Winter, 293 AC, King's Landing. What was once known as Flea Bottom was now a place with cobbled roads and public toilets, though it was far from clean.
Valen, the goat seller, wrapped in a sheepskin cloak, scurried into the toilet, shivering.
"A copper penny for heat, sir!"
He shoved aside a child who rushed up and held his hand to his nose with an impatient "Get out of the way!"
Then, he plopped down on an empty seat: a row of low seats cut from stone slabs, with round holes, hollowed out. But his backside suddenly met the icy cold slab—Valen's teeth chattered. It would cost an extra penny to warm it up...
He looked at the toilet boy, who was peeking and grinning, mocking him for his own good, and thought of the exclusive warming servants of the nobles—he heard that the Great Sept of Baelor liked to hire pious boys around ten years old, as they were pure, clean, and comfortable to use.
He recognized the newcomer opposite him. It was Billy, the potbellied butcher with a ruddy face. He tossed a greasy copper coin into the small claws, and immediately received enthusiastic service:
The toilet boy whistled, and a smaller child rushed into the toilet, holding a pair of tongs that was longer than his arm, obviously from the blacksmith's shop next door, and clamped a round cake that was burning red, and placed it on the stone slab. The toilet boy picked up the tongs and dragged the cake around the edge of the stone hole, and then handed it to his partner to return. He himself pressed his hand on the place that was ironed and tested the temperature: "Sir! It's as warm as a maiden's cheek!"
Butcher Billy sat down contentedly. As he slurped his food, he chattered with the acquaintance across from him: "You know, those noble lords need at least two servants just to take a shit. One to lift their robes, and another to wipe them with a sea sponge soaked in water from the Iron Islands, making sure to get the pressure just right."
"That's right! I heard that the princes and princesses in the royal palace need three! And one of them carries a box of spices!"
"Don't be ridiculous, Prince Rhaegar has six personal attendants!"
Speaking of Rhaegar, Valen, unwilling to be relegated to the background, coughed loudly. "Do you all know about the big news?"
Everyone turned to look at him.
Valen, now the center of attention, didn't even feel the sting of the cold on his backside. He puffed out his chest, pointed towards the Red Keep, and gestured with his hands to make an oval shape, pressing it against his eyes.
Meanwhile, within the king's bedchamber in Maegor's Holdfast, the innermost part of the Red Keep, the fire in the hearth burned brightly, illuminating the long hair of the few people standing with their backs to the hearth, making it look like molten gold.
Two with black hair and two with silver hair. The tall one, with a head of silver hair like flowing starlight, had deep purple eyes that expressed pity – although he stood by the bed, he was essentially looking down upon the frail, old man lying under the heavy velvet curtains, the man whose breath was faint.
His father, Aerys Targaryen II, known as the Mad King.
Everyone in the court and beyond knew that the Targaryen golden dragon crown, resting on a deep purple velvet cushion beside the king's bed, would be placed on Prince Rhaegar's head within days, perhaps even sooner. King's Landing, and indeed most of the Seven Kingdoms, eagerly anticipated this outcome.
Rhaegar had to lean in close to the withered old man, whose head was sunk into the purple velvet pillows, in order to hear the whispers.
"They... call me the Mad King... but they don't realize... who the truly mad one... is... He wants to burn it all... So you... must never..."
Aerys tried to grab his eldest son's hand. "Never... let him return..."
Rhaegar reached out and took hold of his father's pale, cold wrist, his tone calm and even. "You should rest, Your Grace."
The Mad King gasped for breath, wanting to rage and punch his heir, but utterly lacking the strength to even twitch a finger. His decaying face, with its purple pupils like rotting fish eyes, had long lost any spark of life. Only malice remained—he glared at Rhaegar, then slowly shifted his gaze to his daughter-in-law, whom he had always despised, and snarled, his words slurred, "You vulgar northern peasant..."
Rhaegar straightened his back, shielding his wife. He said, voice still gentle despite his superior height, "You should rest, as you are ill."
Aerys let out a strange chuckle from his chest. "Abandon her, I command you... along with your black-haired whelp... marry Daenerys! She is... the true queen of blood!"
Rhaegar sighed deeply. The other silver-haired girl standing by the bed boldly refused her father, "That won't do, Your Grace. The bloodline is too close for good eugenics. That's what Brother Rhaegar's new code says! Even for us Targaryens, siblings are no longer allowed to marry from now on."
The old man seemed to take a while to understand. His fingers dug deeply into the silk curtains, his eyes widening.
Rhaegar calmly stated, "Mother and your marriage cannot be repeated. You lost so many children, and thus blamed Mother... but it wasn't her fault." He paused, then added, "Viserys and I agree. In many ways."
The Mad King suddenly burst into a strange laugh, "If she were your sister, haha... would such... ridiculous code... still be promulgated... cough cough!"
Rhaegar remained silent.
The violent cough abruptly stopped—the old king's vitality finally exhausted with his last burst, his withered hand hanging limply.
The light in Aerys II's eyes completely dimmed. The old man gazed at the deep purple canopy... passionflowers. Blood-red flowers.
Just like the magnificent drapes at the celebration when he inherited the Iron Throne at eighteen. He felt like he was back on that day. He laughed as he raised his own sword, lightly touching Tywin Lannister's shoulder, who was kneeling before him. "Just you wait, I'll build another new Wall north of The Wall! I will build the largest fleet in the world, and I will transform the deserts of Dorne! I will be the greatest king in Westeros! And you, my dearest friend, my most loyal knight, please be my Hand of the King!"
Young Tywin lowered his head, his golden hair shining brightly. The knight kissed a corner of his robes, swearing loyalty.
"Hmph—hmph—" The emaciated old man, with white hair and a messy beard, made two sounds from deep in his throat, like the popping of a fish's air bladder, and then there was no more movement.
As dusk fell, the funeral bells of the Great Sept of Baelor tolled slowly. The people of King's Landing first whispered among themselves, then their faces lit up with joy. They put down their work and the various streams of people converged, surging toward the Red Keep, where the royal palace was located—"Rhaegar! Rhaegar!" They gathered beneath the grand terrace, calling out, waiting for a message.
On the terrace, the person they eagerly awaited finally emerged. Prince Rhaegar wore a robe embroidered with the traditional emblem of the Targaryen dynasty, holding a golden dragon sword, not wearing a crown—but his silver hair was so dazzling, more eye-catching and pure than any crown.
The cheers of the people were deafening, "Long live Rhaegar!! Long live the new King Rhaegar!!!"
The new king's slightly melancholy purple eyes surveyed the boiling scene below. He walked to the forefront of the terrace, reached out his hand to the tens of thousands of excited people, and bowed slightly, performing a reverent and elegant salute.
A new wave of joy erupted beneath the Red Keep. The new King Rhaegar sighed almost imperceptibly, his gaze fixed on the distant horizon, and murmured, "Come home, Viserys."