281 AC
Janna Pov
The entire tourney had been a whirlwind. Nobles from all part of westeros has gathered for my wedding with a man whom I did not know how to feel about. If one had asked me a moon prior about how I felt about it, I would have said that the last thing I wanted was to marry him.
That feeling had changed considerably. When we finally spoke, I saw him, truly saw him. Men had vices, but here was a man who was not hiding any of it. When he promised me that he would always be honest with me forever, I did not know whether I could trust him, but only time would tell.
The wedding ceremony had been magical. Daemon looked like a knight that young girls used to dream of. In his black doublet with the golden dragon on it, his eyes, one violet and the other emerald green, pierced through me. His golden silver hair looked luscious, giving him an ethereal look
I saw my mother shedding quiet tears as my siblings looked on in stunned silence. There was something deeply hollow about seeing the strongest woman I knew look so small before a crowd that would feast on every flicker of weakness.
In that moment, my mind fled back to my first kiss with Daemon, who was now my husband, how it had felt, warm and grounding, how I had felt content in a way I never had before. Deep down, I had wanted him. The very first time I had met him, I had fallen for him, fallen fully, stupidly, helplessly. For him. Not for his foolish elder brother.
Rhaegar Targaryen was a man grown. A man with a wife, a daughter, and another child soon to come. A man who was meant to embody duty,yet it was he who crowned another man's betrothed the Queen of Love and Beauty, and did it with the calm of a man placing a stone upon a grave.
I remember the uproar, the heir of the North, Brandon Stark, shouting with a fury that could have cracked the very lists beneath him. And beside him, the Lord Paramount of the Stormlands, Robert Baratheon, roaring like a storm given flesh. It took their brothers restraining them to keep steel from being drawn and blood from being spilt.
The realm gasped in outrage, and yet above all the chaos rose shrill, manic laughter. The king himself, laughing and cracking jests at Lord Tywin's expense. Tywin Lannister looked ready to ignite, golden fury burning behind cold green eyes, while his wife laid a calm, pale hand upon his arm, soothing him. Their son, Jaime Lannister, was livid, shouting curses until his wife, Elia Martell, pulled him back with gentle but firm words.
I saw every look the king received that day. I had known him for years, known the truth of him. The man was not worthy of a crown. "Whoring, drinking, and being utterly useless in the matters of the state," my mother always said. And she was right.
"A woman may kneel for duty, Janna,but she should never drown for it." That was what Mother had told me once, her voice cool and precise as a blade slipping between ribs. "Rhaella will follow her husband into any fire he lights, even if she is the one who burns."
I remembered those words as clearly as I remembered the horror on Queen Rhaella's face when Rhaegar crowned Lyanna Stark as his queen of Love and Beauty. She looked mortified, utterly undone, yet still she stood beside her husband as if bound by invisible chains only she could feel.
The queen was pious, loving, devoted to her children; no one could deny that. She doted on her family with a warmth rare among great ladies. But her greatest flaw was as bright as the torches lining the hall: she could not command. She could not say no. Anyone with a smile, a plea, or a bit of pressure could bend her.
And in court, being gentle made you prey.
I remembered another of Mother's lessons then, one she had spoken with that sly, knowing smile that always meant she was about to carve truth out of illusion:
"Not every woman is the same, Janna. Some bloom, some bite. But never forget" she had tipped my chin up, eyes cutting through me like she saw every future I might fail to grasp,
"The gods only bothered to make one Queen of Thorns."
That was Mother, sharp enough to cut silk, steel, or sentiment, and twice as dangerous when she chose her words.
Her lessons echoed now, louder than the shouts of lords or the king's drunken laughter. Watching Rhaella wilt, watching my mother stiffen with fury, watching my husband stand unshaken in the storm, something inside me shifted.
If I wished to survive this court, if I wished to stand beside him without losing myself, I could not be soft. I could not be sweet. I could not be Rhaella.
My mother had taught me better.
But it was my husband's reaction that unsettled me most. While the realm gasped, while lords shouted, while kingdoms seemed to tilt towards chaos, he did not look surprised. Not even faintly. He watched Rhaegar place those blue roses with a stillness that struck me harder than any outcry. As if he had foreseen this. As if he had accepted there was no stopping it.
"Princess Janna, would you like to play with me?" came a soft, hopeful voice.
It tugged me out of the storm of thoughts swirling in my head. I blinked, looked down, and found my husband's youngest brother gazing up at me with wide lilac eyes. Prince Viserys, only five namedays old, clutched a small wooden knight to his chest as though it were a priceless treasure.
I softened despite myself. "I would love to, Prince Viserys."
"You can just call me Viserys," he said, bright as dawn. "You're family now."
A small smile escaped me at that, unexpected, but genuine. "Only if you call me Janna, my prince."
Viserys beamed, the kind of pure, unguarded joy that did not exist anywhere else in the Red Keep. "Janna!" he repeated proudly, already tugging on my hand.
It was then I noticed how dull everything else felt in comparison.
Prince Daeron, Daemon's other brother, ten namedays old, sat with perfect posture, quietly reading a heavy tome he seemed far too young to understand yet determined to master. The boy had the air of someone already resigned to duty.
Queen Rhaella sat near the window, hands folded tightly, her face pale and drawn. Her eyes had a faraway quality, as if she were already drifting somewhere pain could not reach.
And then there was the king, laughing to himself as he knocked back cup after cup, each refill poured dutifully by the Lord Commander, Ser Gerold Hightower. The white cloak looked more like a shroud on the man as he carried out the task.
Viserys squeezed my hand. "Come! Let's play knights! I'll be the dragon."
"Of course you will be," I murmured fondly. "A fierce one, I hope."
"The fiercest!" he declared.
But before he could drag me away, the doors to the solar swung open with a heavy thud.
My husband walked in.
Daemon Targaryen looked, simply put, exhausted. His jaw was tight, his eyes shadowed, his steps heavy. Irritation clung to him like smoke, and he looked as though the entire world had gnawed on him and he was still deciding whether to bite back.
Viserys perked up. "Brother! Janna and I were going to start ... "
But Daemon didn't even hear him, or pretended not to. His eyes scanned the room, unreadable, then he strode forward.
"Son, how was the meeting? What did Lord Tywin say?" Queen Rhaella rose immediately, concern pulling her features taut as she approached him.
Daemon walked right past her.
Not cruelly, but indifferently. As if her question, her presence, her worry were merely another burden on a day already too heavy to bear.
My heart tugged at the queen's expression, hurt flickered there, quickly masked.
He dropped himself into the seat beside the king with a weary exhale. Ser Gerold, without being asked, poured him a goblet. Daemon grabbed it and took a long, bracing swallow that looked more like a necessity than a desire.
"Daeron," he said hoarsely.
Daeron immediately closed his book and stood. "Brother."
"Take Viserys."
The ten-year-old nodded, gently took Viserys's hand, and led him away. The younger prince pouted but obeyed; even at five, Viserys knew the difference between Daemon in a good mood and Daemon like this.
Silence fell for a beat, thick and tense. Daemon rubbed his temples, as though willing the wine to numb something inside him.
Finally he spoke.
"To say that Lord Tywin is aggrieved would be an understatement, Mother." His tone was flat, almost amused, but the bitterness beneath it cut sharply.
Queen Rhaella swallowed. "Daemon ... "
"My dear brother," he continued, eyes fixed somewhere far away, "has managed to humiliate House Lannister and his own wife before the entire Seven Kingdoms, while crowning another lord paramount's daughter, who is betrothed to yet another lord paramount." A dry, humourless laugh escaped him. "I imagine ravens will be flying so fast they'll catch fire midair."
The queen's hands trembled. The king barely paid attention.
"So what did that bastard want?" Aerys asked loudly as he lifted his cup. Wine sloshed over the rim, staining his fingers red like blood.
Daemon's lips twitched. "He wants his daughter returned to Casterly Rock, after she gives birth."
Queen Rhaella inhaled sharply. "Cersei should ..."
"Despite my grievances with the woman," Daemon said, cutting her off with a dismissive flick of his fingers, "I believe she requires, time. Away from my brother."
His voice softened for only a second as he spoke about her,so brief I almost doubted it.
"And I agreed to it."
Rhaella pressed a hand to her mouth, relief and dread mingled in her eyes.
Daemon leaned back, rolling his shoulders as though they ached.
"He also mentioned his honour being tarnished," he said with mocking sweetness, "and insisted reparations be made."
At that, Aerys sat upright, eyes blazing with drunken outrage. "Reparations? For what?"
"Oh, you know," Daemon drawled. "His daughter being publicly humiliated. His house being insulted. His reputation being tarnished." He took another long drink. "Minor things."
"What did you tell him?" the king demanded.
Daemon smiled,a sharp, wicked, weary smile that did not reach his eyes.
"I told him", he said slowly, savouring each word, "to kindly, fuck off."
The king burst into wild, manic laughter, clapping Daemon on the back hard enough to make the goblet shake. "Ha! That's my boy! That's my son! Seven hells, I'm proud of you!"
Queen Rhaella flinched. Ser Gerold stiffened. Even the guards at the door exchanged uneasy glances.
No one insulted Lord Tywin Lannister. Not openly, not carelessly and not unless they had a death wish.
I felt my breath catch. The memory of the song, a warning carved into history, echoed in my mind.
"And who are you, the proud lord said".
House Reyne had believed they were untouchable too and look what happened to them.
Daemon drained the last of his wine and exhaled through his nose, tired and furious all at once.
"His house has already gotten more of what they deserved," he muttered.
The king nodded wildly. "I am so proud of you, my son." He pulled Daemon into a drunken, sloppy embrace that Daemon tolerated with stiff muscles and dead eyes.
I stood there, watching, my hand still faintly warm from Viserys's small fingers. And somewhere in the middle of it all stood my husband, tired, irritable, scathing, and preparing for a war he had never asked for.
And, I was now part of this storm.
The doors of the chamber opened suddenly, the sound echoing off the stone walls like a clap of thunder. Every head turned.
Rhaegar walked in.
My goodbrother moved with an almost ethereal calm, as though he had stepped out of a ballad rather than the storm of political ruin he had created. His silver hair fell in a perfect, princely sheet. His hands were folded behind his back with idle grace. His eyes were soft, distant, serene.
It was the serenity that appalled me most.
"Why the long faces?" he asked lightly as he looked from Daemon to Queen Rhaella. "Is something amiss?"
My jaw nearly dropped.
Is something amiss?
Did he not understand what he had done? Or did he truly, Seven forbid, not care?
Daemon exhaled sharply through his nose, dragging a hand across his face in exhausted disbelief. The queen stared at her eldest son as if he were a stranger. Even Ser Gerold stiffened.
But the king, oh, the king, reacted differently.
Aerys pushed himself up from his chair with a clumsy scrape of wood. His cloak nearly slipped from his shoulder as he staggered, swaying with the weight of wine and madness. For a fraction of a moment, Rhaegar stiffened, a flicker of tension ghosting across his features.
I wondered if he expected a blow.
But instead, King Aerys lurched forward and seized his son in a crushing, desperate embrace.
"My boy," he breathed, burying his face in Rhaegar's shoulder. "My beautiful boy"
Rhaegar went rigid before slowly, uncertainly, placing a hand on his father's back. The queen's hand flew to her mouth. Prince Daeron froze mid-step. Even Viserys stopped his quiet humming.
I felt a chill run down my spine. The scene happening before me was wrong, wrong in ways I could not yet name.
Aerys held his eldest child with a tenderness that did not belong to him. Not this man. Not the king who mocked, belittled, and dismissed Rhaegar for years. Not the king whose cruelty was spoken of in hushed tones by every corner of the realm.
Yet here he was, embracing Rhaegar as though he were the sun reborn. Tears glimmered in his eyes, real, unmistakable tears, as his grip tightened, knuckles white from emotion rather than rage.
The queen looked like she might faint.
Daemon looked like he wished he had not walked into this room at all.
And I, I simply wondered whether anyone in House Targaryen had their wits about them.
At all.
"For the longest time," Aerys murmured, pulling back just enough to cup Rhaegar's cheek, "I thought of you as a dimwit. A man who would drag our house through the mud." His fingers traced Rhaegar's jawline almost lovingly. "A failure."
Rhaegar swallowed. "Father"
"But today," Aerys continued, voice trembling with emotion, "today you proved me wrong."
A strange hush fell over the chamber, thick and suffocating.
Daemon's shoulders tensed as if bracing for a blow that never came. Queen Rhaella clung to the arm of a chair, eyes wide and unblinking.
Aerys smiled then, genuine, radiant, terribly wrong.
"When I saw you humiliate your Lannister wife before all the Seven Kingdoms and showed Tywin Lannister his rightful place," he said softly, almost sweetly, "and crowned that northern bitch in her place" He let out a shaky breath, overcome with pride. "I realised you are more my son than I ever dared hope."
Rhaegar's face went white as bone.
I felt the room spin.
Daemon choked on his swallow of wine. "Seven save us".
Queen Rhaella's eyes glistened with silent horror.
But the king continued, oblivious to or uncaring of the devastation his words carved through the chamber.
"I am proud of you, Rhaegar." His hands cradled his son's face, thumbs brushing over his cheekbones as though he were a child again. "Truly proud. You have shown the realm your fire. You have shown me your fire."
Rhaegar's lips parted, but no sound came out.
His eyes, those sad, poetic eyes, were wet, overwhelmed, lost. For a moment, I could not tell if he wanted to embrace his father or flee from him.
It was intimate. Too intimate. Uncomfortably so.
Aerys's forehead pressed to Rhaegar's for a single, haunting heartbeat.
"You are mine," the king whispered. "My son."
The words slipped into the air like poison, thick and clinging.
I felt my stomach twist.
This is wrong.
All of it was wrong.
Rhaegar closed his eyes, exhaling a shuddering breath that trembled through his entire body. Was it relief? Shame? Despair? I could not tell.
Perhaps he could not either.
The king finally stepped back, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand as though embarrassed by his own display.
"Now, my son," he said briskly, "I must rest. For tonight is your brother's wedding feast." He turned to the queen. "See that I am woken at dusk. I will not be late."
He swayed as he moved toward the door, and two kingsguard hurried to steady him. Aerys shrugged them off irritably but allowed them to follow.
As the doors closed behind him, the room collapsed into a stunned, brittle silence.
Rhaegar stood frozen in place, hands slack at his sides, chest rising and falling in uneven breaths. His face was a battlefield of clashing emotions, grief, shock, confusion, shame, and something deeper, something hollow.
He rubbed his hands together slowly, almost trembling, as if trying to wash away the memory of his father's touch. Or cling to it. Or understand it.
I could not tell, No one could.
Queen Rhaella stepped forward hesitantly. "Rhaegar my son"
But Rhaegar did not answer her. Not immediately. His eyes were fixed on the floor, as though trying to anchor himself to something solid.
Daemon let out a long, weary sigh and leaned back against his chair, rubbing his temples.
"Well," he muttered, voice dripping with dry disbelief, "that was, well something."
Something. Yes. That was one way to put it.
The queen looked between her sons, pale and trembling, her composure cracking.
"Daemon…" she whispered. "Did, did your father truly mean that?"
"Oh, he meant every word," Daemon said flatly. "Unfortunately."
Rhaegar finally spoke then, voice hoarse. "He has never", he swallowed. "He has never said such things to me before."
"That is clear," Daemon replied with a tired, bitter huff. "The man was practically glowing."
Rhaegar shot him a wounded look, but Daemon merely shrugged.
I pressed a hand to my chest, feeling my heart hammer.
Was this truly the royal family of Westeros?
These were the people who ruled the Seven Kingdoms?
These fragile, broken, volatile souls?
A hysterical laugh almost escaped me, but I swallowed it down.
The madness of the Targaryens was a whispered legend. But seeing it, feeling it, was another thing entirely.
As Rhaegar's shoulders sagged and Daemon looked away, jaw clenched, it occurred to me that perhaps none of them were mad.
Perhaps they were simply drowning.
And I, newly wed and newly arrived, had just stepped into the deep end of the storm-tossed sea.
I wondered, with chilling sincerity, whether anyone in the House of the Dragon had their wits about them.
Including me.
I remained where I stood, hands clasped tightly before me, spine painfully straight. My wedding gown, soft green silk embroidered with golden vines, suddenly felt like armor. Heavy, suffocating armor.
This was supposed to be the happiest day of my life.
But the moment the king left, the storm began.
Rhaegar, standing near one of the long arched windows, shifted uneasily. His silver-gold hair caught the dying sunlight, making him look almost ethereal, tragic even. There was a softness in his eyes, the kind that could convince anyone of anything if they weren't careful.
"I did not mean to humiliate Cersei," Rhaegar said softly, looking at the queen. And to my surprise, his voice actually sounded genuine.
Queen Rhaella pressed her lips together. She looked exhausted, like a woman pulled between her sons until the seams of her heart threatened to tear.
But Daemon… Daemon had no such hesitation.
"Shut the fuck up, brother. Just shut the fuck up," he said coldly.
The words dropped into the room like daggers. Sharp. Final. My new husband stood at the center of the solar, hands clenched, jaw rigid.
Rhaegar's expression faltered. He opened his mouth again.
"What the hell is with you and chasing another man's betrothed?" Daemon demanded, stepping forward. His voice was quiet, but there was a razor's edge beneath it, the kind that cut deeper than shouting ever could.
Rhaegar swallowed. Even he, with all his mystique and grace, seemed to shrink beneath that stare.
"First you took away my betrothed, married her, fucked her, and had a kid with another coming, so what reason was there to crown another man's betrothed?" Daemon spat.
A cold shiver ran down my spine. So this was what lay beneath Daemon Targaryen's charm, beneath his commanding presence and warm smiles, fire, barely restrained.
"Do you get some perverse pleasure by doing this, Rhaegar?" he continued, voice tightening. "Do you love it, brother, ruining everything you touch, everything I poured my blood, sweat, and tears in?"
"Daemon, calm down," the queen said softly, trying to interject. She reached toward him as if trying to grasp flame with bare hands.
But Daemon shook her off.
"The only fucking reason I brought you here, Rhaegar, was because Mother begged me to. Otherwise, I would have left you on that fucking island, and none of this mess would have happened," Daemon said.
Queen Rhaella bowed her head, wounded by his words, though she said nothing.
My throat tightened. The weight of the moment pressed heavily upon my chest. I had seen tempers flare between noblemen before, though never with such venom, such history behind it. This was not a quarrel born tonight. This was years — lifetimes, of resentment ignited in an instant.
"On the one fucking day that I am supposed to relax, on my fucking wedding day, you pull off this stunt, you buffoon," Daemon continued.
I felt as though the entire room, the entire keep, the entire bloody Reach was collapsing in on itself.
Daemon took a step back, drawing in a deep breath. His chest rose and fell slowly, deliberately. I could almost see the moment his anger cooled, not vanished, never that, but froze, turning into something far more dangerous. Acceptance. Not peace.
Never peace.
But the acceptance of reality, hard, bitter, cutting.
"Tywin Lannister is furious," Daemon said, voice steadying. "Robert Baratheon and Brandon Stark, alongside your good brother Jaime Lannister, want to throttle you."
Rhaegar winced, finally looking away.
"And like always, I need to clean up your mess, Rhaegar," Daemon said.
His hands dropped to his sides, fingers twitching slightly. I wondered if he was fighting the urge to throw something, someone, or simply scream until his throat gave out.
"I have worked very hard to ensure that our house stays on top, Rhaegar," he said, soft but sharp.
"But I am surrounded by fucking idiots."
My breath caught.
Queen Rhaella's eyes filled with a strange, quiet pain. But she didn't rebuke him. She didn't even look surprised.
"A drunk, whore-mongering man who happens to be the king and head of the house, who just does not give a flying fuck about the future," Daemon said. "A mother who excels at making excuses for her favoured son. And a piece of shit as the crown prince. By the Seven, without me, this house is doomed."
Silence slammed into the room again.
He looked around slowly, meeting every gaze except mine.
"Do you know," he said, voice low.
Everyone waited with baited breath.
"I wonder how life would have been if I were born in some other great house."
My heart skipped. There was something almost, heartbreaking in the way he said it. Like a truth he'd never dared whisper aloud before tonight.
"Brother" Rhaegar whispered.
But Daemon cut him a glare sharp enough to wound.
"Everything I do, I do for the future," Rhaegar said desperately, stepping closer. "For the future of our children and grandchildren, for the entire world."
There it was, the prophecy. The obsession that had consumed him. Even I had heard whispers of it in the Reach. But no one knew what it was.
"The song has to be..."
But before he could finish, Daemon interjected with a voice like winter steel.
"Do what you want, Rhaegar. I am done with you."
Rhaegar froze. Not even his breath moved.
"When I look at you, Rhaegar, I do not feel anything," Daemon said. "Not anger, nor frustration, not even love. Absolutely nothing."
He said it softly. Almost gently.
And that made it hurt so much more.
"I am done," Daemon finished as he turned and walked away.
The feast was in full swing, or at least that was what it was meant to be. The tables groaned under platters of roasted boar, spiced lamb, and golden Arbor grapes. The wine flowed freely, servants carrying fresh pitchers every few minutes. The musicians played cheerful tunes meant for celebration, the kinds of songs that usually had every Tyrell and bannerman dancing by the second verse.
But none of it felt like a feast.
Not truly.
The hall was too tense, too fragmented, too hollow for joy. The air itself felt tight, stretched, waiting to tear.
And yet there they sat, my brother Mace and the king, laughing loudly, drinking deeply, feasting as though the kingdoms had not split in front of their very eyes earlier in the day.
As though Rhaegar had not crowned another man's betrothed.
As though half the realm didn't want his head, and the other half didn't know whether to defend him or distance themselves entirely.
Mace's laughter boomed again, and I felt my throat tighten. It reminded me painfully of when we were children. Whenever any of us in the family quarrelled, Mace would always rush in trying to fix it by pretending nothing had happened. That was always his way, sweep the broken glass under the carpet, smooth things over with a smile, hope no one bled.
He hated conflict. Hated tension. And he believed, truly believed, that if you ignored a wound long enough, it would simply heal on its own.
That was why I could never stay angry at him for long. Beneath the bluster, beneath the overeager attempts at lordship, he was a good man. A soft-hearted man in a hard world.
But tonight, even his laughter rang wrong.
The rest of the feast was nothing like the jovial king and the over-indulgent lord of Highgarden. Everywhere I looked, nobles clustered tightly in their own corners, like frightened animals choosing their pack.
There was a northern corner the Starks were surrounded by the Umbers, the Flints, the Karstarks, all standing stiff and cold as the ice they came from.
Near them, but not too near, stood the Stormlords. Robert Baratheon glowered into his cup like it had personally betrayed him, while his men, Penrose, Selmy, Grandison, kept muttering under their breaths, eyes darting toward the royal dais.
The Westerlands kept to themselves as well, Lord Tywin sat with the Lannister bannermen while his son and heir had his jaw clenched, hair wild from training or frustration, perhaps both.
The Ironborn clustered in a shadowed corner, muttering to each other with dark amusement, as though the chaos pleased them.
The Riverlords eyed the Blackwoods and Brackens, who could barely stand ten feet apart without glaring daggers. The Vale lords were stiff and silent, their faces unreadable. The Dornish lounged as though they were attending a theatre performance, amused but careful.
Seven kingdoms in one hall, and each kingdom standing apart, every fracture visible as a fault line ready to erupt.
Not since the Dance of the Dragons, the realm looked so divided.
A sour feeling twisted in my stomach.
Then suddenly,the music stopped.
Not gradually, not softly, but like a blade slicing through the air. A few dancers, mostly Reach ladies who had been trying desperately to inspire some joy, halted mid-turn, skirts swaying.
The hall fell into a stunned silence.
My heart dropped.
And then he entered.
Prince Rhaegar.
He walked into the hall alone, no guards, no attendants, only his silver harp cradled delicately in his hands, the polished wood catching the candlelight like the blade of a sword.
The hush deepened. Even the king paused mid-bite.
Rhaegar walked to the center of the hall, as though he were not surrounded by lords who wanted him dead. As though he had not torn the kingdoms in half simply by placing a crown of winter roses on a northern girl's lap.
His fingers brushed the strings.
And he began to play.
Jenny of Oldstones.
Even after the madness of the day, even after the crown of blue roses, the shocked gasps, the shattered alliances, his voice still had the power to soften a room. It wrapped around the hall like fog, gentle and mournful. Lords who would have gladly struck him an hour ago now leaned forward, mesmerized despite themselves.
Women wept. Knights swallowed hard. A few men bowed their heads.
He sang of grief and ghosts, of crowns lost and never returned, of the last dance of lovers doomed by fate.
Then he shifted.
His fingers changed tempo.
A new melody rose, one I had never heard before.
His own.
The hall held its breath.
The song spoke of longing, of a love that should not be, of doom woven into destiny. It spoke of a future none wished to see and a prophecy none wished to bear. It spoke of a song born from ice and from fire, two halves of a whole.
A union.
And as he sang, his eyes drifted, slowly, deliberately, towards Lady Lyanna Stark.
She was sitting far from him, surrounded by northern ladies, but when his gaze found her, she froze. Her lips parted, breath caught, eyes wide and shimmering.
She looked... enchanted.
Utterly undone.
And when he reached the final lines, he held her gaze, and the hall erupted in a low, shocked murmur.
Everyone understood.
Everyone.
"Lords and ladies of the Seven Kingdoms," Rhaegar said as he finished, his voice calm, steady, resolute. "I wrote this song to open your eyes."
The hall went deathly silent.
"For the future that will come. For the destiny that binds ice and fire. I wrote this song for you"
He looked directly at Lyanna.
"my lady."
A collective gasp swept through the hall like a wave crashing.
Even I felt the air leave my lungs.
"Seven save him," Daemon murmured near me, so quietly I wasn't sure anyone else heard.
And then, it seemed that the seven hells broke loose.
Robert Baratheon roared and shot up from his seat, rushing forward with fury I had never seen in a man. Brandon Stark lunged beside him, eyes blazing with northern wrath. Jaime Lannister vaulted the table, wine flying everywhere.
The Kingsguard, always alert, always watching, moved instantly, forming a protective barrier around Rhaegar. Swords were drawn. Shouts exploded.
Tables overturned, food spilled, goblets shattered.
I saw a Stormlander punch a Crownlander square in the jaw.
A Manderly knight drew his dagger on a Peake bannerman after some drunken insult.
And in the far corner, as though the chaos had infected even old grudges, Lord Bracken and Lord Blackwood lunged at each other, tackling each other over a platter of roast pig.
The hall became a battlefield. A brawl. A riot. A storm unleashed.
I clutched the edge of our table, breath trembling.
This was supposed to be my wedding feast.
My wedding day.
And yet the kingdoms were falling apart before my eyes, fracturing faster than anyone could mend.
Rhaegar still knelt in the center of the chaos, harp clutched in his hands, the Kingsguard forming a ring around him.
And Daemon, my husband, rose slowly beside me. He didn't shout nor did he did curse, rather he didn't even seem surprised.
He walked right into the chaos, and the moment he did, the air changed. The shouting, the drunken roaring, the clatter of overturned benches… all of it began to crumble under the weight of his presence. And then I heard it, truly heard it, his roar.
"Enough. All of you."
The words tore through the courtyard like a crack of thunder. It wasn't simply a shout, it was a command, a verdict, a warning. Everyone froze. Men who had been red-faced with fury moments before stepped back as if the ground itself had shifted beneath them. I saw wine-soaked tunics, clenched fists, the wild eyes of men drunk on pride and ale, and yet each one of them moved away in raw, startled fear.
Many lords had split lips. Some had bloodied noses. A few bore ugly bruises rising like purple shadows across their cheeks. The scent of sweat and anger lingered sharp in the air, and for a heartbeat I thought the fighting might resume.
But then the Kingsguard moved. White cloaks cut through the disarray, pulling Rhaegar away from the worst of the fray and guiding him toward the high table. His hair was mussed, his jaw tight, and he looked more shaken than he wished to show. Someone had thrown a punch at the crown prince, seven hells.
My eyes, however, were fixed on only one man.
Daemon.
He stood in the center of the path like some storm given flesh, breathing slow, dangerously calm, his wedding clothes somehow making him look even more menacing. Moonlight caught in his silver-gold hair, in the dark red rubies that clasped his cloak, and for a moment he did not look like a man at all.
He looked like the memory of a dragon.
"You have gathered here," he said, stepping forward, "for my fucking wedding."
The words hit the lords like a slap.
"Not," he continued, voice rising with each word, "to screech out your petty grievances like children fighting over scraps."
He looked straight into the eyes of the nearest cluster of lords, men who would have cowered before no one else.
"Do you understand me?" he asked softly.
The softness was somehow worse. More dangerous. It was the tone of a man who was seconds away from letting his rage loose.
"This fighting ends now." His glare swept across them all. "For tonight I am dressed for a wedding. But if you fools wish to fight", he shrugged off a corner of his cloak, exposing the sword at his hip, "then my blade will await your necks."
No one spoke.
No one even breathed.
The only sound was the distant rustle of flowers in the gardens and the faint clatter of a goblet rolling across stone.
Then a voice cut through it, sharp, furious.
"Who the hell do you think you are?"
Every head turned.
Ser Jaime Lannister shoved his way forward, fury etched across his face. His golden hair was dishevelled, his chest heaving, his knuckles red. He looked half-mad with anger, and yet completely sober. House Lannister had always been proud. But this was something else. This was personal.
"That man insulted my house and my sister," Jaime spat. "I will not let this go lightly."
For a moment, an awful silence settled. Even the other lords, men who had been screaming and swinging moments ago, backed away from the young lion's rage.
Daemon stepped toward him.
Slowly.
Deliberately.
"I will not repeat myself, ser Jaime," he said, voice dropping low. "Quiet down. Otherwise, I will make you."
He towered over the Lannister heir, the difference in height and sheer presence startling. Jaime had faced knights on tourney fields, trained beside legends like the Sword Of the Morning and The Bold, wielded a sword as well as any man alive. But in that instant, he seemed young, too young, standing before the Golden Prince.
Daemon's shadow fell over him like the shadow of a wing.
My breath caught. It was the first time I had seen my husband angry. Truly angry. I'd seen his sharp tongue, his cunning smirk, his mocking humor. But this, this was something else. This was the fire of a Targaryen rising beyond his skin.
"Anyone," Daemon growled, turning so the whole courtyard heard him, "who wishes to touch a single hair on my brother's head will go through me first."
The words hit like hammer blows.
"Because if you touch him, if you so much as think of touching him, you challenge House Targaryen, you challenge me."
His lip curled.
"And I will burn your entire house to ash."
Not yelled.
Not roared.
Spoken.
But with such cold conviction that every man present believed him. I believed him. Daemon Targaryen was not threatening them, he was making them a promise.
"So back. The fuck. Down."
I felt the words in my bones.
The lords stumbled away, some tripping over benches, others bowing their heads in hurried, trembling apologies. Even the boldest among them found their courage evaporating like mist. The drunken bravado that had fueled the fight evaporated in an instant.
Daemon didn't move.
He didn't sheath his sword.
He didn't smile.
He simply stood there, breathing slowly, like a dragon settling after a brief flare of flame.
And gods help me... he looked magnificent.
Terrifying, yes. Terrifying in the way a storm is terrifying when it tears down trees and splits the sky open. But magnificent all the same.
I felt something warm coil in my chest. Pride. Awe. And something deeper, something I could not name.
He had shut down an entire courtyard of lords, men twice his age, men drunk and furious, with nothing but his voice and the threat beneath it.
He turned slightly, just enough that his eyes met mine across the crowd.
And the storm softened.
Only for me.
Only for a heartbeat.
Then he looked away, back to the lords, his voice cutting like ice, "it's time for the bedding".
Jamie Pov
Rhaegar Targaryen.
Seven hells, never in my life had I hated a man more. Hatred wasn't even the right word anymore, it was too small, too thin, too gentle for the roaring wildfire in my veins. I wanted to drive my sword through his chest and twist the blade until the strings of that cursed harp snapped along with his ribs. I wanted his silver blood on my hands. The bastard deserved nothing less.
He had insulted Cersei—my Cersei, my twin, not once, not twice, but in front of half the realm. In front of kings and lords and ladies, in front of thousands. He'd humiliated my house, spat on our honor, and crowned that northern girl, Lyanna Stark, wild, half-savage, unpredictable,right in front of everyone as if my sister didn't exist. And then he had the audacity to sing for her. A special song. A song dripping with longing and prophecy and whatever delusional madness filled his skull.
My fists clenched until the leather of my gloves groaned.
I should have stormed the high table. I should have taken his head when everyone else was too stunned to move. I should have...
"Calm down, Jaime," my mother's voice broke through my rage, gentle yet trembling. She stood near the window, hands clasped before her, eyes full of quiet alarm.
I turned sharply. "Calm down?" I repeated, the words tasting like steel and ash on my tongue. "Calm down? That bastard insulted Cersei, not once, but twice,alongside House Lannister, and you want me to calm down?"
My voice rose, echoing off the stone walls. My mother flinched but did not retreat. Not fully.
"I will not calm down," I snarled. "I will go and fucking kill him with my own two hands. I'll shove that harp up his royal arse, and then I'll..."
"And after you murder your sister's husband," Father's voice cut through the room like a drawn blade. Cold. Unrelenting. Unimpressed. "Pray tell, my son, what do you intend to do next? What will be the next brilliant step in your… plan?"
His green eyes, my eyes, fixed on me, hard as polished emeralds. He looked at me not as a father looks at a son, but as a lord looks at a foolish bannerman who had badly misstepped.
I lifted my chin. "After killing him, I'll wipe that smug grin off Daemon Targaryen's face." I felt my pulse quicken, the heat in my chest rising again. "And for good measure," I muttered, "I may just take his head clean off his shoulders."
My mother gasped softly, taking a half-step back. Even she had never heard me speak with such venom. But Father... Father did not flinch. His rage was quieter calmer, but infinitely more dangerous.
And now it surfaced.
"Enough," he said.
The word struck harder than a mailed fist.
"You are no longer a child, Jaime. You are a man grown, a knight, a husband, and a father. You hold the future of this house in your hands, whether you understand it or not."
"I understand perfectly," I snapped.
"You understand nothing," he said. "Nothing."
His voice reverberated with a chill finality. He took a step toward me, the lion in him prowling beneath his skin.
"You are my heir, my chosen successor. You are a lion, not a cub, and it is high time you began acting like one."
My jaw clenched. "The entire realm is laughing at us," I spat. "Mocking us. Whispering about us. And you want me to calm down?"
Father's eyes hardened. "How many times have I told you? A lion does not concern himself with the opinions of sheep."
"Sheep?" I barked. "Those 'sheep' rule lands, command armies, lead bannermen. They spread rumors, shape perceptions, feed fires that burn into wars. And now half the realm believes House Lannister is weak, humiliated, less than, because Rhaegar Targaryen decided to chase a Stark girl like a lovesick bard!"
The words tore out of me like arrows.
"And you," I said, pointing a trembling finger at him, "you would have me sit back, say nothing, do nothing, and let them dance on our pride?"
Mother whispered, "Jaime, please"
"No," I barked.
Silence fell. Heavy. Crackling.
Father stepped closer, his voice low, icy, lethal.
"You think I have forgiven? Or forgotten?" he asked. "You think I will let the Crown Prince insult our house without consequence?"
He leaned forward slightly.
"Do not mistake composure for surrender."
My breath caught. His eyes were twin shards of frozen malice.
"Rhaegar will answer for his deeds," Father continued. "But not now. Not here. Not when the realm watches our every move. A lion strikes when the prey is exposed, not when the world is staring at him."
I gritted my teeth. "So what? We just ignore this? Pretend nothing happened?"
"Ignore?" His voice rose, just a fraction. "Your mother is leaving for Dragonstone to tend to Cersei. She will remain until your sister gives birth to my grandson, the future king of the Seven Kingdoms."
The emphasis was unmistakable.
My grandson.
"And once that child is born," Father continued, "your mother will escort Cersei back to Casterly Rock. Away from court. Away from prying eyes. Away from the circus Rhaegar has created."
He glanced at my wife, quiet, observant, ever careful.
"Good daughter," he said, "put some sense into my son. His temper clouds his reason."
She lowered her gaze and nodded.
The room felt smaller, tighter, suffocating.
My heart hammered against my ribs.
Rhaegar. Daemon. Targaryens. The entire wretched brood of them.
They were tearing the realm apart one impulsive act at a time, and my sister was in the middle of their storm, carrying the future king while her husband sang songs to another woman.
I felt my nails dig into my palms.
Father's voice came again, measured, deadly.
"Jaime. Look at me."
I did.
"Control yourself," Tywin Lannister commanded.
And the pathetic truth?
I couldn't.
Not tonight.
Not after what that silver-haired fool had done.
I turned sharply, heat in my chest, heat in my throat, heat everywhere, threatening to burst.
I left the room in anger.
I swear that one day, not that far in the future, Rhaegar Targaryen would pay.
I entered my chambers still simmering with the fury that had driven me from my father's room. My hands were shaking, whether from rage or exhaustion, I did not know. Every corridor I had stormed through, every guard I had brushed past, my anger only grew sharper, heavier. It was a blade with no sheath.
But the moment I stepped into my given room at highgarden, the storm inside me faltered.
There, by the window where the moonlight fell soft and silver, stood a small wooden cot. I had chosen the carvings myself,the lion of my house and the sun and spear of hers, intertwined. And inside it, sleeping curled like a tiny kitten, was my daughter.
My daughter. Joanna.
Named for my mother. Named for the only woman I had ever believed could tame lions.
She looked impossibly small, her hands balled into little fists as if determined to fight shadows even in dreams. She had Elia's warm complexion, but my hair, fine, bright, unmistakably Lannister. And when she opened her eyes, gods, the brown of them was her mother's entirely. A softness I didn't deserve, yet a softness that had already consumed me.
"She is beautiful, is she not?" a gentle voice murmured behind me.
I felt Elia's arms circle my waist, warm and grounding. Her chin rested on my shoulder as we both looked at the small miracle sleeping so peacefully while the world outside threatened to catch fire.
"Aye," I whispered, my anger dissolving into something rawer, something fragile. "She's gone on her mother."
Elia chuckled softly, pressing a kiss to my temple. "That is a generous lie, husband."
"It's the truth," I said, turning my head slightly so that her breath brushed my cheek. "She's perfect because of you."
Elia moved to stand beside me, her hand sliding into mine. Her touch was cool, calming, and I felt myself sinking into it despite the fury still coiled in my chest like a cornered animal.
"I understand your anger, Jaime," she said softly.
I let out a humourless laugh, sharp, bitter. "Do you? Do you truly?"
"If you had insulted me as Rhaegar insulted your sister," she replied, her tone still maddeningly gentle, "Oberyn would have already poisoned you. He would not have waited for a wedding or a feast or permission." She shrugged lightly. "That is how we are raised in Dorne. Our blood burns hot."
"My blood burns too," I said through clenched teeth. "But unlike Oberyn, I cannot simply act. I have duties. Expectations. Chains."
"That is why you are a better man than my brother," she said simply.
I froze. "No. Don't say that. Oberyn is"
"A force of nature." She smiled faintly. "Yes. And you, my lion, are a force of will. You endure. You hold yourself together even when fire eats at your heart."
Fire. Yes. That was exactly what it felt like.
Elia cupped my cheek with one hand, forcing me to meet her warm eyes. She never needed to raise her voice; she never needed to demand. She simply… existed, and the world bent around her.
"If you had done what Rhaegar did," she continued, "I would not need Oberyn to poison you. I would do it myself."
Despite everything, despite the fury, the humiliation, the helplessness trying to choke me, I laughed. Truly laughed.
"Elia"
She pressed a finger to my lips.
"Hush. Let me finish." Her voice softened. "I know you would never do such a thing to me. You have never looked at another woman the way you look at me."
I swallowed hard, emotion rising from someplace I had long buried. "I love you," I said simply, truthfully, the words slipping out like a confession.
"Aye," she whispered. "I know. And I love you, my stubborn, pride-wounded lion."
Her other hand slid to her belly, round, full, carrying our second child. A future. A promise. A hope.
Suddenly, she gasped softly, her eyes widening.
"What?" I asked, alert instantly, my hands already reaching for her. "Elia?"
"He kicked," she breathed, a smile blooming across her face.
My heart stopped. And then it raced.
I dropped to my knees without thinking, pressing my ear gently against the warmth of her stomach. And there it was. A small thump, faint but steady. A heartbeat challenging the world.
The realm was mocking me outside these walls. Rhaegar had insulted my sister. The nobles whispered. My father schemed. My mother feared. But here, in this room, none of it mattered.
Here, there was only us.
"He will be as strong as his father," Elia said proudly.
"He?" I smiled, still listening. "Are you so certain, sun of my life?"
"A mother knows," she said, brushing her fingers through my hair. "Strong and fierce… like you."
I lifted my head to look at her. "And stubborn."
"Oh, seven save me." She rolled her eyes. "Let him inherit your strength, your loyalty, your fire but gods spare me from a second man in this family with your pride."
"He'll have your heart," I said, rising to my feet slowly, still holding her hand. "Your kindness. Your sense. Your patience. Poor child, he will need all of it if he is to survive being mine."
Elia laughed, the sound soft as wind chimes. "Yes. He will have my temperament. And your spirit. A dangerous combination."
Her thumb brushed my cheek. "You are a good man, Jaime Lannister."
I shook my head. "No. I am not."
"You are," she said with absolute certainty. "A good husband. A good father. A better man than you believe."
I didn't deserve her. I never had.
"Elia… I swear to you, I will protect you. Our children. Our family." My voice cracked despite my efforts. "No matter what the realm says. No matter what storms come."
She leaned her forehead against mine. "I know. I feel safe with you, Jaime. Truly safe."
A dangerously powerful thing, for a woman like her to trust a man like me.
"Come," she whispered, stepping back slightly and intertwining our fingers. "Let us sleep. You have raged enough for one day, my lion."
I let her pull me toward the bed. For once, I did not fight. The fire inside me dimmed, losing its hunger to destroy. I lay beside her, feeling the warmth of her body against mine, her head on my chest, her hand resting over our unborn child.
The world was still broken. Rhaegar was still a bastard. The realm still laughed.
But here in the dark, with Elia breathing softly against me and Joanna sleeping peacefully in her cot, I felt something I had not felt all day.
Peace.
"I love you," she murmured sleepily.
"I love you more," I whispered into her hair.
And as sleep finally pulled me under, I held my family close, my rage settling into something quieter, sharper, more dangerous.
Something like resolve.
Tomorrow, I would fight the world.
Tonight, I was just theirs.
We had departed from Highgarden two days past, leaving behind the shattered remains of a tourney that had ended in chaos, shattered alliances, and bloodied pride. The road westward was long, dusty, and heavy with the lingering tension that clung to every lord who rode from the Reach toward his own lands. But fate, or something far more deliberate, had decided we wouldn't make this journey alone.
On the second day, just past dusk, our outriders returned riding hard, informing Father that other great houses were camped a short ride ahead. Not one house but many.
The Baratheons.
The Arryns.
The Tullys.
The Starks.
Almost all the major powers of the realm, gathered on the same stretch of kingsroad as if drawn by some invisible hand.
And so we camped beside them that night, the banners of five great houses stirring in the same cold wind, flickering in the same firelight. There was a heavy sense that this was no coincidence. Even I, in my anger, could feel it.
Tonight, the great lords would dine.
And decisions would be made.
I was the last to enter the large tent, still shaking off the annoyance of having been summoned like some errand boy. The air inside was dim with torchlight, thick with tension, and colder than the evening wind outside.
Lord Jon Arryn sat at the head of the table, old and grave, his pale eyes sharper than any dagger. His heir, young Ser Elbert Arryn, sat a few seats down, too rigid, too formal, the way young men act when they know they are being judged.
Directly opposite Lord Arryn sat my father.
Tywin Lannister.
The most dangerous man in the tent, and he knew it.
To Lord Arryn's left sat Robert Baratheon, already drinking as if wine were air. Next to Robert sat Lord Hoster Tully, and beside him stood the Stark brothers, Eddard and Brandon, both stony-faced, both simmering with unspoken fury from the chaos at Highgarden.
Stannis Baratheon was not present; he had gone back to King's Landing with the royal party. Oberyn Martell my good brother, too, had departed and had promised that he would come in time when Elia was to give birth.
Behind Lord Hoster stood the Blackfish himself, Ser Brynden, a hard man with hard eyes who watched everything and revealed nothing.
As I took my seat, every eye turned toward Father.
They had not gathered here by chance.
And Tywin Lannister knew it.
"As you may have realised, Lord Tywin," Lord Jon Arryn began, folding his hands calmly, "we have not met you upon this road by chance."
Father merely lifted one eyebrow. "I realised that the moment your men signaled mine to stop."
Robert snorted. "You always were too sharp for comfort's sake, Tywin."
Father ignored him.
"We wish for you to join our alliance, Lord Tywin," said Lord Hoster Tully.
Alliance.
The word hung in the air like a blade.
"And what," Father asked coolly, "is the purpose of this alliance?"
"To keep the Targaryens in check," Lord Arryn said.
The tent grew still. Even the torches seemed to quiet.
Lord Hoster leaned forward. "As you have seen, and as the realm has seen, certain members of the royal family have been behaving… dangerously. Not merely now, but for years."
"They act as if they are above the seven themselves," Robert growled, "they act as if they are gods."
"And with dragons back in their hands" Lord Hoster continued, "we fear the realm is heading into dark times. Worse times."
My father said nothing, but his face hardened, unreadable.
"So who must keep them in check?" he asked at last. "Us? The great lords?"
"Aye," said Robert.
Eddard Stark spoke next, quiet but firm. "The king has no intention of ruling or governing the Seven Kingdoms. He has surrendered what power he once possessed to his corrupted and deceitful son, Prince Daemon."
The name alone sent a pulse of tension across the table. The fire crackled louder. Even Robert paused with his cup halfway raised.
Ser Elbert Arryn added sharply, "While the Crown Prince, your good son chases flights of fancy and serenades other lords bethrothed, showing time and again that he is not fit to rule."
My jaw tightened. This was not just anger toward Rhaegar,they were laying the groundwork, brick by brick, for something far darker.
And then I realized it.
They did not merely want to "keep the Targaryens in check."
They wanted to strip them of their power.
They wanted to make them figureheads.
Or worse.
"You wish to overthrow them," I said aloud.
Silence.
Until, two voices answered at once:
"Aye."
Robert Baratheon.
Brandon Stark.
The tent seemed to shrink around us.
"We wish to place someone worthy upon the throne, Lord Tywin," Jon Arryn said quietly. His eyes were on my father alone. "Someone strong. Someone stable. Someone the realm can trust."
The implication hung there like a rope around the Targaryen neck.
Father's emerald green eyes narrowed. Slowly.
"When my daughter gives birth to my grandson," Father said at last, voice as cold and sharp as Valyrian steel, "he will rule the Seven Kingdoms."
A ripple ran through the tent, surprise mingled with satisfaction. Even Brandon Stark blinked.
A king of Lannister blood.
"But," Father continued, steepling his fingers, "we will need a reason to act. We must not look like Blackfyres. If we are to remove a ruling dynasty, we require justification that the realm will accept."
"You are correct in your assessment, Lord Tywin," said Hoster Tully.
"And at the rate the Targaryens are acting," Robert said, "that day may come sooner than any of us like."
Jon Arryn spoke the next words, low and deliberate:
"There is one obstacle. One great obstacle. Prince Daemon Targaryen."
A murmur swept the tent.
"If he falls, so does House Targaryen," Arryn said. "The king is lost tohis cups. The crown prince is weak. But Daemon…" He shook his head. "Daemon is the realm's fear. Their fire. Their sword. He is their dragon"
Robert spat into the corner. "He's too dangerous to leave breathing."
Brandon added, "He threatened the entire realm at Highgarden and walked away smiling. A man like that, he will not be contained."
Lord Hoster's voice was grim. "He is the single greatest threat to the balance of power. To the vision of peace and prosperity that we all cherish. A threat to us all."
Now all eyes turned to my father.
The torches crackled. The wind howled outside the tent.
For a long, heavy moment, Tywin Lannister gave nothing away.
But I knew him.
I knew that look.
It meant that he was thinking silent, deadly and precise.
"You wish to dispose of Prince Daemon," Father said softly.
Every lord present nodded.
Even Eddard Stark, always the honourable one, did not deny it.
Father looked at them one by one, his gaze cutting through each man like a sword.
Then he said, with terrifying calm:
"When the time comes... Prince Daemon will die."
A chill swept the tent.
Robert grinned savagely. Brandon exhaled in relief. Lord Hoster nodded. Jon Arryn's jaw tightened with solemn resolve. Even the Blackfish allowed the smallest breath to slip between his teeth.
One by one, they raised their cups.
And in the flickering torchlight, the cold wind sweeping through the canvas walls, Tywin Lannister accepted their allegiance with a nod that sealed far more than a political pact.
It sealed a future drenched in fire.