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A bloody bed. A great sword leaned against the foot of it. Blood was everywhere. Blood was dripping, seeping, staining. And it was coming from a sweat-doused girl with matted dark hair. She was whispering to a young man with a ragged croak, hands weakly twitching towards him. Towards the bundle in his arms. Towards a babe with eyes as grey as storms and hair as black as the night she had just seen.

“…name…Vis…ys”

She had forgotten about that. Almost. But then that girl who she had seen in the bloodied bed was suddenly standing right before her, certainly younger and certainly not dead. And that boy who held the babe, he had been standing right next to her. It had been a dream. A dream encouraged by poison, Rhaenyra told herself, and yet, there were two people of her nightmare standing right there. And for the first time since that dream, she thought of them both. 

Eddard and Lyanna Stark. And a child. Whose? Rhaenyra didn’t know and she didn’t care to. She just had to try and tell herself it was a vivid dream or that Lyanna simply looked like the girl who laid dying in childbed or that Eddard just had the same shade of brown hair as the boy. That when she had seen the pair, the dread that dripped down her spine was only because of an uncanny resemblance and nothing more.

But no matter how much she told herself it was only a nightmare—a cruel one at that—brought on by poison slipped past her lips, she couldn’t shake the feeling as she stared into the flames, that Lyanna Stark would die in childbed with her brother at her side. 

She saw it in the fire.

And was that…that sword…Rhaenyra’s brows furrowed and she leaned further, trying to catch sight in the flames of the pommel that leaned against the foot of the bed. If she could only look a little closer…just a tad bit more…she could see it…Valyrian steel, yes, but that pommel…where had she seen that pommel before…

“All will be well, my sweetest daughter,” Rhaella said, pressing a kiss to the crown of Rhaenyra’s head. The princess startled at that, jolting and looking up at her mother who smiled at her. “Elia will accompany you and Rhaegar to Dragonstone after the wedding, don’t forget. And if Alerie is feeling well enough, she shall join you once she is healed.”

Had they been talking about that?

Hadn’t they already discussed that?

“And Lady Cersei?” Rhaenyra asked slowly.

Rhaella smirked and patted her daughter’s cheek. “I have her handled. She can play her games for now, but she will not be anywhere near you nor your child when the time comes.” She straightened up and sighed, resting Viserys on her hip. “I have eyes on her and her father, and I suppose her brother as well, now that he’s here.”

Right. Jaime Lannister. 

Rhaenyra thought him terribly handsome. He looked similar to Cersei, that much was true; what with his sun-kissed blond hair, blue-green eyes, strong cheeks and jaw, and tall stature. The twins were spitting images of one another. Both devastatingly beautiful. Both undoubtedly conniving creatures. But Jaime also seemed…kinder. His words had been careful, not calculated. Slow but not condescending. The irritation in his voice seemed to stem from her questions and being there, not from her in general. Or so she hoped. Otherwise he may actually be just like Cersei.

“I’m not sure you need to keep an eye on him, mother,” Rhaenyra said. “He seems rather harmless.”

“Don’t let pretty faces fool you, dear.”

Rhaenyra snorted. “A pretty face on a foolish squire does not scare me as much as a pretty face on a lord’s daughter.”

Rhaella smiled, chuckling. “Perhaps Olenna’s teachings have been fruitful after all. Sleep well, my dear.”

“You as well, mother.”

The dragon queen took her leave and once the door to her chambers rattled shut, Rhaenyra was left all alone to her thoughts. Her thoughts and the crackling fire. The princess stood from her chaise and kneeled before the hearth, undoubtedly dirtying her dress in the cinders that had accumulated along the stones. 

She grabbed a metal poker and disturbed the charred logs with gentle prodding, wincing at the sparks that nearly jumped onto her arm and gown. Rhaenyra just wanted to see. She wanted to see the image again. That barren room save for blood, a bed, a dying girl and her brother. She wanted to see that sword again. That pommel she swore she knew.

Surely she could see it again? With such vivid clarity as if she had lived it? Was it too much to ask? Too much to ask…she couldn’t help but drop the poker and throw her face into her hands with a strained laugh. What in the Seven Hells was she doing? Had a dream she all but forgot really rattled her this much that she sat in front of a fire thinking she could see it again? A dream about too many things that she was undoubtedly making something up! No, no there was no scene in the fire. There was no dead Lyanna Stark—she had just said hello to Rhaenyra!—and there was no sword propped against a bloody childbed. 

It must be the stress, she told herself. The stress of everything all at once.

“What has you so trapped in your mind that you wouldn’t hear me enter?”

Calloused hands brushed hair away from her face, and Rhaenyra exhaled deeply, not turning but choosing instead to fall into her brother’s warmth away from the hearth. Rhaegar readjusted behind her until her back was pressed to his chest and his legs caged her in from the side while his arms wrapped around her front, hands rubbing over her stomach. 

He kissed her hair. “What is it?” he whispered. “What runs around in your pretty head, ñuha dāria?”

(Many things ran in his mind as well. Varys’ words. Aemon’s letters. His family’s histories and superstitions. Dragons. Dreams.

Dreams of a prince who would lead Westeros through the Long Night. A prince who was promised.)

Rhaenyra allowed her eyes to drift shut as she tilted her head back against Rhaegar’s shoulder. “Too many thoughts, ñuha jorrāelagon. Far too many.” Right now, she wished to curl into Rhaegar’s warmth—one she treasured more than her own life—and simply fall asleep. Such a prospect brought a smile to her lips. “Vāedagon nyke iā vāedar?”

“And which song would the future queen want for?”

“Whichever will help me sleep,” she mumbled.

“Oh?” Rhaegar gathered her closer and tucked his face into her neck, his breath cold against her hearth-warmed flesh. Bumps erupted along her skin and she hummed softly as he pressed his lips to her pulse point. “Se bantis iksis ābrītsos, ñuho glaeso hūrus.”

She knew he wasn’t wrong. The moon was still low in the night sky. To sleep now would mean that she would stir far before the sun eclipsed the horizon and brought a new day. But those images were playing over and over in her mind and she wanted them now to stop. To cease and never return. All of her dreams as of late…why did they need to fill her skull with such violence? Such pain? All of the fires. The screams. Everything was bathed in red and green when she slept.

And it burned her in her bed.

“Earlier today in the throne room…” Rhaegar suddenly spoke, his grip tightening around her. “What was that? When you saw Lady Lyanna?”

“Just a dream, Rhaegar,” she spoke truthfully. “Just a terrible dream.”

“About a Northern girl?”

“No,” she sighed tiredly. Of course it wasn’t Lyanna Stark in her dream. That would be foolish. “About a girl with dark hair and blue eyes. Worry not, Rhaegar.”

He was quiet for a few moments but eventually he surrendered, kissing her jaw. “Kesan va moriot zūgagon syt ao, ñuha ābrazyrys,” he hummed.

“You shouldn’t,” she argued. She could take care of herself fine enough, couldn’t she? Why would Rhaegar need to worry over her all the time? She was learning a sword, how to navigate court…was she not taking care of herself as she promised her grandmother she would?

(Why would he not protect her? Why should he not? Rhaegar furrowed his brows. Did she not understand? Did she not understand how precious she was? How…how important their children would be?

He needed her to understand.)

“Avy jorrāelan,” he shot back, shifting so that he forced her to look up at him. The fire deepened the shadows of his handsome face and Rhaenyra reached up to trace the lines of it. Such was a simple habit of hers and yet, each time she caressed the hard planes between his high cheeks and sharp jaw, ease cooled her heart until it thumped no faster than a bear breathed during the winter. But he caught her hand—tightly, so much so that it made her eyes widen—and he yanked her close until they shared the air between them, lips barely separated. “Do you hear me, Rhaenyra?”

Her brows pinched and her eyes darted between his that now seemed to burn like molten amethysts. “Of course,” she said. “Of course I do.”

Rhaegar clenched his jaw. “I would do anything for you, Rhaenyra. Anything.”

“And I you, Rhaegar.” She tugged her hand to try and cup his cheek, but he resisted. His arm trembled and his fingers pressed all too deeply into her flesh. “Rhaegar? What” —her eyes darted towards his grip and then back to his face— “what’s wrong? Have I…have I…” Had she messed up? Had she said something wrong?

“Do not make me regret this, daughter.”

She began to tremble, her father’s low voice rattling through her skull, and she almost wished that those terrible nightmares would return before her very eyes.

But then Rhaegar dropped her hand and tangled his fingers within her hair, trapping her in his grasp as he thrust his lips upon hers. Rhaenyra gasped at the sudden move and the Silver Prince invaded her mouth with his tongue, conquering her like Aegon had done with Westeros—taking her mouth, her breath, her taste for himself. And she gave it to him, hands grabbing for his hair and loose shirt to bring him close. To mesh his body with hers until she did not know where she was no longer Rhaenyra and where he became Rhaegar.

“Ñuhon,” he hissed when he parted for air. Rhaenyra caught her breath, lips aching and quivering, and Rhaegar cradled her head as if it was the most precious thing in his possession. But with the way he stared at her right now, she thought she may be. Rhaegar captured her face, thumbs stroking beneath her eyes. “You, Rhaenyra Targaryen, are mine and mine alone. And I will always protect what is mine. Through fire…”

“…and blood,” she finished for him.

(Confused. She was confused.)

Rhaegar smirked, flashing his white teeth like a wolf snarling over an injured doe, ready to devour her whole. 

(Good. Good, she understood.)

He leaned close and against her lips, whispered—no, promised, vowed, “When the time comes for Jaehaerys’ crown to be placed on my head, I will have you beside me, wearing Good Queen Alysanne’s crown, and everyone will bend the knee to you and I, to their new king and queen.”

“That won’t be for some time, Rhaegar,” she whispered.

“We could make it sooner,” he said all too easily. “Father is growing more mad by day—talking to the fires, to himself, to the air. I will need to ascend the throne before he truly falls, Rhaenyra, and I fear that may be within a few years.”

(Varys certainly thought so, or so Rhaegar believed. It mattered not. What mattered is that Rhaegar needed to be prepared. Ready. They all did.)

But their father seemed fine more often than not? Of course, she only ever saw him at court, and there was the issue of seeing the bruise upon her mother’s cheek being his doing, but he couldn’t be going mad. He couldn’t. And what Rhaegar spoke of… “This is treason, brother,” she reminded him desperately, cupping his face. “You mustn’t say a word of this…ever…to anyone else.”

“And why not? I speak the truth.”

“He already hits mother when he has too much wine,” she said. “Do you not think he would be even worse if he heard that you wished to be king so soon?”

What he may do to me? went unspoken.

“Rhaenyra.”

“What?”

He traced his thumb over her bottom lip and grinned. “When I said I would do anything for you, I meant it. I would kill every man who posed a threat to you and mother, even our own father.”

“Rhaegar” —she shook her head, slowly pulling away— “you cannot be serious! You’ve…you’ve thought of this before…I simply can’t…”

“You are my wife!” he cried out. “My other half! The gods made us in each other’s image, Rhaenyra!” Rhaegar sneered, fire dancing in his dark eyes. “When we are married before the Seven Kingdoms, my claim to the Iron Throne will be strong and true with you by my side.” His hand went to her stomach, fingers curling into the folds of her gown. “With my heir in your womb. Our child who…who is…our child who is promised.”

Promised?

Rhaegar kissed her long and hard. “I will not do it now or tomorrow or in a month or a year,” he promised. “But, my dear, I will become king sooner rather than later, whether my hand is forced or not.”

“What?” The princess released a shaky breath and peeled away to stare up at Rhaegar with building disbelief. She could barely understand how this conversation veered like this. She couldn’t understand what her brother was saying—she refused to acknowledge what he just implied. Her brother who had not a violent bone in his body. Her brother who preferred song and a harp or books in his hands, not a sword. “What are you saying?”

“I am only saying that I will do what I must to protect you. Our child. Our mother. Us.”

What he must…Rhaenyra’s lips parted as she could hardly comprehend the violence that seeped from his promise.

Her hands flew to his shoulders as she desperately seized him, eyes wide and lip trembling. He couldn’t mean this. He couldn’t! “Promise me, Rhaegar!” she quietly begged, shaking his shoulders on the floor of her chambers—nearing the edge of hysteria. “Promise me that you will not curse us by becoming a kinslayer! You cannot! You…” What else was there to say? She had said the word aloud, a traitorous one. One that could get both of them killed. And even if they survived, kinslaying was the worst act one could commit—killing your own blood? Rhaenyra couldn’t imagine it! Even her father who had been so cruel to her, she had wished for his safety. For his return from Duskendale! Not once had she wished him dead despite his cruel words and stinging slaps. “Rhaegar…please…you cannot—“

Rhaegar Targaryen was not suggesting this. He couldn’t be. Perhaps he had been drinking? Perhaps he was just tired? Surely this was all a ploy to make her think she was the one going mad!

(Ah, Rhaegar noted slowly. She wasn’t ready. She didn’t understand.

Of course she wouldn’t. Not yet. But soon…soon he would tell her. Soon she would truly understand this. And perhaps…perhaps he was being too harsh. Too eager. That was his fault, for letting some things slip too soon. 

Rhaegar took a deep breath and exhaled. He was simply riled up. Too excited. Too hopeful that she would understand despite being kept in the dark. But Rhaenyra was of a kinder disposition. She would need to be led to the answer with a gentle hand. No matter. He would wait until the time was right.)

The Silver Prince pursed his lips and worked his jaw over and over again, eyes darting between hers before he sighed and kissed her once more. “Shh, shh,” he muttered, pulling her close until she could no longer meet his eyes. “I promise, Nyra. I promise.” He pulled her close again and huffed against her hair. “I wasn’t serious. Not really. It was just a thought…a passing one. You mustn’t get hysterical…”

Was she being hysterical? Perhaps she was, she thought, staring at her fist pressed against his chest. Her fingers poked out and tapped and fiddled aimlessly with the fabric of his loose shirt. He wasn’t serious, she repeated over and over in her mind. He wasn’t serious. Just a moment of fire and blood—that was to be expected! They were dragons.

If Rhaegar swore to her that he would not commit such a crime or that it was just a passing thought, then she trusted his words. She had to, did she not?

The Silver Prince pressed a knuckle beneath her chin, tilting her face towards his, and he captured her lips once more. This was slower though, less heated and possessive than before. Rhaenyra was content to allow his warmth and mouth drive away their conversation, chase out any thoughts of treason and kinslaying. She preferred when they had been doing this before that odd outburst of his that may remain imprinted on her wrist for a few days to come. 

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. 

Rhaegar dipped to her neck, marking the flesh there as one hand held her head in place while the other travelled lower and lower from her stomach, bunching up her skirts before slipping beneath them. Rhaenyra rested her head against his shoulder, biting down hard on her lip as Rhaegar mouthed at her exposed flesh.

“Please never speak of it again,” she whispered, the words harder to get out as his hand explored the crux of her thighs.

“I won’t,” he promised. “I won’t.”

(A fickle vow on his part.

For when the princess was asleep, naked in bed with Rhaegar laying beside her, the Silver Prince finally unrolled a scroll from his uncle at the Wall.

A scroll that contained a promise that the North—according to an old dragon’s beliefs—would support Rhaegar if the time ever came. 

It had been a question on Rhaegar’s part, an innocent one posed to Maester Aemon about Targaryen men and madness and how long it takes to fester. And it seemed the Night’s Watch maester had connected the dots himself. 

Rhaegar tucked the scroll away and looked down at Rhaenyra’s sleeping face. He traced the straight slope of her nose before kissing her softly. His only regret had been losing some control with her, telling her of his wishes far too soon. Rhaenyra was a delicate creature compared to him. He should’ve held his tongue better.

But that man’s threat still rang clear in his mind.

“My final condition.”

“For what?”

“For marrying my daughter.”

Rhaegar turned to face his father who had otherwise ignored him the entire Small Council meeting. He furrowed his brows. “I thought we settled this, Your Grace?”

“I changed my mind,” Aerys said with a shrug. He wrung his hands together, staring hard at the fire he leaned next to. His nails were growing longer than ever before and Rhaegar wrinkled his nose at how the light of the flames highlighted the yellow tint beneath the long nails.

But the prince reminded himself that it didn’t matter. Not really. Aerys left him and Rhaenyra alone, and their mother—or so he thought.

“What is it?” he asked his father.

“She must provide an heir by the end of the year.”

Rhaegar snorted. Easy enough, he wanted to tell his father.

“Of course, Your Grace.” 

He turned to leave the council chambers, intent on finding the very girl he spoke about, but his father’s voice interrupted him. A voice that Rhaegar had not heard in years. The kind that the king used when screaming at Rhaenyra. But he wasn’t screaming. No…no, he was deadly calm as Rhaegar’s hand wrapped around the door handle:

“If she doesn’t, Rhaegar, there will be consequences.”

That same day, he sent the raven to the Wall and met with Ser Gerold Hightower and Lord Varys to learn more about the Kingswood Brotherhood. Rhaegar needed reassurance that not only would he have support should the day come, but that any who could hurt Rhaenyra were dead in the dirt, never to lift a finger against her again. Never to get close enough that they could hurt their child. He needed Varys’ spies to keep an eye on the comings and goings of the Red Keep. He needed Elia to listen to the gossip of lords and ladies she kept the company of in bed. He needed to ensure Rhaenyra—his wife, his other half, the mother of his child—was safe.

Rhaegar glanced down at her stomach and rubbed circles over her stretching skin, wondering if the growing child could hear him, could feel the warmth of his palm just outside of the womb.

“Live, little one,” he begged in the quiet night. “Be a dragon for your mother and I. Kostilus. Sagon iā zaldrīzes.”)

---

Jaime

---

Jaime tightened the straps of his breastplate just a little bit more. He thought the whole idea of wearing armor was foolish. No one would even think of touching him on the field. The squires would be ravenous at the thought of earning their lord’s favor and too brash to even see him coming. The older knights would be overconfident in their positions as knighted men and would underestimate him severely when swords clashed. Jaime was certain that Lord Crakehall would knight him very, very soon, and he would show the man why he deserved to be the greatest knight in all the Seven Kingdoms. He would make a name for himself in the tourney.

The flap to his tent opened up and Jaime turned to see the tempest that was his twin entering like a woman scorned.

“You managed to escape father?” he asked, cinching a strap tight with the buckles.

Cersei rolled her eyes. “The king won’t be making an appearance, so our father is sitting in his stead with the queen,” she said. “He’s too busy to notice I’m not seated with the other ladies who adore kissing the princess’ cunt.”

Lovely as always. Jaime snorted at the vitriol his sister spewed. “Ever the charmer, Cersei.”

“Fuck off.” She crossed the tent and grabbed one of his shoulder guards, helping him finish putting on his armor. “I don’t appreciate waking up alone.”

“Oh? Maybe now you’ll learn I never appreciated it either,” he shot back. It wasn’t a common occurrence on her part, but Jaime remembered those mornings the most. When he would wake up, hoping to have her once more, or simply to bask in her beauty in the early light, and instead, found that the other side of the bed was cold. “I only left today because your handmaid nearly caught me yesterday.”

“Meya?” she asked.

“Dark hair, blue eyes?”

(Why did he know that? Cersei wondered, something green and hateful curling in her heart. Why did he even care?)

“Mmm, yes.” She cinched his shoulder guard on, securing it a little too tightly, before working on the rest. The perks of being a Lannister: access to armor even as a squire. Good armor at that. “Pay her no mind. She’s simple in the head.”

Jaime raised a brow at that. With the way she had stared after him that morning, he really didn’t think she was. “If you say so,” he sighed. There was no point in arguing with her. “Tell me the plan again?”

“You will go out there, win the melee, do whatever arse-kissing you must, and get noticed by men of the Kingsguard,” Cersei told him. Her green eyes flashed with warning. “Our entire plan depends on you doing well, Jaime.”

Right. Everything was always on his shoulders, wasn’t it? Jaime rolled his arm once. Twice. Thrice to check that his armor was snug enough on that side but not so much that it restricted his movement. Much like how his father planned to restrict him.

“Father plans to marry you to Lysa Tully,” Cersei told him as she traced figures on his bare chest. She was wrapped around him like a viper, legs locked with his and arms keeping him close so that she may sink her teeth into his flesh. Always poised to strike. “He said that once the wedding festivities have passed, you’re to travel to Riverrun to meet her with Lord Crakehall. And once you’re a knight, you’ll marry her at Casterly Rock and remain there as father’s heir.”

A fucking nightmare that would be.

“Lord Crakehall is all too excited about me doing this,” he mumbled to his twin. “It won’t be hard for the Kingsguard to focus on me when that man plans to talk any and everyone’s ears off about me.”

“Use it then, you idiot.”

Jaime’s eye twitched at the cruelty to her voice, but he didn’t speak against it. “Win the melee, get the Kingsguard’s attention, eventually be knighted, get sworn into the Kingsguard when the old man kicks it, and then…” He stopped his sister’s movements, meeting her harsh gaze and trying to figure out what she was thinking. Jaime thought he had a good idea of it, but it was moments like these when he wasn’t so sure. “Then what?”

Cersei smirked—an ugly sight on her beautiful face—and resumed her work on his other arm. “You focus on becoming a Kingsguard member and I will focus on securing my place in King’s Landing.”

“And just how do you think you’ll achieve that? Hmm? You can’t marry your darling prince anymore,” he reminded her with a hint of satisfaction. No longer would he have to endure her fantasizing of Rhaegar Targaryen while she laid in bed next to him—her brother, her other half.

Cersei tightened a strap harshly, making Jaime grunt at the sharp pinch, and she stood on her toes to tell him, “I have my plans and you have yours, dear brother.”

He caught her arm. “If you mean to do something cruel, then—“

“I’m doing what needs to be done to allow us to stay together,” she argued. “Is that not what we deserve? What we are owed? From birth until death, was that not what you swore to me?”

“If it means the…death of others then I’m not sure we should—“

Cersei ripped her arm away, a vicious sneer crawling over her face. “If you don’t wish to be by my side, I’m more than willing to tell father you’re ecstatic to marry that Tully girl. Would you prefer that? Would you prefer living your days in Casterly Rock with your fish wife instead of here with me?”

“No, Cersei, that isn’t—“

But she didn’t give him a moment to clarify, storming out of the tent. Jaime threw his head in his hands and muttered a curse. Why did she have to take things the wrong way? Why couldn’t she see what he was trying to say? Was it not wrong to potentially hinge their plans on someone else’s death? That’s what it seemed like! Jaime loved Cersei but he couldn’t imagine killing someone just to be with her, just to be at her side. Would he kill for her? Yes. But this was a matter for himself, not her. He wouldn’t kill for a position. He couldn’t. 

Tyrion would yell at him and reference some big book that Jaime couldn’t make it through cause the words were too confusing and he would tell the Lannister heir that murder was wrong, no matter who it was for. And Jaime would agree because that was the nature of Tyrion’s arguments. Always right. Always so morally right that it was infuriating.

Jaime huffed and finished working his armor on his own, wondering who it was that Cersei had her eye on. Wondering how his cruel sister would get exactly what she wanted on her end.

But once he exited his tent, helmet on and sword strapped to his side, those thoughts flitted out of his ear in exchange for the roar of the crowd seated in the stands of the tourney grounds.

Jaime looked around at the other men who all presented themselves before the royal family—all but the king—and when it was his turn to step forward and declare his name for the melee, he found Rhaenyra Targaryen dressed in a dark red gown with black stitchings of a dragon crawling across her straight neckline. Her terribly bright hair was braided away from her sweet face and Jaime noticed that it was braided down her back as well while some remained pinned up like a crown at the back of her head. And atop her head was a plain silver circlet with a pretty ruby right in the center.

Cersei would never wear such a style. It wouldn’t suit her.

(But, begrudgingly, Jaime quietly admitted it suited the princess quite well.)

Beside her, Rhaegar stood at the railing, leering down his strong nose. He wore his own circlet with hair falling in waves around his face and neck. Where Rhaenyra wore red, the prince wore an entirely black outfit with the Targaryen sigil threaded on his chest and silver livery chains dangling over it from shoulder-to-shoulder. The pair were devastatingly comely together and so bright that it almost made Jaime squint just to keep the glare from his eyes.

“My prince,” Jaime called up to Rhaegar. He then turned to the smiling girl beside him. “Princess.”

(Rhaenyra couldn’t stop the smile on her lips. Her brother was the most handsome man in all of Westeros, but, she could admit Jaime Lannister was quite lovely as well.)

“We wish you good fortune, my lord,” Rhaenyra said to him, hands wrapped tightly around the railing so she may lean over just slightly. “Would you ask for any lady’s favor today?”

Jaime scoffed and shook his head. He would have asked for Cersei’s had she not stalked away from him in such a fit. “No, Your Highness,” he told her. “I don’t see myself needing anything but mine sword and quick feet.” 

Rhaegar smirked and waved at Jaime. “Then we shall pray that those are enough, my lord. And one can only hope that they are enough for a knighthood sooner rather than later.”

Jaime bowed to the pair and just as he was about to turn, the princess called to him once more:

“My lord?”

He glanced up at her smiling face and watched as she removed a strand of fabric that was wrapped around her wrist. She dropped it for him and he watched in confusion as it fluttered towards his now outstretched hand. As soon as it found home in his palm, he looked back up at the princess.

“My favor,” she told him. “Any man can wield a sword and be quick on his feet in a fight. It’s luck that keeps him alive.”

“Thank” —he cleared his throat, knowing just how important it was for him to express his gratitude for all to hear— “thank you, princess.”

(Rhaegar’s eye twitched.)

Her smile was soft, softer than Jaime liked on a lady’s face, but for a moment, as he looked up at her—bathed as she was in sunlight and finery—he thought that maybe this time, he could stomach the sight. 

(Maybe he liked it a little too much.)

He went back to his place as the rest of the field finished paying their respects and Jaime stared hard at the simple, black fabric. It wasn’t anything special, though it was nicer than others. Plain but it had a certain sheen to it like silk. He snorted and when he glanced back at the royal seats of the tourney arena, Rhaenyra Targaryen smiled at all of the men just as she had smiled at him. Everyone said she was kind, kinder and gentler than many before her, and he supposed it was true. Truer than maybe he had assumed. Terribly sickening in a way, but so long as he was not forced to endure her sweetness for an extended period, he supposed he would survive without tooth rot.

And that was when he caught the gaze of Ser Arthur Dayne. The Kingsguard stood just behind the prince and princess, one gloved hand resting on the pommel of his sword. But peeking over his back was the sun-decorated pommel of Dawn, one of the greatest Valyrian steel weapons ever forged—borne from a fallen star! Jaime’s heart soared at seeing just a glimpse of it and he hoped he could see the knight in action. Many claimed he was already at the same skill of Ser Barristan Selmy. Though Jaime knew he would lose terribly to both, he almost wished the men were fighting in this melee as well just for the chance of crossing blades with them. Jaime had heard that Arthur could use both hands to fight. What a talent that was!

But with the Kingsguard knight’s attention on him, Jaime thought back to his sister’s plan. If Arthur Dayne of all men was looking at him, that must be a good sign. It meant that he would watch, which meant that Jaime couldn’t disappoint. He wondered how much of it was because of the princess’ favor. 

How much of it was because of the rumor that Arthur Dayne loved Rhaenyra Targaryen? The rumor Cersei had told their father about.

Jaime cocked his head, hoping to see if there was anything in the knight’s eyes, but from such a distance, he couldn’t make anything out. But Arthur Dayne certainly had piercing eyes. Eyes focused on Jaime.

The young Lannister smirked. He should thank the princess again for her unwanted favor. He tied the fabric securely around the hilt of his sword and took a deep breath as the last man paid his respects.

If he did well enough to get noticed by some of the best knights in the Seven Kingdoms, then perhaps he would one day be recommended for the Kingsguard.

He would certainly have to thank Rhaenyra Targaryen for today when it was all said and done.

---

Rhaegar

---

Rhaegar glanced over at Rhaenyra, watching her face contort excitedly as the men of the melee fought to their heart’s content. He had never seen her so engrossed in it before, as if she was watching every move taken. As if she was studying the way men moved and swung their swords, the way they blocked and parried. She even waved Arthur over and asked him about the weapon one knight from the Riverlands swung about.

Rhaegar’s fist tightened over the arm of his chair as he watched Arthur lean down slightly to say, “That’s a morning star, Your Highness. Few men wield it due to its difficulty.”

“Ah…I see,” she hummed with a nod. When Rhaegar thought she may continue the conversation, she waved her dismissal to Arthur. “Thank you, my friend!” The knight bowed and stepped back, not even glancing back at Rhaenyra like he would have done months ago.

Rhaegar’s hand slowly unfurled as tension eased out of him. This was good. Very good. Arthur knew his place and it seemed Rhaenyra was now well and truly Rhaegar’s. There was no longing glance, no sadness to her tone, nothing that would indicate that she pined for the Kingsguard instead of him at her side. It made the prince breathe a sigh of relief.

It was one less thing to worry about.

But as he turned his attention back to the field, something of an ugly shade of green whispered that Rhaenyra was odd about the Lannister heir. It had taken everything in Rhaegar not to snap at the younger man for staring so blatantly at Rhaenyra in the throne room. And once again, Jaime Lannister had stared at Rhaenyra a moment too long and she had freely given him her favor. She may have laughed and spoken sweetly to every man and knight they greeted, but her favor?

The prince watched the field and picked out Jaime Lannister with ease. The boy, still a squire, donned fine Lannister armor and almost stuck out like a sore thumb. But the young squire seemed to thrive from it. He walked with purpose and confidence, and Rhaegar had to hand it to him. The boy was good and he knew it. And his swordsmanship showed it.

Curiosity and jealousy were a heady combination. “Why the Lannister?” he asked Rhaenyra, leaning across the space between their chairs.

She hummed a moment, pursing her lips in thought as her brows knitted together. “I hope that if he likes me, perhaps his terrible sister will as well.”

“That’s it?” Rhaenyra was trying to earn Cersei’s good graces by being kind to her twin? Rhaegar couldn’t tell if it was laughter or relief ballooning in his chest.

Rhaenyra pouted, turning to face Rhaegar, and he could feel her cool breath fanning his sun-warmed flesh. “Do you think it won’t work? They seem very close, and if I show him favor, then shouldn’t she see that as an offering of peace on my part? We certainly will never be friends but by the Seven I would appreciate if she was slightly less cruel and miserable around me.”

(Relief flooded him. Sometimes he forgot how Rhaenyra was just…good and kind.)

“Oh, dear sister,” he chuckled. Rhaegar lifted her hand to his lips and kissed it sweetly. “I fear that lions like her will always have sharp claws and cruel words.”

---

Rhaegar, admittedly, was bored of the tourney now. Six days of festivities was far too much and he was anxious to just get married to Rhaenyra in the light of the Seven. She may already be his wife but he needed it recognized by the Seven Kingdoms. There were many Targaryens in the past who had run off and married in the tradition of their house, but they all often came with issue, and Rhaegar wished to avoid any and all. At least he could always know that their marriage was sacred and unbreakable, and no septon could ever speak against it like they had in the past when it came to family marrying family as Valyrians did. 

But he still wished for the wedding to be now, or already passed, not on the morrow when the sun reached its peak in the sky and the bells of the sept rang for all to hear.

At least the jousts were today. It was the only thing he could look forward to on an otherwise vapid schedule of activities.

That and his sister at his side.

“With Jaime Lannister having won the melee,” Rhaenyra asked, “do you believe he’ll be knighted soon?”

Rhaegar hummed, rubbing his jaw as the knights prepared for the first rounds of the joust. He was curious to see if Robert Baratheon had joined after all. “Perhaps,” he said. “He would be the youngest in all the Seven Kingdoms if he was.” Not that it mattered to Rhaegar in the end.

His sister nodded slowly. “Arthur said Ser Barristan was impressed with his skills. I wonder if they’ll name him to the Kingsguard.”

“And risk Tywin’s wrath?” Rhaegar snorted. “Barristan is smarter than that. Our father too. Arthur could become a sworn brother because he wasn’t the heir to Starfall. But Jaime? No. If anything, he’ll be knighted soon and probably married off to some highborn lady.”

“Has a woman ever been knighted?”

What an odd topic of conversation and an even odder question. Rhaegar looked over at Rhaenyra, eyes scanning her curious face. “A woman being knighted?” he asked, wondering if he heard her right. And she nodded. Rhaegar hummed, leaning back in his seat, staring up at the canopy above them as he tried to recall his histories. “Well…I don’t think so. There have been women who fought in war, but none ever knighted.” He looked to her again. “Why?”

The princess shrugged. “Curiosity. Visenya and Rhaenys were warriors. Alyssa, Alysanne, Rhaenys, Baela, Rhaena, Shaera, Rhaenyra…all strong Targaryen women who fought with their dragons.” Rhaenyra looked down at her hands, fiddling with a stray thread on her black skirts. A blood-red sheen covered her dress whenever sunlight hit it the right way thanks to the undercurrent of red stitching woven into the pitch black. She sighed and gazed out at the jousting lanes. “I wondered if any women—without dragons—were rewarded for their strength and valor simply because they wielded a sword and wielded it well.”

“You’ve been reading a lot, I take it?” Rhaegar chuckled.

She smiled at that. “It helps keep my mind occupied.”

“And why would you need that?”

“Because we are about to be married before the most important men and women of Westeros,” she said, laughing. “Any would be consumed by nerves at that prospect.”

“I’m not.”

“Oh?”

“How can I be” —he reached across the space between their chairs and held her hand— “when I know this is right? When we have already…” Rhaegar glanced over his shoulder, noting Tywin Lannister seated just two rows behind them. He cleared his throat. “There may be many eyes on us on the morrow, Nyra, but the only ones that matter are ours and ours alone.”

Her cheeks flushed and Rhaenyra squeezed his hand in thanks to which he raised hers to his lips. 

“Avy jorrāelan,” he whispered.

“And I you.”

The prince grinned and still holding Rhaenyra’s hand, he turned his attention to the knights who began their jousts. He was pleased to see Robert Baratheon had taken him up on his challenge—not so much when the heir to Storm’s End managed to unseat his opponent. But he supposed that meant either Arthur or Jon could potentially put the arrogant stag on his arse, an appealing thought.

Unfortunately, Rhaegar realized that Arthur and Jon would end up riding against one another.

The young Kingsguard rode up to the royal seats, grinning beneath his helmet, and Jon joined him, scowling over at Arthur. Rhaegar tugged Rhaenyra to the railing and the pair looked down at their friends. 

“Who shall have my favor this morn?” Rhaenyra asked, giggling at the obvious tension between the knights. 

Arthur held up his lance, smirking at Jon as he said, “I believe I’m fit for the honor, Your Highness.”

“Take it then,” Jon shot back. “I’m not the one in need of a lady’s favor to put you on your back, pretty boy.”

“Pretty boy? Why…should I ask for your favor, Lord Connington?”

Jon hissed a curse and rolled his eyes.

Rhaegar smiled and as Rhaenyra tossed her favor of a flower-woven circlet over Arthur’s lance, the prince turned towards Jon.

“Griff,” he called, “would you like your prince’s favor?”

Perhaps it was the sun that made Jon’s cheeks redden under his open helmet. 

“Rhaegar, if you—“

He wouldn’t hear the protest. Rhaegar, with a mischievous grin that made his cheeks ache, undid one of the chains clasped across his chest and tossed it down to his dear friend. He watched as Jon fumbled to catch it. 

“If you win,” he said, “you can keep it. That’s good silver, you hear me?”

“Can I have it if I win?” Arthur asked.

“You can kiss my arse,” Jon shot to him, clipping the chain on some of the latches of his armor until it hung securely. He nodded to Rhaegar and turned his horse to head to his side of the list field. 

Arthur snorted and bowed dramatically to Rhaegar and Rhaenyra, earning their mirth. He went to his respective side and the siblings returned to their seats.

“We shall see whose favor holds more weight,” Rhaenyra jested, nudging Rhaegar slightly.

“Mine, undoubtedly.”

“Oh?” She leaned forward in her chair. “I’m not so sure, brother. I believe mine is much more compelling. Jaime Lannister beat experienced knights with my favor wrapped around his sword.”

“A coincidence.” 

“If Arthur wins, I would say it’s fate.”

“Shall we make a bet on it then?”

“If Arthur wins, then” —she tapped her chin, eyes flashing with mischief— “then I would like a pretty necklace.”

“And if Jon wins” —Rhaegar tugged her close, lips close to her ear— “then I would like to have you tonight.”

Her cheeks burned brightly and she cleared her throat, refusing to meet his gaze. Rhaegar grinned in victory and they watched as the joust began.

Unfortunately, it seemed Rhaenyra’s beliefs held true. Arthur decidedly unseated Jon in two turns. It didn’t help that the young Lord of Griffin’s Roost was jarred with the first turn, his left leg getting dislodged when the pair clashed. He didn’t seem to notice—feeling too victorious that he had earned a point from hitting Arthur’s shield—and as they raced down the list once more, one sure strike from the Sword of the Morning sent Jon titling over the side of his horse. He landed with a grunt and worry clenched Rhaegar’s heart until the red-haired knight stood from the dirt, shouting a string of curses at their newly victorious friend. 

“I would like a silver necklace with a ruby,” Rhaenyra smugly whispered to Rhaegar.

“As you wish, Nyra.”

She smirked.

The jousting continued and Arthur did well, exceptionally so. It came to no surprise to the prince. Arthur was on the same level of skill as Barristan, and of course he would make his way through the lists without fuss. Barristan did the same. And a knight without designation did as well. Rhaegar watched the man with black armor with interest, wondering who it could be. He would run against whoever won between Arthur and Barristan—a joust that came down to points as neither man could unseat the other.

When they presented themselves, Rhaegar shot an apologetic look towards Barristan as he named Arthur the winner of the bout. The older knight only smiled and clapped for Arthur, patting him on the back.

And then came time for the champions bout.

Arthur rode well and Arthur rode true. 

The other knight…he did not.

The first pass was rough, and Arthur’s swearing could be heard throughout the arena as his opponent’s lance shattered against his shield and slipped up into the crevice between his breastplate and shoulder. On the next pass, Arthur took his revenge, sending the mystery knight back in his saddle, but not from it. Rhaegar’s hands curled over the edge of his armrests, and he knew Rhaenyra was leaning as far as she could in anticipation for the next pass.

Arthur shouted for his horse to charge and he clashed with the knight. Arthur’s lance found home on the knight’s shield, but the knight…the knight dropped his lance. 

And it tripped Arthur’s horse, sending then Sword of the Morning over his horse’s head and into the dirt with a sickening crunch. The entire arena went quiet, so much so that one could hear the groaning of Arthur’s armor as he struggled on the ground.

Rhaegar didn’t need to call for someone to help his friend, Barristan was already running across the list with Lewyn Martell. He stood at the railing with Rhaenyra, watching her face contort into a pained frown, and he grimaced at the way she gripped his hand so tightly that his fingers were turning as white as her knuckles. They both watched with turning stomachs as Barristan and Lewyn hauled Arthur to his feet. 

“Is he alright?” he called to them, worry nearly drowning his words.

Barristan said something to Arthur and looked back towards the royal seats. “He will be, my prince!”

Relief flooded Rhaegar’s chest, and he exhaled sharply. “Take him to Grand Maester Pycelle!”

“At once, Your Highness.”

“Rhaegar…” Rhaenyra’s voice trembled as terribly as a leaf in the wind, eyes watering as she watched Arthur hobble off the field with his sworn brothers’ help. “Rhaegar, if he…if…”

He grimaced, pulling his sister into his arms, shushing her as sweetly as he could. “He’ll be alright, Nyra. He’s Arthur Dayne. A bad fall will not take him.” At least, he hoped so. He prayed to all of the gods—Drowned, Light, Seven, Old, Valyrian, anyone who would fucking listen—that his friend was not seriously injured. That his friend—a good man and an even better knight, no matter the envy that curled horribly in the prince’s chest—would not die. “As soon as this is over, we will attend him,” he whispered to Rhaenyra, tilting her face towards his. Tears bubbled along her lashes and her lips quivered fiercely to keep her cries locked in. Her very frame shook and Rhaegar wondered if his arms around her were the only reason she was still standing as she sagged into his embrace.

Her tears. Rhaegar hated her tears. He swept them away as anger began to take hold in his chest. It rooted like a weed, spanning his heart and lungs and it wrapped around his spine, forcing it straight as Rhaegar turned to the tourney field, jaw set and clenched when he leered down at the knight whose horse now stood before their seats with a crown of red roses in his hands. But with his gloved hands clutching it so tightly, petals wilted beneath his clutch and flitted down.

“Remove your helmet, ser,” Rhaegar gritted out. “We would like to congratulate our…very lucky champion to his face.” He hoped the bastard heard the disdain in his voice. Rhaegar hoped the man would removed his helmet so he could see the anger blazing in his eyes. He hated men who fought like this one. Any could claim the lance slipped by accident. But how lucky such an incident was.

The knight dipped his head and Rhaegar was certain he could hear laughter—low and cruel. With the crown for Rhaenyra in one hand, he used the other to rip his black helmet off and dropped it at his horse’s hooves.

Rhaegar’s eye twitched.

“Can I crown our dear princess, Your Highness?”

Euron Greyjoy’s sky-blue eyes shone with delight, almost as smug and self-satisfied as the smirk beneath his black beard. He shifted on his horse, dark armor clinking over his large and domineering frame. His tongue poked out, wetting his blue-stained lips, and his smirk slowly morphed into a grin that carried no mirth whatsoever. It was predatory. Satisfied. Victorious.

“Rhaenyra,” he whispered to the girl now stood frozen in his grasp, “mazōregon se pāletilla se pār kosti henujagon.” 

(Let him crown her? Was her brother mad?! How could he even suggest such a thing after what just happened? What Euron did to Arthur? What Euron did to her?)

“Don’t make me, Rhaegar,” she begged with a sob hanging on the edge of her voice. 

“We will leave immediately after. I promise.”

She met his gaze, bottom lip worried between her teeth, and Rhaegar hoped his eyes conveyed his message. Take the crown and we can leave. Just take it, Rhaenyra. Sate the fucker and we’ll go to Arthur. He wished he could say it for all to hear. No, he wished he could take her far away from the Greyjoy who stared at her for far longer than acceptable. Than…normal. He carried madness in his bright eyes, and Rhaegar knew it. He knew it because there was that same dark sheen that he saw in his father’s purple eyes.

She sighed and shut her eyes before leaning over the railing, but Rhaegar did not lose his grip on her. Euron smirked and stood in the saddle so he could reach up and place the crown of wilted flowers on her head. The crowd was silent. Stiff. No one spoke. No one moved. A petal drifted over her cheek.

“The queen of love and beauty today,” Euron sang, “and the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms another. Fitting for a lovely thing like ya. I can’t wait to bend the knee, Your Gra—“

Rhaegar yanked his sister back, glaring at Euron.

“Fuck off, Greyjoy,” the prince hissed lowly. He didn’t care if the immediate people around them heard. “Make such a comment to my sister again and I’ll have your tongue pulled from your skull.”

“Sister” —Euron cocked his head— “or wife? I suppose it’s always the same to you Targaryens.”

“I could also free your shoulders from the burden of carrying your head?”

Euron smirked. “So long as ya put it somewhere good, my prince,” he hummed as he turned his horse away, “I won’t complain.”

Treason. That was fucking treason. And Rhaegar saw red. He saw Euron’s blood on his hands, on his sword, and blue eyes staring at him—unseeing—from the floor. He would have the kraken’s head. He would—

“Rhaegar.”

His hand twitched for the sword at his hip, purely for decoration earlier, but now he would hop the railing and shove it through Euron’s throat and—

“Rhaegar!” A tug on his arm. “Issi mirre jurnegēre ry īlva.” He looked around. She was right. Everyone was staring at them.

But he looked back at Euron, who was grinning over his shoulder, blue lips stretched thin to reveal a set of sharp teeth that looked prime to tear into flesh. He wanted to grab the man’s jaw and rip it clean from his face. Show him what it meant to say such words to Rhaenyra. To taunt them so openly. To hurt a knight of the Kingsguard.

Rhaegar lifted his chin and gathered Rhaenyra in his arms, and waved their goodbye to the crowd. Cheers resumed—albeit with delay—and the prince brought his sister to their mother who stared at them with worry. Elia and Alerie were still seated, but the former looked primed to jump the railing herself and take Euron down if Rhaegar so much as nodded her way. He exhaled sharply.

Rhaegar looked to Elia and Alerie. “Accompany Rhaenyra and I to go see Ser Arthur?”

The young women jumped at the command and Elia gently took Rhaenyra from him, the pair sharing a glance.

Watch her for a moment, he mouthed.

She’s in good hands, my prince.

He forced a smile and nodded for them to go ahead.

Once they had descended the stairs, he cupped his mother’s elbow and led her with him—away from a Tywin Lannister watching them far too closely. He could feel the lion’s burning gaze even when Sers Oswell and Jonothor followed them. Rhaegar leaned down towards his mother’s ear, looking back to meet Tywin’s gaze head-on.

“Tell Varys that he needs to keep his birds close to the kraken,” he whispered to his mother.

“I will, my dear boy.” She patted his hand and squeezed it tightly. “No one shall go near your sister.”

Good. But not good enough.

“We’ll also be leaving for Dragonstone a week after we wed.”

“But, we planned for a month—”

“I know, mother,” he cooed. “But I don’t trust all of the rats scurrying around the Red Keep right now, waiting for crumbs to drop from our table. I want Rhaenyra far, far away from here as soon as possible.”

“You will write when she is close to her labors?”

“Of course.” He kissed his mother’s cheek and wished for a smile to lift her lips. Her illnesses and weak body always seemed of little consequence when a smile lit up her pretty features. Rhaegar looped their arms. “I believe it’s high-time that I take up my role as the Prince of Dragonstone.”

---

---

The doors creaked open, rattling on their old hinges and silencing not only the people who stood within the Great Sept of Baelor, but those who stood outside as well. Those who were lucky enough to catch sight of the young woman ascending the stairs to the main chamber. Smallfolk had called out, reaching past guards, falling to their knees, begging for the girl to take notice. And as she had stepped out of the wheel-house, some were lucky enough to earn her smile and a few gold dragons and silver stags courtesy of her sworn protector—whose only ailment from the tourney the day prior was a roaring headache and a broken arm currently supported in a sling (it was a lucky thing that a man like him could use both hands to fight). The people cheered until they couldn’t anymore.

The Good Princess Rhaenyra. The Kind Princess Rhaenyra. The Sweet Dragon.

Her coin had landed right side up, they all whispered fruitfully. Just like Rhaegar, she would be great, they all chirped excitedly. 

The next king and queen of Westeros would be good and fair and just.

And the future queen ascended the stairs with Arthur Dayne at her side. She held her dark red skirts in one hand and held Arthur’s arm in another. With each step, the fabric swished about, trailing after her slightly, and as it caught the light, it looked as black as the night sky without a star in sight. The silky material hugged her chest and waist before flowing freely around her legs and feet, similar to the length of fabric that trailed down her back from a pin at the center of her chest. Two silver dragon heads battled for dominance, keeping the extra fabric from sliding up or down. The heads extended out into necks and then a chain that was pinned just above her breasts and wrapped around her biceps and back. The only spots free from the gown were her face and hands.

The people said she was dressed in the image of the Maiden.

Wind whipped at her hair, but it failed to disturb the heavy braid that trailed down her back. Strands of pearls were plaited into it but it was the rubies threaded in that amazed the smallfolk and noblemen alike. Stray strands of silvery hair framed her face and all that hung freely outside of the braid was wavy, just as Rhaegar’s often was. It framed her features well.

And on her right hand was the ring she never removed.

When the doors finally opened and the hush had settled, noble men and women who had filled the sept now stared at their future queen. Blinking back tears borne of nerves, Rhaenyra thanked her sworn protector, sending him away in favor of the king. Aerys approached her stiffly without a word. They linked arms and he began to lead her to the great window where an iron-wrought, seven-pointed star allowed light into the massive sept. And before it was the high septon.

And Rhaegar Targaryen.

A vision in black.

He stood tall and proud above everyone, hands folded over his front with shoulders peeled back. Black fabric stitched with dragon scales stretched across his chest and arms, and the Targaryen insignia was designed in red at the center of it all. The tunic stretched to his knees and he wore black, leather trousers with boots to match, but none could see it with his shoulder-cape that was a deep red on the inside but dark outside. A silver dragon livery chain kept it firmly attached to him, and white hair pooled around his shoulders and down the center of his back with only a silver circlet decorating it.

Rhaenyra was in red. Rhaegar was in black. 

Two dragons would be wed today.

Aerys led his daughter down the path and everyone watched the king with curiosity—and some disgust once they saw how haggard he was becoming—but they watched Rhaenyra with awe—and some envy. 

(And some sadness that would be kept tucked away in one knight’s broken heart, never to see the light of day again.)

Rhaenyra was led past her mother, who held a babbling Viserys in her arms, and Tywin Lannister, who gave her a curt bow, and up the stairs to Rhaegar, who was all too eager to take her from their father.

“Be good, my child,” Aerys hissed sharply to her before he took his place beside Rhaella.

Rhaegar cradled her hand as he helped her up to stand across from him. The pair shared a sweet smile, bathed in sunlight and shining for all to admire. They were visions alone, but a dream together. Standing in a sept where their family’s customs were not welcome. Standing before a man whose gods did not agree. Standing before a crowd that was a mix of emotions that could not break out until the feast much later in the day.

“You may now cloak the bride and bring her under your protection,” the high septon announced.

A useless tradition for Targaryens, but one they would adhere to.

Rhaegar received the cloak from Jon Connington. Black was the outside, and massive and domineering was the three-headed dragon sewn in red. Rhaenyra turned around and Rhaegar set the heavy material over her shoulders with ease.

(The dragon must have three heads. Rhaegar and Rhaenyra would breathe life into it.)

“Gevie,” he whispered in her ear, earning her blush.

They both turned to the high septon and just as they had bound their hands with bloodied cloth, they combined their hands once more: Rhaegar’s laying over Rhaenyra’s. The high septon stepped forward and with a strand of black silk, he began to wrap their hands together.

“In the sight of the Seven, I hereby seal these two souls, binding them as one for eternity.” He gestured to them both once the fabric was bound tightly. “Look upon each other and say the words.”

Rhaenyra released a shaky breath, one that Rhaegar did not miss, so he reached over as they faced each other and he squeezed her other hand in comfort. A gesture she greatly appreciated.

“Jurnegon rȳ nyke, ñuha jorrāelagon.  Mērī nyke.”

Look at me, my love. Only me.

And so, she did. Rhaenyra saw only Rhaegar and he her. Her heart did not stutter any longer and her hands did not shake as the pair spoke in tandem, as one:

“Father. Smith. Warrior.” Rhaegar smiled encouragingly. “Mother. Maiden. Crone.” Rhaenyra returned it as best she could. “Stranger.” 

“I am hers and she is mine.”

“I am his and he is mine.”

“From this day, until the end of my days.”

“Let it be known,” the high septon spoke up, “that Rhaenyra of the House Targaryen and Rhaegar of the House Targaryen are one heart” —he began to unwrap the fabric binding them— “one flesh” —freed of cloth, Rhaegar did not let go of her hand, and for that, she gifted him a smile only some guests could see— “one soul. Cursed be he who would seek to tear them asunder. And blessed be their union before all—gods and men!”

The pair turned away from the septon and towards the crowd who all waited expectantly for the final seal of their marriage. And Rhaegar was all too keen to finish the ceremony. He lifted Rhaenyra’s hand for applause before pulling her close, cupping her face as gently as he could—as if she were made of porcelain—and he dipped towards her, pressing their lips together. She squeezed his hand as her heart raced when the applause turned thunderous.

But he stayed her fears. He was a warm beacon in the cold darkness that threatened to envelop her before so many people. She clung to him even as they drew apart. She clung to him like a wooden raft in a tempestuous sea. And she refused to let go.

Even during the feast that celebrated their union, Rhaenyra did not let go of Rhaegar. They whispered to one another in the language only they knew. They shared laughter about jokes only they understood. They pressed their lips together or to one another’s hands whenever they could. They dared not tear their eyes away even when lords and ladies approached their table to give wishes of love and health and life.

Rhaenyra and Rhaegar Targaryen were thoroughly enthralled by one another on their wedding day, and all bore witness to it.

Music played. Smiles were wide. Laughter filled the throne room. Food was enjoyed. Drink was downed. 

Ned Stark gathered the courage to ask the Ashara Dayne—who had arrived just in time for festivities—for a dance. Robert Baratheon took Lyanna Stark to the floor and swung her around until even she managed to crack a smile at how thoroughly she enjoyed it. Arthur Dayne watched his sister with a smile, hoping it would quell the throbbing of his head and the aching of his heart—he had never seen Rhaenyra and Rhaegar kiss and he swore it looked all too natural for them, as if they had done it many a time before. Rhaella watched her children with a soft smile and though Aerys stewed in his seat, in his mind, he glanced once at the people and then to his children, wearing an odd look upon his face. Elia Martell, despite the men who begged for her hand, stayed beside Alerie, drinking enough for the both of them and laughing so loudly that all knew she had some of the sweetest laughter in all of Westeros. Euron Greyjoy sat beside his father, enjoying a lady here and there who didn’t know any better about his reputation. Even Jaime Lannister was enjoying the feast, watching people dance and fête despite his sister’s foul mood that was reflected upon their stoic father’s face.

And Jaime glanced at the princess. For a moment. Just long enough to catch a toothy grin hiding beneath his pink lips that lifted her rosy cheeks.

(He thought…he thought that maybe she did look beautiful today.)

And when the night began to approach, Rhaegar called the room to attention with a toast, standing at the head of the table with his cup raised high.

“To you all for sharing in this blessed day with us,” he said. “I find there is nothing better than smiling faces and full bellies, and I hope that this joy continues on for all of you even when you depart for your homes. Thank you, and may the Seven” —he nodded towards the Starks— “or your Old Gods return you safely.”

A wave of agreement rolled through the room and some drank to that. Rickard and Lyarra Stark returned the gesture to the prince in gratitude.

Rhaegar then turned to Rhaenyra, holding his cup for her. “To my wife,” he said so sweetly that a young lady held a handkerchief at the ready, for Rhaegar Targaryen was well known for making even the strongest women cry. The Silver Prince cocked his head, smiling for and only for the girl he adored. He had never loved anyone more. “I swear that you will only hold love and happiness in your heart, and should anything ever change that, I will spend day and night at your feet, praying your forgiveness. I shall cherish you, wait on you, support you, and adore you through all that is good and all that is bad. If you requested that I move a mountain for you, I would only ask where to. If you begged me to bring dragons back to life, I would only ask which one. If you wished to see me go, I would sail west of Westeros for none to ever find me again.”

Rhaegar looked back and after setting down his wine, waved for someone to join him and Jon emerged, carrying a small, wooden box. He took it from his friend and slowly opened it.

“The day is not now, and I pray it is not for a while longer,” he said as he reached into the box, “but I wished to give this to you now, so all may bear witness to my promise.” Rhaenyra watched curiously as he lifted something silver from the fabric inside. Something silver and round with a ruby in the center and dragons carved into it. Rhaenyra’s eyes widened and she stared at Rhaegar in a disbelief mirrored by all in the room. The prince grinned and showed the room. 

“The Good Queen Alysanne’s crown!” he told them. “I promised my sister that when I was crowned king—Seven bless my father with a long reign so that day may not yet come—she would take the only crown fit for her. A crown of a good queen and an even better woman.” Rhaegar turned back to Rhaenyra and carefully lowered the metal upon her white hair. “From the men beyond the Wall to the shadows of Asshai, the world will one day know of the good and kind heart of Rhaenyra Targaryen, our future queen and my sweet wife!” He lifted his cup once more. “To Rhaenyra!”

“To the princess!” the crowd roared. Applause echoed in the massive hall where dragon skulls hung and two dragons celebrated being bound before gods and men, and the Iron Throne empty behind them. “To Prince Rhaegar!”

The Silver Prince kissed Rhaenyra and took to the floor, retrieving his white harp, and he sang a song for his wife so lovely that the young and fierce She-Wolf of the North openly wept.

Westeros would not forget the beautiful and blessed union of Rhaegar and Rhaenyra Targaryen—one of the few times in known history since Aegon’s Conquest that none raised a fuss about their odd Valyrian tradition. 

The Silver Wedding they would call it for the silver crown Rhaegar had placed upon his sister’s head.

Two coins clattered onto their sides of greatness that night.

And none would ever forget the beautiful smile on Rhaenyra Targaryen’s lips as Rhaegar finished the song he wrote for her, making one last toast to the beautiful girl wearing a crown:

“To ñuha dāria!”

And a queen she was, sitting just a few feet before the Iron Throne, wearing Alysanne’s crown and the colors of the House Targaryen. 

She raised her cup of water—though none were the wiser—and said with one of the fairest smiles any had ever seen on the princess’ pink lips:

“To ñuha dārys.”