Chapter Text
Maester Yandel’s History
Robert’s Rebellion came to an end in late 283 AC, when Prince Rhaegar crushed the rebel army at the Trident. In the aftermath of the battle, he issued a blanket pardon to all those who bent the knee, including the lords Stark, Arryn, and Baratheon. He tempered mercy with wisdom by ordering Edmure Tully and Renly Baratheon, and Lord Stark’s newborn son be sent to King’s Landing to serve as wards.
King Aerys, however, suspected Rhaegar of having plotted with the rebels and, at a celebratory feast, ordered his son to be burnt alive. Jaime Lannister, a young knight of the KIngsguard, betrayed his vows and slew Aerys as he sat on his throne. Rhaegar was acclaimed as King and Jaime was stripped of his white cloak.
Daenerys
The Queen had been sick again. She had been persistently unwell ever since Princess Rhaenys left for Highgarden, almost a year ago. Maester Pycelle had proclaimed her out of danger, but she was still bone thin, and delicate as a leaf. Plopped up against cushions in her solar and swathed in black and red silk, she looked as if a steady breeze might send her toppling.
“She surrounds herself with Dornishmen,” Connington had complained. “She forgets this is not Sunspear.” It was true. Elia was attended by her niece, Princess Arianne, the Fowler girls and Sylva Santagar, her brother’s bastards and his paramour, Ellaria, Ashara Yronwood and her sister Allyria Dayne and her stepdaughters. Only Lynesse Hightower, Roslin Frey and Dany herself came from elsewhere.
They were all gathered around the window now, watching Viserys and Renly spar in the yard. Renly was nearly a head taller and muscled like an ox, but Viserys was quick as a cat. In the end, Renly managed to corner Viserys and force him to his knees.
“A pity,” Arianne remarked, playing with her braid. “Somebody ought to teach the little stag a lesson.” She had not yet recovered from the wound to her pride sustained when her attempts to seduce Lord Baratheon had failed with aplomb.
“I hope they go another round,” Dany said, as Viserys rose to his feet, clutching his blade and the remains of his dignity. She couldn’t decide if she wanted Renly or Viserys to win; Viserys liked to wrap himself in arrogant airs, but he was her brother and she was inclined to sympathise with Arianne.
The solar door creaked open, and the ladies flew from the window and dipped into hasty curtseys as the king entered. “Husband,” Elia said coolly, pulling her furs tighter as if to ward off some unseen contagion.
“Elia.” Rhaegar sat down on a plain wooden stool, ignoring Sylva veritably throwing a palatial, magnificently cushioned chair at him. “Leave us,” he ordered, waving his hand. “Except you Dany,” he added, almost as an afterthought.
The ladies curtseyed again and filed out, closing the door behind them.
“Rhaenys has delivered of a healthy son,” Rhaegar said, with the hint of a smile.
“What will she call him?” Dany asked eagerly.
“Aemon.” Rhaegar’s long fingers played with the gold buttons on his tunic. “I’ve invited her to come to court with her son and husband,” he told Elia. “You will be pleased to hear that, no doubt.”
“Thank you, my lord,” Elia said, bowing her head. “May I see her letter?”
Rhaegar reached into his tunic, pulled out a crumpled piece of parchment, and handed it to Elia, who clasped it as if it was a holy relic.
“I intend to go to Winterfell,” Rhaegar continued. “I see your health does not permit you to travel with me.”
“Indeed it does not.”
Rhaegar turned to Dany. “Sit down sweetling,” he said gently.
Dany duly sat. She wondered if he was about to impart some fantastical news- probably regarding some arcane Valyrian prophecy- and was worried that she would be so overcome as to faint.
“Do you like Robb Stark?” Rhaegar asked.
Oh. “I like him well enough,” Dany said cautiously. That was not a lie. Robb was kind and bold and gallant, a fierce auburn haired youth of fifteen… but she did not love him.
“Well enough to marry him?” Her brother seldom danced around a subject.
“She’s only thirteen,” Elia broke in suddenly. “Too young, surely.”
“She need not marry him immediately.” Rhaegar’s voice was curt. Turning to her, he said, more gently, “Dany, my plan is for you to go North with me. You and Robb can stay in Winterfell. If you like him- and the North- you can wed after two or three years. Elsewise you can come back South.”
That’s fair, Dany told herself. It was more than fair- it was generous- but something in Dany still balked at the idea of leaving King’s Landing, of leaving Elia and her silver haired brothers and the Red Keep and exchanging it all for snow and sleet and the cold grey walls of Winterfell. You cannot stay a child forever, she reminded herself sharply. “I think I shall like him, only…”
“What is it Dany?” Rhaegar asked.
“I shan’t see Rhaenys this way.”
“You will see her,” Rhaegar promised. “We’ll have your wedding hosted in the South, in Riverrun perhaps, or else we’ll all go North to see you wed. And I’ll send for you, Dany.” He smiled at her. “I won’t allow you to linger there forever, however much you may grow to like it. Perhaps Robb can take his father’s seat on the Small Council, in time.”
“In that case, I’ll leave gladly.”
Rhaegar nodded and kissed her hands. “I’ve offered Aegon’s hand for his elder daughter,” he told Elia, rising. “I’m sending Edmure back to Riverrun too. They say his father is dying.”
“When will you be leaving?” Elia asked.
“As soon as the search parties come back.”
Elia’s expression did not change, but Dany understood. Every year, ever since he had ridden to the Tower of Joy to find his men slaughtered and his love gone, Rhaegar had sent out men to scour the Seven Kingdoms for a sign of Lyanna and her babe. Every year, they came back with nothing.
“And when will my daughter be arriving?” Elia asked.
“Soon,” Rhaegar promised, bowing slightly. Elia watched blankly as he turned and left.