| Author's Note:
Hey everyone,
I know it's been a while since the last update, and I wanted to apologize for the delay.
The truth is that I've been struggling to find the motivation and energy to work on this project consistently. Life has been demanding in ways I didn't expect, and writing has unfortunately ended up taking a back seat more often than I'd like.
I haven't abandoned this story, nor have I forgotten about it. Sometimes the ideas are there, but turning them into something I'm happy to publish has been more difficult than usual. I'd rather take the extra time than force out something that doesn't meet the standard I want for this work.
Thank you to everyone who has continued to wait patiently, leave comments, and support me despite the slow updates.
Your enthusiasm means more than you probably realize, and it's one of the reasons I keep coming back to this project even during periods when motivation is hard to find.
I can't promise a strict schedule right now, but I am still working on it, and I appreciate your understanding. Hopefully the next update won't take nearly as long.
Thank you for sticking with me.
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| With Cersei Lannister, at Harrenhal, during the year of 281AC:
She caught herself staring absentmindly into the air, taking in every detail that belonged to Harrenhal's Great Hall for the first time in her life,— and even with all of her pride at Castely Rock, at her own home, Cersei could say that she was impressed.
Undoubtly, it was a somber place, grey and dark to the eyes, and there was also the strange smokey scent that permeated the air everywhere inside the castle,— and yet it was impressive, vast enough to swallow a smaller keep whole, and she knew it to be so.
Torches of grand porportions, with metal-guards, remained lit in every single wall and pillar one could place them on, and so shadows followed their movement, painting the Hall with dancing shadows. She could even see the stars above, far away into the night sky, through a gap where there had once been an unburnt ceiling.
It was quite impressive, and with all of the red and black banners of the Targaryens adjourning the walls, unmoving in the heavy air that had settled in, she couldn't help herself but be lost in her own mind.
There was the scent of freshly made food, such as roasted boar and spiced wine, mingled with the hundreds of different perfumes of the ladies present at the first grand feast of the tourney, which she found suffocating.
The sound of the feast was like a restless tide,— with hushed laughter, the unbearable clatter of trenchers, and the low murmur of courtiers and lower nobles trading rumors with their mouths still full of meat.
She almost lost her lady persona and snickerd down at those who did it, and yet she too needed to show composure, she was after all seated near the royal family. And she wouldn't allow her image to be tarnished by her own distaste of most of the people present.
Servants wove between the benches and tables in swift, practiced lines as far as she could see, pouring wine, bearing bread, ducking low when the highborn waved them off.
And yet she soon returned her gaze to those near her, especially since she sat beside her twin brother, who was to her left near the high table.
She knew she was the most alluring woman present at the feast, at least that was what she thought of herself, even if most men present could only look towards a certain purple eyed dornishwoman.
Even then, she was fairly sure she was still above Ashara Dayne. Younger, with her gown a pale gold that caught the torchlight in soft ripples, her hair that shone brighter still, spun torchlight spilling over her shoulders. Even here, amid a hundred noble ladies, she knew she was the fairest thing in the hall,— and the knowing pleased her.
She plucked a grape from her plate and rolled it between her fingers before asking her brother, lightly, "Do you think I'll be able to dance with Prince Rhaegar today?"
Jaime leaned back in his seat, watered down wine in hand, his clothing gleaming beneath his cloak, freshly made for the tourney only.
"You'll see him, that's a given, now whether you will dance with him, sister..." he said, half smiling. "That's something which I cannot say."
She mused the answer in her head, displeased that she had not gotten a simple 'Of course, sister. You are the fairest lady here, surely the prince will ask for you to dance with.'
Surely.
"Well, forget that, dear brother. A better question would be if you will be able to crown me Queen of Love and Beauty at the end of the tourney?" she teased, changing subject as quick as she could, her eyes green and bright as new spring leaves.
Jaime laughed under his breath. "I would, sister, you know that. But that might prove… difficult, to say the least."
"Oh?" She tilted her head, her hair brushing her bare shoulders. "And why is that? Are you afraid to face Ser Arthur Dayne? Or is it Ser Barristan?"
"Afraid?" He mused aloud, "Perhaps." He smirked, that familiar prideful grin that always mirrored her own. "But not quite. I was thinking more of Prince Rhager,— not even mentioning that Prince Maegor is also participating."
Her brows lifted quick, the interest plain and growing, though she tried to hide it well. "The first and second prince? Is it them you fear to face? I know them to be good riders, but to fear them, and not the likes of the 'Sword Of The Morning' and 'The Bold'?"
Jaime leaned closer to her, his voice lowering to a whisper meant only for her ears alone. "Forget Prince Rhaegar and his gracefull skill,— have you ever seen prince Maegor fight or ride?"
That was something that she could not say she had. "I have seen Prince Rhaegar, but not Prince Maegor, though I heard the stories and rumours, alas, all of the realm must have."
"Well, I have." he said with a serious look on his perfect and handsome face, something in which she took delight to notice. "And let me tell you,— he's as fine a knight as any living man. Hard in his blows, quick in his feet, and will unrelenting. They call him the second coming of Maegor the Cruel,— though not for madness or bloodlust alone, but for his presence, for how he fights, for how he looks."
Cersei's smile thinned, her mind turning. "I never saw much of him at court until now."
"That's because he's seldom there, and we both know why, since it is said that he and Prince Rhaegar dislike eachother. He rides the realm instead,— hunting outlaws, dueling hedge knights, or cutting down thieves. I heard he says he prefers the smell of steel and blood than that of paper and politics of the realm."
"Sounds like quite the brute man." she said softly, eyes half-lidded, and her brother nodded. "He undoubtly is, sister, even if gracefull in itself."
"So, you'll soon serve such a prince. How do you feel?" She said, and took delight in noticing Jaime frowning at that, glancing about. "Keep your voice down." He told her quietly.
"Why?" she asked, her fake tone sweet as summerwine. "We both know the king needs to fill the vacate position left by the previous kingsguard. What better man to fill it than you? Beside, the king means to name you to his Kingsguard, I'm sure. It was my plan, after all."
He shifted in his seat. "Because no one else knows yet who will be choosen. Not the court, not,—..."
"Save your breath." she said, cutting him off with a quiet laugh. "Whether people know or not who he will choose, it doesn't really matter. I know it will be you, that's why I did it. Then again, didn't you want this outcome as well?"
"Of course I did. Father meant for me to wed Lysa Tully, and I..." Her gaze flicked over him, lingering a heartbeat too long. His face,— her own face, shaped in a man's form,— was beautiful, proud, and strong.
"That insipid girl..." she said softly. "And you think I would let that happen? No. If Father wants me to stay at court with him, in hopes of finding a royal marriage for me, then so will you,— by my side." Her tone was velvet, but the command beneath it was iron.
Jaime's mouth tightened, and she saw the conflict there,— the knight's pride, the brother's devotion, the boy's longing to be free from his father's grasp.
And yet, he said nothing, because she knew he too wished for the future he dreamed often, of being part of the rumoured to be the best Kingsguard generation ever, or perhaps to simply achieve something that could not be given to him by their father's cold hand.
Before he could say anything else though, a herald's voice rang through the hall, echoing off the black stone walls. "His Grace, King Aerys, and Their Highnesses, Prince Rhaegar, and his wife and daughter, and Prince Maegor, of House Targaryen!"
The noise dulled to murmurs as heads turned toward the great doors at the far end of the hall, and through them came the dragons.
King Aerys walked first, thin as a drawn blade, his beard wild and his eyes alive with some inner fire that made courtiers lower their gaze. His crown sat crooked upon his head, yet none dared to tell him to perhaps adjust it.
Behind him followed Prince Rhaegar,— tall, silver-haired, a poet's calm upon his face,— and at his arm, the Dornish princess, Elia Martell nee Targaryen, pale and graceful as moonlight on still water. Acconpannying them, was the young Princess, Rhaenys.
And behind them all, a darker flame, was what she could make of him.
Prince Maegor Targaryen. He was taller than his brother, broader through the chest, his shoulders squared beneath a black doublet stitched with red thread that caught the torchlight like fire in shadow.
He moved with slow confidence, like a man who expected the hall to part before him,— and it did in a figurative way. Lords bowed to the royal family, ladies curtseyed, and still he did not hurry his steps.
Cersei watched him, her lips curving faintly, so this was the prince they whispered so damned much back in court. Granted Cersei had not been at court for long, not as long as Jaime had, but to see the Second Prince in person was quite the surprise to her 'pure mainden's' heart.
He looked carved from storm and steel, she thought, as if that made any sense,— too dangerous for harp strings was what most said of him, and too certain for prayer, for he did not look the type to pray to anyone else but himself. When he turned his head, for the briefest instant his gaze swept over the tables,— over her, she was sure of it.
Their eyes met, a moment caught between glances, and Cersei's breath hitched before she could help it. She smiled faintly, more to herself than to him.
"Speak of dragons..." she murmured, almost dreamlike.
Beside her, Jaime said something she did not quite hear. Her attention was elsewhere,— on the prince, the hall, the promise of the tourney, and all the games of power yet to be played.
And if she could not have the heir... then perhaps...
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| With Maegor Targaryen, at Harrenhal, during the year of 281AC:
"I want another." said Rhaenys, her cheeks round and glistening with jam, the small tart half-devoured in her hand, and thankfully Maegor had seated her far from Aerys sight, lest he sees her in this state.
"Niece." Maegor said, keeping his tone patient, looking at her unkept state. "You've eaten half the tray already."
"But I want one more." she insisted, tugging at his sleeve. "Please, uncle?"
Elia sighed beside him, a tired smile on her lips. "Rhaenys…" and he chuckled under his breath. "Here, hatchling." He plucked a tart from the platter and held it out to her. "But this is the last. I'll not have the maester blaming me when you take ill."
Rhaenys grinned, victorious. "Thank you, uncle!" she said through a mouthful, scattering crumbs across her skirts.
Elia shook her head. "Gods, you spoil her too much." And he smiled faintly at her, leaning back in his chair. "Don't say such things, good-sister. I only pay homage to my favorite niece's existence."
That earned a small laugh from her, soft but sincere,— a sound rare enough to be precious. Across the table, Rhaegar said nothing, as his cup sat untouched before him, his gaze distant and unfocused, fixed somewhere no one else could see.
Always elsewhere.
If he keeps drifting off like that, Maegor thought with a internal smirk, one day he'll float clear off the edge of the world.
He reached for his own cup and drank instead, letting the Dornish wine burn down his throat. The taste was good,— full, and heavy,— and better company than some prophecy to be sure.
"I hear your brother's come north again." he said at last. "The Viper of Dorne himself, as they now call him."
Elia looked up, her smile returning in a smaller form at the nickname. "Oberyn arrived yesterday, yes. Though I know not why he is not here."
"Perish the tought, not everyone is made for feasts, though I've heard he fights like he was born for dying, nowadays." Maegor said, half-grinning. "I should like to meet him once more."
"You will, I'm sure." she said. "He's been eager to test the mettle of every knight here."
Rhaegar's eyes flicked toward them then,— pale, and unreadable, and her words faded into silence.
Maegor let it hang. It was the kind of quiet that said more than words ever could.
The hall beyond their table was alive with noise,— laughter, music, the clatter of goblets and the murmur of banners shifting in the draught.
Great and minor lords feasted shoulder to shoulder. The stormlanders, loud and half-drunk already, the Northmen, solemn as stone, the Reachmen, boasting of whatever flower they had planted last moon. The Dornish table blazed with color and heat, and there, among them, he spotted the seat that Oberyn Martell would've taken,— the younger brother of Elia should look older than when he met him before, but still young, not unlike himself. Alas, he would meet the man later.
And to the opposite side, amid all the brightness and motion, he saw them,— the Lannisters.
The twins, not the only Lannisters present, sat apart from the rest, though close enough to be seen. The boy gleamed,— expensive clothing and fresh gold, all pride and promise in his posturing. Jaime Lannister wore his colors as if born in it, back straight, jaw set, the eagerness of youth still untarnished.
The girl beside him was another creature entirely though. Cersei Lannister caught light like it belonged to her. Her pale gold gown was something else, and her hair a river of gold down her bare shoulders.
She laughed at something her brother whispered, touching his arm lightly, a gesture so natural it looked practiced. Every turn of her head was deliberate,— each movement meant to be seen by someone else.
When her eyes met his, coincidentally, she stilled. Maegor held her gaze, the faintest curve touching his mouth, and he saw her lips part, barely, a breath caught between surprise and satisfaction. She tilted her head, the motion slow and inviting. Then she looked away,— but not before he saw the warmth rise in her cheeks.
Bold little thing, he thought with a smirk. The lioness does enjoy being watched,— I could have some fun with that.
He drained his cup and rose, the hall seemed to hush around him as he moved,— not silence, but a shift, as if everyone's attention was now on him.
Even from the high dais, his father's eyes found him, sharp and fever-bright. Maegor ignored the weight of that stare.
Let Aerys watch,— no, let them all watch as I have my fun. The dragons were bred to draw eyes, after all.
He crossed the floor toward the Lannisters table, nodded his head at Tywin, and noticed Jaime saw him first and stood, quick and courteous. "My prince!" the young man said, voice steady. "It's an honor to meet you again."
"Ser Jaime." said Maegor,— though he wasn't yet an official Kingsguard as Maegor knew his father was musing over the choice, a stupid choice,— he had already been knighted by Arthur Dayne. "You wear the lion's pride as well as last time, I see. Your father must be pleased."
Jaime smiled faintly. "May I present my sister, Lady Cersei Lannister. I think you may have never met her." Maegor turned to her, and the hall seemed smaller for it, for she was beautiful, though a tad younger than him.
"My lady." he said, inclining his head. "The rumours understate you."
Her lips curved, all grace and hidden satisfaction. "You are kind, my prince. I had not thought the most feared dragon known for such lovely courtesy."
She overreached, and they all knew it, though no one said anything. Tywin's eyes narrowed in her direction, but also seemed to take delight in seeing him approach his daughter.
"Then I'm glad to have proven a rumor false." He extended a hand. "Would you like to dance?"
"I would be glad to." She placed her hand in his,— light, cool, trembling just enough to betray her youth.
The minstrels found a gentler tune, and she and him moved to its rhythm. Her gown shimmered as they turned, gold and green accents catching the torchlight, her scent faint,— roses and wine. Maegor's hand rested at her waist, guiding her as if the steps belonged to him.
She followed easily, eager, her smile bright and knowing. "You move well, my lady." he said, voice low enough for her alone.
"I was taught by the best in Casterly Rock, and recently in King's Landing as well." She replied. "Though I doubt you've danced with lesser partners."
"I would not say it like that." he said. "Simply different."
She laughed softly, breath catching. "You flatter me."
"Only where truth allows." He answered, and her eyes glimmered, the kind of green that caught men's ruin. "Is it true, then, what they say of you?" She asked.
Maegor tilted his head. "That depends. What do they say?"
"That you ride the realm hunting outlaws, breaking men with your bare hands, and charming princesses in your spare hours."
He smiled faintly. "Only one princess." he lied, glancing toward Rhaenys, who sat giggling at her empty plate. "And perhaps one lioness?"
Her lips parted, and she spoke then in what he caught to be mock pride. "Lionesses bite, my prince."
"I should hope so,— then again, so do dragons." They turned again, close now,— her breath brushing his neck, her heart quick beneath his hand. "Tell me..." she whispered to him, "Why dance with a lion, when so many prettier and older woman, such as Ashara Dayne, wait their turn?"
Not that he believed what just came out of her mouth, not truly, for he had heard of Cersei Lannister already, pridefull, young but quite the feisty little thing.
He met her eyes, and laughed, possibly thinking of a way to flatter her some more in hopes of her falling for him some more, which was slowly working, but not overly so as that would take away the fun of a "hunt".
"Because..." he said, quiet as a confession, "You were the only one who looked back at me with such fire."
For a heartbeat, she forgot to move, and he noticed his practised words working their charm. Her step faltered,— just a flicker,— and then she recovered, laughing lightly, though the flush in her neck betrayed her.
"You speak as if you'd write songs about this moment, my prince. Though it is a simple dance." she teased.
"Songs?" He smirked. "No, leave that to my brother, I prefer deeds and actions." When the music ended, he bowed, and she curtsied, eyes still locked to his. "Thank you for this dance."
"The thanks are mine, my prince." she said, voice low, warm with promise. "I do hope we'll dance again."
"Oh, we will, I have little doubt of that. Be it in the feasts to come, or out of prying eyes." he replied lowly, and as he turned away, he could feel her gaze linger, hot as torches, on his back.
Jaime's eyes followed too, though quieter,— watchful, a tad uncertain, already learning what the realm would soon teach him.
Maegor did not look back, he only caught the faintest echo of his father's laughter,— dry, sharp, and knowing, as he made his way toward the royal table once more.
...
A few moments before, the music drifted through the Great Hall, sweet as honeyed wine and just as cloying.
From his seat at the royal table, Rhaegar watched his brother take the floor with the Lannister girl.
Golden hair and green eyes gleamed beneath the torches, their laughter rising above the music like birds over flame.
Maegor moved with a fighter's grace,— deliberate, commanding,— yet he smiled as though this were no battle, only an interesting game.
The girl moved as if she had been born to dance, her hair spilling in waves of light, her dress catching the torchlight with each turn.
Cersei Lannister. She had been seen at court before many a times,— a lion's daughter too proud to hide her little claws.
Tywin had not brought her more than once or twice with him, when he stayed in King's Landing for a few years, before the quarrel deepened between lion and dragon and he spent less and less time in the capital.
She had been younger then, smaller, with sharper edges in her smile. But now... now the realm would certainly remember her, for she was a beautiful woman in the making.
"She is comely." Elia said quietly beside him, her tone was even, almost cool, while her cup hovered close to her lips, her eyes calm upon the floor.
"Too comely." Aerys murmured, his voice thin and hot, like air above a forge. His long fingers drummed the table. "Tywin bred her well. A pity he kept her chained in the Rock most of the time,— I see now why he didn't brought her back to court recently. He fears what she would become here, and the impending marriage proposals that he deems beneath her."
Rhaegar's gaze lingered on the pair below.
Elia turned her face slightly, her expression serene as polished marble. "She dances quite well." she said, and Rhaegar could not read her.
She was always composed,— a wall of courtesy and quiet dignity. If she felt anything at the sight of Maegor and the Lannister girl, she hid it perfectly.
"She dances for the tune her father wants her to..." Aerys said, lips curling. "Tywin once wanted her to wed you, my son. Imagine that,— a simple lioness for the dragon heir."
Rhaegar's fingers tightened on the stem of his cup, and the king laughed softly, bitter as bile. "Old dreams, though Tywin's, not mine. He would have given me his daughter to bind himself to the throne,— and I would have taken her as your wife, had she not been Tywin's daughter."
Elia's gaze lowered to her cup, her silence was her only answer, while back on the floor, the dance turned slower. Maegor's hand rested at the girl's waist, her laughter was softer now, her eyes lifted to his like a moth drawn to flame.
Rhaegar felt the familiar weight settle in his chest at Elia's attention on his brother,— though not jealousy, not truly.
It was something heavier. Maegor commanded attention as easily as he drew breath, and yet never with his own ease.
Where Rhaegar inspired songs, his brother inspired silence, and both had their own powers.
"He courts the realm's interest over his play." He said quietly, "Every step, every word, all of it meant to make them remember his daring nature."
"As any prince should." Aerys said with a snarl, "You keep to singing, to read about prophecies and kings lost to the ages. Your brother reminds men that dragons still have their teeth, while you try softer approaches."
Rhaegar looked down into his cup, as wine caught the torchlight, dark and deep as blood. "The realm needs both."
"The realm..." Aerys spat. "The realm needs fire and blood. Not songs about love and peace."
He clapped suddenly, sharp and jarring, drawing startled glances from nearby tables.
"Well done!" he called, his laughter echoing under the vaulted roof. "My sons do know how to make the hall stare." Applause rippled through the hall as the music ended.
Maegor bowed, Cersei curtsied low,— her hair brushing her shoulder like liquid gold, and Elia's fingers brushed her cup again, steady and still.
Rhaegar's eyes followed his brother as he returned to his seat,— calm, unhurried, and utterly certain. There was a faint smile on Maegor's lips, a prince who knew precisely what he was doing and did not care who saw it.
Rhaegar said nothing.
He simply watched, as the great hall stirred back to noise and laughter.
Dragons and lions, Dragons and Wolves... he thought.The gods do love their riddles.
...
Author's Note: Thoughts? And please, leave some comments! <3
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| Game Of Thrones: The Dragon's Shadow |