they have grown during a seemingly short separation. His youngest brother peers up at him, like he has never seen Rhaegar before.
Viserys’ eyebrows furrow together, forming one thin, silver caterpillar across his brow. He blurts out, “Where’s father, he’s been gone so long and he promised to take me riding on a new pony for my nameday.”
Rhaegar and Rhaella exchange a look. She shakes her head and says, so even Shaera and Daeron cannot hear, “He doesn’t understand.”
Sighing, he kneels in front of the five-year-old prince and motions to Jaehaerys and Aegon. “Come nearer.” This cannot wait, though he is loathe for family affairs to be displayed for all the realm to watch.
All his brothers wear mourning blacks with no adornment, but still he sees how differently they carry their sorrow. Though this conversation is for all of his brothers, fifteen-year-old Daeron stands stiff at Rhaella’s side and lets the younger boys maneuver in front of him. While Viserys looks caught between a scream and a cry, Jaehaerys smiles timidly, as if he does not recognize his elder brother in a crown. And Aegon pushes forward, staring with his intense, brown-eyed stare, a trait inherited from their Blackwood great-grandmother.
“You’ve been strong for them, haven’t you, Egg?”
Aegon nods, but his lips turn down into a frown. “My name is Aegon, like the conqueror, not breakfast.”
“Aegon, then.” Setting his hand on Aegon’s shoulder, he takes note of the decorative sword and dagger attached to Aegon’s belt, their gold hilts studded with chipped rubies. This was no longer the carefree boy he left behind, more interested in the flower gardens and riding pillion through the kingswood than playing at war.
Rhaegar speaks softly, sharing the words he practiced on the return from Duskendale when sleep would not come. “Our father is gone and we won’t be able to see him again. I will do my best to stand in his place and help you become the men he would want you to be. He loved you all very, very much and would want you to do well at your lessons and listen always to our lady mother. Do you understand?”
The middle boys all nod, even surly Daeron, but Viserys shakes his head. “Kepa never told me to listen to Muna. He told me to always be a true dragon.”
“Yes, little one.” Rhaella raises her hand to gently brush Viserys’ silver hair. “The dragon is the symbol of our house, once ridden by our ancestors. And a dragon listens to their king and to their mother.”
“We’ll help him understand.” Jaehaerys speaks up, always eager to please. He grabs Aegon’s hand. “Me an’ Egg both will.”
“My name is Aegon!” He shouts, pushing Jaehaerys away and crossing his arms across his chest.
Rhaegar braces for a tantrum or some more outburst, but his grandmother, Dowager Queen Shaera, swoops in and takes Aegon’s hand before he can huff or puff anymore. He smiles sadly at her in thanks.
“Come little dragons, let’s retire to your mother’s solar. I’m sure the king is weary from the road, and he has much he must do before he can retire.” Shaera holds out her free hand for Rhaegar to kiss, more used to respect for her position than her daughter ever has been. “Will you join us later, your grace?”
The title sounded strange on his mother’s lips, but it is strangest of all to hear his grandmother speak to him so. Shaera Targaryen is a force to be reckoned with, the closest person in their family to a dragon. Granddaughter, daughter, wife, and mother of kings, and now a grandmother too, though she is scarcely past fifty.
“After I meet with the small council, yes. And . . .” He thinks of all the others in the throne room, watching his entire life to see what kind of man he would become, now watching to see what kind of king he is. They expect force from their new king, or a indifference to manipulate. Any sign of hesitation or weakness, and they will set upon him like a pack of wolves upon its prey. Lowering his voice, Rhaegar shares all he truly wishes for now, more than even his mother’s gentle embrace. “And have someone bring me my daughter.”
The small council chambers stood silent as the tombs at Dragonstone, though not nearly as dark or dreary. Lit candelabra illuminate the space, throwing each part of the chamber into stark contrast to the settling darkness of evening outside Maegor’s Holdfast.
Rhaegar stands behind the elegant carved seat that has always been his father’s for as long as he can remember, where he once sat on Aerys’ lap before his father stopped trusting him, started barring his heir from entry, and eventually ceased attending at all. At the end of the table sits his brother, in the seat normally reserved for Queen Dowager Shaera. Daeron’s arms are crossed and he refuses to look at his eldest brother.
Daeron made to follow their mother and grandmother before Rhaegar requested his attendance, and even then tried to beg out with the claim that the women needed help wrangling the younger boys.
“Why am I here?” Daeron demands, finally breaking the silence. He never could match Rhaegar’s quiet patience. His indigo eyes burn like blue dragonfire. “You’ve never wanted or followed my advice before.”
“I’ve never needed advisors before, either.” Rhaegar snaps. He closes his eyes, takes a breath, and tightens his grip on the edge of the king’s chair. When he again looks at Daeron, he tries a more diplomatic response, one more becoming of a king. “You’re my brother. I want you here to help me make the decisions required to run the seven kingdoms. I mean to remove most of the small council and begin anew, but winter is nearly here. I need men I can trust, like Aegon the Third and his brother Viserys. I need you.”
“You have a Viserys of your own, and an Aegon too. Even a Jaehaerys, if you’d like to question the Conciliator. Use them, if you are so desperate for the help of children.”
“You are nearly a man grown, surely to soon make a knighthood.” Rhaegar said, a cold, icy anger building in his chest. His brother has always been clever and insolent in equal measure, but surely Daeron sees that now is a time to put petty squabbles aside for the betterment of the realm. “And you are my heir, not them.”
“Me?” The though seems to startle Daeron. He straightens, but his gaze is steel-hard. “Is Shaena’s girl to good enough for you?”
“My daughter - ” Rhaegar swallows, thinking of the babe he hasn’t yet seen, motherless and alone. Shaena, his gentle sister-wife, had named the child Daella. Though he would have chosen Visenya, or perhaps Rhaenys, he will not change his daughter’s name now. Not when it is the only gift that Daella will have from her mother. “My daughter is a babe in arms, and a princess besides. A woman cannot sit the Iron Throne.”
Daeron scoffs and rolls his eyes. “She is dead because of you. Our sister,” he adds, as if he thinks Rhaegar does not know who Daeron means, does not know that he killed Shaena. “She was too young, but you put a babe in her belly.”
“I did not mean too.”
“It does not matter what you meant, only what you did. You killed sweet Shaena with your cock and will likely kill another girl too, to get yourself a true heir, a boy prince to rule after you. Someone better than your foolish little brother.” Daeron suddenly rises, his chair screeching on the tiles as he does. A new sort of emotion twists his face as he strides towards Rhaegar.
When Rhaegar married Shaena at their father’s command, he knew Daeron was angry. He thought they were the feelings of any brother, like the Dragonkinght and Queen Naerys, a loving brother and his loving sister. He thought that Daeron was angry like Rhaella and Rhaegar were angry, that she was only ten-and-three when they stood before the Septon at the Sept of Baelor on their wedding day. But this emotion is something else, something Rhaegar has not seen before, and a thought dawns on him that he should have had long ago.
Rhaegar meets his brother halfway. They stand, neither speaking, before Daeron raises his fist and smashes it towards Rhaegar’s face. He twists away, grabbing his brother’s arm and wrenching it into a tight hold behind his back. Maybe he would have let Daeron exercise his wrath, maybe he should some day soon, but the small council cannot see a bruise when all know he is alone with his brother and only moments ago was seen in public with a clear, clean face.
Daeron struggles momentarily, but Rhaegar is bigger, broader, and a knighted warrior four years his senior. With a grimace, Daeron unleashes all the curses he knows, before sagging against Rhaegar’s chest.
“You loved her.”
“Shaena was graceful and intelligent and loving and beautiful. She was good.” Daeron says, tears lining his indigo eyes. “Of course I loved her.”
“But not like the Dragonknight.” Rhaegar confirms, though there is no question in his tone.
“No. Not like the Dragonknight.”
He drops his hold on Daeron’s arm, taking his brother by the shoulders as he shakes off the strain. He doesn’t try to blink back the tears.
“I’m sorry, Daeron. I cannot apologize to Shaena. I can’t do anything but raise her daughter well. I did not want to marry her and I did not want to love her, but neither did I want to lose her.” Rhaegar does not know how to comfort the brother who was in love with his own wife. Daeron surprises him by releasing a sob and leaning into his arms.
“I went to Father, before the betrothal was announced to the court. He said that because you would be king, you had to have her, and that maybe mother would have a daughter for me instead. He didn’t understand.”
“How could he? He hated Muna, but he wanted her anyway because by rights, she was his.” Rhaegar pulls back, entangling himself from his brother. “There are many things are father did wrong, you know that. I want to bring Westeros to rights from the harm he caused. To do that, I need you.”
“Not Lord Tywin?”
“I need him to, but his loyalty is to his house and his legacy. Who else can I trust, but for my family? Together, we can build our legacy. Will you do that, Daeron? Will you be my man?”
Still skeptical, Daeron steps back. “Even Tywin wasn’t so young when he became Hand.”
“That will come, in time. For now, all that matters is that you are in your studies and in the training yard, and at my side in these chambers. Can you do that?”
He nods, though his chin is shaking. “I can.”
“Good, then take your seat and I will summon the Council. It’s time for our reign to begin.”