RHAEGAR
That morn in King's Landing, the sun rose with a splendour that seemed intent on erasing the grey memories of the weeks prior. Golden light spilled from the eastern sky, gilding the rooftops of the city, turning Blackwater Bay into a sheet of glimmering hammered gold, and warming the stones of the castle walls that were wont to be cold.
Rhaegar Targaryen sat upon a carved wooden bench on the private balcony of his mother's chambers. Resting upon his lap was a silver harp, reflecting the blinding sunlight. His long, slender fingers danced slowly over the strings, plucking notes that were soft and melancholic, yet possessed an undercurrent of hopeful rhythm.
On the round table nearby, a sumptuous morning meal lay untouched. Fresh fruits, warm bread, honey, and soft cheese. Yet, Rhaegar's appetite had not fully returned. His only sustenance in this moment was the vista before him.
Queen Rhaella, or now the Queen Mother, sat in a comfortable chair, her back to the view of the city. In her arms, Prince Viserys squirmed with delight. The babe was in high spirits, gurgling quietly as his mother tickled his plump belly.
Rhaegar watched them with an intensity that bordered on painful.
He watched as Rhaella extended her slender forefinger, allowing Viserys's tiny hand to fumble and grasp it with a surprising strength for a babe. Then, Rhaella laughed. It was not the polite court laughter Rhaegar so often heard, but a laugh that was crisp, sincere, and free. The woman leaned down, rubbing her nose softly against Viserys's small button nose, causing the babe to squeal in joy.
A smile widened on Rhaella's face, erasing years of suffering from her lines. Her violet eyes shone, no longer shadowed by the fear of heavy footsteps in the corridor or angry shouts in the night.
It was a sight Rhaegar had not beheld in a long age. There was a tranquility there that he had yearned for, a domestic peace that felt alien to House Targaryen. His mother looked ten years younger. She looked... alive.
Yet, beneath the beauty of the moment, Rhaegar felt a cold prick in his heart. Guilt.
This was one of those moments they could never have possessed had his father still lived. If Aerys were here, this balcony would be thick with tension. Rhaella would be wary, her eyes wild, searching for signs of her husband's wrath. Viserys might be weeping, sensing his mother's fear.
His father's death was the price paid for his mother's laughter this morning.
Rhaegar felt wretched for relishing this joy. He felt unclean for enjoying the warmth of the sun and a quiet mind, whilst his father's ashes were scarce cold in the urn within the crypts below. Was he a cruel son for feeling relieved? Was he a monster for being grateful for the death of the man who gave him life?
His fingers moved of their own accord, following a train of thought trying to seek light amidst the darkness. The melody he played shifted, becoming something he had learned from Jaime Lannister in one of their secret musical sessions. A strange song, a song of hope after a long winter.
"Here comes the sun," Rhaegar crooned the notes with his voice soft, nigh on a whisper. "Doo-doo-doo..."
Rhaella turned her head slightly, her ears catching the new tune, yet she did not cease rocking Viserys.
"Here comes the sun," Rhaegar repeated, plucking the strings with more resolve, trying to convince himself. "And I say... It's all right."
Is it truly? whispered a doubt in his mind. Is it truly all right?
His eyes shifted from the view of the city to the face of his brother. Viserys. His heir for the nonce.
"Little darlin'," Rhaegar sang to his brother, his tone softening with affection. Viserys turned towards the sound of his brother's voice, his large purple eyes blinking in curiosity.
Rhaella gazed at her eldest son. The smile on her face changed into something sorrowful, yet full of love. She understood the song, though she may not have fully grasped the tongue. She understood the feeling.
"It's been a long, cold, lonely winter," Rhaegar continued.
Aye, a winter long and harsh indeed. The reign of Aerys in his latter years was a blizzard that froze all around him in fear.
"Little darlin', it feels like years since it's been here..."
"Here comes the sun, doo-doo-doo..."
"Here comes the sun..."
"And I say... It's all right."
Rhaegar stopped.
His hand ceased its plucking, hanging in the air as if he had just touched hot iron. The echo of the final note faded, swallowed by the sound of the wind and the gulls.
Silence descended once more, but this time it was heavier.
Will all truly be well?
The question haunted him. He was King now. The crown was not yet physically upon his brow, yet its weight already crushed his neck. Many lives now depended upon him. Millions of souls in Westeros, looking towards him, waiting. He was their leader, their protector.
He had many plans. In sleepless nights, he had written sheet after sheet of parchment. Tax reforms, the mending of roads, to build something new. He dreamed of what the realm would be in the future, a new golden age.
He hoped they would all come to pass. Yet he was practical enough to know that the world is not built upon hopes. If but half could be realized, it would be accounted a mercy.
His thoughts, as ever, were dragged back to the darkness. Back to Duskendale.
The town had yielded. Lord Darklyn was dead. But Rhaegar knew the ghosts of Duskendale would not be silent. There were many left there, smallfolk whose homes were burnt, servants who lost their masters, distant kin who lost their names. They had surely lost their purpose to live, or worse, they harboured a new purpose: hatred.
Hatred for the Dragons. Hatred for Rhaegar who had taken those they held dear, even if it was the punishment for treason.
And that decision... the decision regarding the children.
Rhaegar had commanded that the children of House Darklyn and their allies be spared the headsman's sword. He could not bear the blood of babes on his hands at the dawn of his reign. He sent them to the Wall or to the Silent Sisters, letting them live in exile.
But the Lords... Tywin Lannister, and many others... they were not satisfied. Rhaegar saw it in Tywin's cold eyes. They desired nothingness. They desired total annihilation. They believed that to let a traitor's seed live is to plant a storm for the future.
Am I weak? Rhaegar asked himself. Is my mercy a mistake that shall doom my descendants?
The wind rustled, blowing his silver hair, making it dance about his sombre face.
He knew not the fate of those people now. He only hoped, perhaps, with that mercy, the cycle of violence could be broken. That they might have a better future, however limited, that perhaps they would find peace.
His eyes returned to Viserys. The babe was now chewing on his own fist, spittle dripping down his chin. So innocent. So fragile.
If Rhaegar did something foolish like Darklyn... His brother might suffer the same fate as the children of the Darklyn kin. Or worse.
The vision of Viserys being dragged from his bed in the dead of night, or forced to live in eternal winter, made Rhaegar's stomach churn. He must be strong. He must be wise. He must not become like that.
"Rhaegar?"
His mother's soft voice scattered the dark mist in his mind.
Rhaegar started slightly, then turned. Rhaella was gazing at him. The smile on his mother's face had changed. No longer merely a merry laugh for a babe, but a smile full of understanding, the smile of a woman who had walked through the seven hells and emerged on the other side.
Rhaella reached out, touching Rhaegar's cheek gently.
"Do not shoulder the burden of on the morrow before the sun sets on this day, my Son," she whispered.
Her eyes looked upon Rhaegar with a conviction that Rhaegar himself did not possess.
"All shall be well," said Rhaella. "We are safe. We are here. And you... you are my son. You are better than him. You shall be a great King."
Rhaegar looked at his mother, searching for a lie, but found only hope. He let out a long breath, letting a little of the tension in his shoulders melt away.
He took his mother's hand, kissing it softly.
...
Rhaegar placed his silver harp back into its velvet case with the care of a father putting a child to sleep. He closed the lid slowly; the music had ceased. Now, duty called.
He left the balcony bathed in sunlight, stepping into a room more gloom and cold, the King's Solar.
The chamber was vast, dominated by heavy wooden furniture and tapestries. Yet, what was most striking was not the luxury of the room, but the mountains of parchment piling upon the giant worktable in the centre.
Rhaegar sat in the chair his father once occupied. The chair felt a shade too large, or perhaps he felt too small to fill it. He looked upon the stack of papers with a sudden dizziness. Tax reports, petitions from minor lords, complaints regarding the price of goods, inventories of the armouries, reports of damages... all demanded his attention.
He pulled a sheet of parchment at random, dipped a quill into the ink, and began his toil.
Whilst his hand moved to sign the routine documents, his mind drifted to matters far more pressing than the price of wool.
The Kingsguard.
They had lost two members in Duskendale. Ser Gwayne Gaunt, who fell by the hand of rebels during the initial riots, and Ser Barristan Selmy, who perished in the failed rescue attempt.
Two white cloaks empty. Two positions that must be filled.
Rhaegar knew he could not appoint men lightly. The Kingsguard were not merely physical protectors; they were symbols of the strength and legitimacy of the throne. He needed men who were not only skilled with the sword, but who possessed unwavering integrity, something increasingly rare in King's Landing.
And not only the Kingsguard. A greater rot festered at the heart of his reign: The Small Council.
Rhaegar paused his writing, staring at the wet ink. He thought of the faces that sat at the council table. Lord Lucerys Velaryon, the Master of Ships who cared more for sycophancy than tending to the fleet. The sluggish Master of Coin, and the Master of Laws likewise.
His father had gathered these men not for their competence, but for their willingness to nod at his every whim. Aerys needed mirrors that reflected his greatness, not counsellors who challenged his wisdom. They were a gathering of men who fed the King's vanity whilst enriching themselves in the shadows.
Rhaegar shook his head in frustration. He could not rule with such blunt tools.
He needed sharp steel. He needed someone competent. Someone who dared say, "No, Your Grace, that is a folly," if Rhaegar began to stray. He needed advisors who could present options, not merely blind agreement. Someone who saw the realm as something complex, not a cash cow to be milked.
Yet, how was he to seek them?
All this time, Rhaegar had lived in the isolation forced by his father. He had friends, like Arthur and Jon Connington, but his circle was limited. He did not know many Lords out there personally. He knew not who was truly lack-witted and who was merely glib of tongue.
It seems this time I must rely on reputation and instinct, he thought.
The moment was ripe. His father's death, tragic as it was, had brought all the nobility of Westeros to King's Landing. They were here, under his roof, or encamped outside the walls. He could use the time before and after the coronation to speak with them. Not formal discourses in the throne room, but casual conversations, testing their wits subtly, seeing who possessed a vision aligned with his own.
Knock. Knock.
A firm knock on the wooden door broke his reverie. The rhythm was regular, confident, and demanding. There was but one man who knocked on the King's door in such a manner.
"Enter," Rhaegar commanded.
The door opened, and Tywin Lannister strode in.
The Hand of the King wore a tunic of black velvet. His face, as ever, was a mask of impenetrable calm.
"Your Grace," Tywin greeted, bowing his body slightly.
"Lord Hand," Rhaegar replied, setting down his quill. He gestured to the chair across his desk. "Sit."
"My thanks."
Tywin took the seat, his back rigid, his eyes immediately sweeping the stack of documents on Rhaegar's desk as if calculating how much work remained unfinished.
"I wish to report on the progress of the coronation preparations," Tywin began without preamble. "The High Septon has agreed to the simplified matters as per your request, though he complains of the lack of pomp. The feast for the Lords has been arranged; certain Lords with a history of disharmony shall sit opposite one another to avoid old conflicts. And the repair of the city gates proceeds according to schedule."
Rhaegar nodded, listening to the report. Tywin Lannister was a brilliant administrator, none could deny it. The realm ran like the quill in his hand.
They spoke for some time. Tywin reported that customs revenues at the harbour had risen. Rhaegar gave his assent to most matters, posing sharp questions on others that made Tywin raise an eyebrow slightly in a mark of appreciation.
Then, there was a pause. Tywin did not rise immediately to depart.
The Hand's hands were clasped in his lap. His pale green eyes stared at Rhaegar with a new intensity.
"Have you considered my counsel, Your Grace?" asked Tywin suddenly, his voice flat yet heavy.
Rhaegar fell silent for a moment. He remembered the conversation two days past, amidst the chaos following the funeral.
Tywin had come to him with a list. It was not a vast list. Merely the changing of a few 'minor' offices. The Gaoler of the Red Keep. The Captain of the City Gates. Several positions at the harbour. Tywin suggested that the old men, whom he deemed corrupt or inefficient, be replaced with new men who were 'more capable'.
Men who, after Rhaegar investigated slightly, all hailed from the Westerlands or possessed ties of marriage to Lannister bannermen.
It was Tywin's classic move. The quiet accumulation of power. Filling positions with his own men.
"I have considered it, Lord Tywin," Rhaegar answered, his voice calm yet firm. He met the Lion's gaze without blinking.
"And?"
"And the answer is no."
Tywin's brows furrowed slightly, a rare sign of displeasure. The furrow was very faint, but on Tywin's face, it was akin to another man screaming in rage.
"May I know the reason?" asked Tywin, his tone cooling. "The men I proposed are proven veterans. Ser Erik Broom for the City Watch would bring much-needed discipline to the city."
"I do not doubt Ser Erik's competence," said Rhaegar. "However, I do not wish to conduct a shuffling of personnel in this sensitive time of transition. Replacing key officials in the capital with men from a single specific region... that would send the wrong message to the Lords of the Reach, Dorne, and the North. They would think that King's Landing has become an extension of Casterly Rock."
Rhaegar leaned his body forward slightly.
"I wish for my reign to be seen as an inclusive one, Lord Hand. Unity. Not the domination of one House above the others. I shall seek candidates for those offices, certainly. But I shall seek them from all across the realm."
Tywin fell silent. His jaw hardened. He understood the unspoken message: 'I know what you are trying to do, and I shall not allow it.'
Rhaegar did not reject competence; he rejected a Lannister monopoly.
"A realm requires stability, Your Grace," said Tywin finally, his voice as sharp as a dagger. "Experiments with 'balance' often end in inefficiency."
"And domination often ends in chaos," replied Rhaegar softly.
They stared at each other for a few seconds, a war of wills in the silence of the solar. Rhaegar felt the pressure of Tywin's aura, a force that had subdued many a king and lord. But Rhaegar did not waver. He was the King now.
Finally, it was Tywin who broke the eye contact. He stood, a movement stiff and formal.
"As you command, Your Grace," said Tywin. There was no note of submission in his voice, only strategic acceptance. He knew when to retreat to strike another day.
"Thank you, Lord Tywin. That will be all for today," said Rhaegar, taking up his quill once more, signalling a clear dismissal.
Tywin bowed once more, then turned and walked out, his footsteps sounding heavy on the stone floor.
The door closed.
Rhaegar let out a long breath, leaning his back against the chair. His hands trembled slightly, not from fear, but from the rush of blood. Refusing Tywin Lannister was no small matter.
...
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