RHAEGAR
Breakfast passed in silence. A heavy, dense silence that felt like a physical weight in the room. On the long, polished wooden table, a feast fit for gods was laid out: spiced eggs from Dorne, thick and savory bacon, warm bread fresh from the oven, fruits from the Reach glistening with dew, and silver pitchers filled with milk and sweet wine. The aroma of delicious food filled the air, a cruel contrast to the cold, lifeless atmosphere.
Rhaegar Targaryen stared at his plate, but he didn't see the food. He saw his father, King Aerys Targaryen, sitting at the head of the table, chewing on a piece of bacon with vacant eyes. It had been like this for months, and Rhaegar felt a sense of unease every time he saw it. The emptiness in his father's eyes was frightening. Sometimes, it was the blank stare of a man whose mind was miles away. Other times, like now, it was the deceptive calm of a sleeping dragon, gathering fiery heat within its quiet self.
His father had become more short-tempered lately, more unpredictable. His outbursts could be triggered by the most trivial things: a servant pouring his wine too full, a dog barking in the courtyard, or, most often, a report from the small council. He would snap at everyone, his shrill voice echoing through the halls of the Red Keep. Including Mother.
It hadn't come to blows, thank the gods. But words could wound just as deeply. Rhaegar knew that every shout, every unjust accusation, chipped away at his mother, piece by piece.
He glanced at his mother, Queen Rhaella, who sat opposite his father. She was a beautiful woman, with the same silver-gold hair as his own and gentle violet eyes. A soft smile usually graced her face, a smile that could soothe the most restless of lords. But now, that smile was gone, replaced by a mask of forced neutrality. She ate with small, controlled movements, her back straight, a queen to her fingertips, but Rhaegar could see the tension in her shoulders and the way her hand trembled slightly as she lifted her cup.
Rhaegar thought about laughter. Once, this table was filled with laughter. His mother's melodious laugh, his own, even his father's laugh, which had once been so charming and full of life. That laughter hadn't been here lately. Silence had consumed it, just as a shadow consumes candlelight.
Suddenly, his father put down his knife and fork with a sound that was a little too loud on the porcelain plate.
"I saw the new sewers on the street yesterday," Aerys said suddenly, his voice hollow, but with a hidden undercurrent of bitterness. "So orderly. So efficient. Tywin has always been efficient."
Rhaegar and Rhaella both stopped eating, sensing the sudden shift in the mood.
"The people... they clapped as I passed," the King continued, his violet eyes staring blankly at the wall behind Rhaegar. "But they weren't cheering for their King. They were cheering for the 'Hand's sewers'." He let out a small, dry, humorless laugh. "I wonder if they'll build a statue for him there later, next to a pile of rubbish."
"But that was a task you commanded him to do, Aerys," Queen Rhaella said gently, trying to soothe him. "It is a sign of your successful reign. The city is becoming a better place."
"A successful reign is one where the people love their King, not his subordinate," Aerys retorted sharply, his bitterness now more apparent. "Tywin... my good friend. Sometimes I feel he works too hard for his own good... and for mine." He said the words "my good friend" with a subtle, painful irony. "He shoulders so many burdens that there is nothing left for me."
The tense silence returned to the room. Rhaegar could feel his heart pounding in his chest. This was dangerous territory. Lord Tywin's competence was the surest trigger for his father's rage.
"No one thinks that, Father," Rhaegar said quietly, choosing his words carefully. "Lord Tywin is merely performing his duty as the Hand. Improving the city is part of that duty. He does it in your name."
"In my name?" Aerys turned to him, and for a moment, Rhaegar saw a flash of wild paranoia in his eyes. "Is that so? Or does he do it to show everyone how incompetent their King is without him? He builds roads and sewers, he fills the coffers, while I... I just sit here, looking like a Targaryen." He pointed his fork at Rhaella. "And you! Don't you start defending him! You always think I'm too harsh, too suspicious. You don't see how he is slowly taking over my kingdom, piece by piece, with stones!"
"I only think you shouldn't burden yourself with such details of construction," Rhaella said, her voice still calm, but Rhaegar could see how much effort it took her to remain so.
"Burden myself?" the King exclaimed, rising from his chair with a sudden movement. The chair scraped back with a loud screech. "This is my kingdom! Every stone laid, every sewer dug, is my burden! I am the King! I decide who is loyal and who is a traitor! And I see more and more traitors every day!"
He stood there, towering over them, his breath coming in ragged gasps, his violet eyes wild and unfocused. He stared from Rhaegar to Rhaella, then to the untouched food on the table as if it too had betrayed him.
Then, without another word, he turned and stalked out of the room, his dragon-embroidered cloak swirling behind him.
The door slammed shut.
The returning silence felt a hundred times heavier than before.
Rhaegar let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. His hands, which had been clenched into tight fists under the table, slowly relaxed. He felt a wave of helpless anger on his mother's behalf. This wasn't fair. Mother had done nothing but try to calm him.
He looked at his mother. The Queen's mask of composure had finally cracked. Just for a moment, but Rhaegar saw it. A single tear escaped from the corner of her eye, tracing a path down her cheek before she quickly wiped it away with the back of her hand. Her hand was trembling slightly.
"Mother..." Rhaegar whispered, reaching a hand across the table.
Queen Rhaella took a deep breath and straightened her back, the remnants of her fragility disappearing as quickly as they had come. She was the Queen again. "I'm fine, Rhaegar," she said, her voice barely trembling. "Finish your breakfast. You need to eat."
The command was so ordinary, so motherly, in the midst of this madness that it almost made Rhaegar laugh bitterly. Finish your breakfast. As if his appetite hadn't turned to ash in his mouth.
He looked down at the plate in front of him. The delicious food, painstakingly prepared, now seemed repulsive. It was a symbol of their lives, a facade of luxury and wealth that hid the rot within.
A breakfast for rulers, he thought bitterly. A feast in a beautiful golden cage.
Rhaegar ate only a little. Every bite felt like a chore, the delicious taste of the food turning bland in his mouth from the bitter morning atmosphere. When he finished, he stood up, bidding a quiet, respectful farewell to his mother, who only replied with a small nod, her eyes still staring blankly at her father's abandoned plate.
He needed to clear his head. The tense silence and the unexpected outburst had left an unpleasant residue in his soul, like a slow-acting poison. There was only one remedy he knew for this kind of ailment. He went to his room and picked up his small harp, a beautiful instrument of light-colored wood with carvings of small dragons coiling around its frame.
Then he walked to the garden, a pocket of peace within the bustling Red Keep. He found a stone bench under the shade of an ancient oak tree, away from the main path. He sat down and placed the harp on his lap. For a moment, he just sat there, letting the warmth of the morning sun touch his face and listening to the sound of the wind rustling through the leaves.
Then, his fingers began to move. Not the sad melodies he often played when contemplating prophecies or the fate of his kingdom. No. This morning, he needed something else. He played a tune, a cheerful melody from the Reach, a song about spring and the dance of maidens in the meadows. Its fast, light notes jumped from the strings, a deliberate rebellion against the darkness he had just left. For a moment, the music worked, washing away the madness that haunted the castle's corridors.
He played with a peaceful touch, letting himself get lost in the simple, happy melody. Then, as the song reached its peak, he slowed his movements, letting the final notes hang in the quiet air before fading into silence. The music was finished.
"You have an impressive skill, Prince."
The voice came from behind him, calm and appreciative. Rhaegar turned. It was Jaime Lannister. The boy had been in King's Landing for two days, but with all the tension at court, Rhaegar hadn't had a chance to speak with him. The boy stood there, his golden hair shimmering in the sunlight, looking a bit awkward, as if he wasn't sure if he was allowed to approach.
"I hope the song didn't disturb you," Rhaegar smiled, a genuine smile.
"Disturb me? No, no," Jaime smiled back, and the smile seemed to light up his face. He walked closer and, after a moment's hesitation, sat down on the other end of the stone bench. "It was a hundred times better than the deafening silence around here. When I listened to you play, I could immediately feel the notes in my soul. It was impressive."
Rhaegar was slightly taken aback by the boy's choice of words. Deafening silence. It was a very accurate description of the atmosphere in the Red Keep lately. "You seem to know a lot about music," Rhaegar replied.
"Blah," Jaime laughed, a free and pleasant sound. "No, I'm just an admirer. I'm good at playing a few instruments, but only 'good', not 'skilled' like you. I prefer to sing."
Rhaegar raised an eyebrow, his curiosity piqued. "Then try it. Sing something. It's always nice to have someone who shares the same interest."
Jaime looked hesitant, his smile fading slightly. "Are you sure? My voice isn't good, you know? The only one who's ever heard me sing is my little brother, and he's just a baby."
"I've heard worse," Rhaegar laughed, trying to put him at ease. "When I first started learning, my voice sounded like a war hammer."
"At least it was loud and strong," Jaime teased, and Rhaegar saw a flash of sharp intelligence in his eyes.
"Go on," Rhaegar said, his smile widening.
"Alright, alright, but don't laugh." Jaime glanced around quickly, as if he didn't want anyone else to see him do this. He took a deep breath.
Then he sang.
"When I find myself in times of trouble, Mother Mary comes to me..."
"Speaking words of wisdom, let it be..."
"And in my hour of darkness she is standing right in front of me..."
"Speaking words of wisdom, let it be..."
Rhaegar raised his eyebrows. The melody... it was strange. Simple, yet haunting. And the lyrics... he had never heard a song like this before. It wasn't a song about war, or heroes, or lost love. It was something else. He had expected Jaime to sing something he knew, or worse, The Rains of Castamere.
And his voice... Jaime's claim that his voice was "bad" was a blatant lie. His voice lacked the power of a trained singer, but it was melodic, rhythmic, and most surprisingly of all, filled with a genuine emotion. An emotion that felt much older than the nine-year-old boy singing it.
"And when the broken hearted people living in the world agree..."
"There will be an answer, let it be..."
"For though they may be parted, there is still a chance that they will see..."
"There will be an answer, let it be..."
Rhaegar found himself completely drawn into the song. The words resonated within him in an unexpected way. The broken-hearted people living in the world. He thought of his mother, sitting alone at the breakfast table, swallowing her tears along with her food. He thought of his father, trapped in his own paranoia and rage. He thought of himself, burdened by it all. This simple song from a boy from Casterly Rock, somehow, seemed to understand the sorrow of his kingdom.
"You're a very good liar," Rhaegar said after the song was finished, a genuine smile slowly forming on his lips. The tension from the morning seemed to melt away under the warmth of this strange moment. "That was a beautiful song. Where did you get it?"
Jaime looked a little relieved that Rhaegar hadn't laughed at him. He smiled back, a shyer smile than Rhaegar had expected. "I often visit the port in Lannisport," he answered. "There are many people from all over the country. They bring many songs that are not well-known among the nobility. They have many stories and their own meanings... this one? The person who sang this didn't want to tell me his home country."
"A mysterious person then," Rhaegar chuckled, fascinated by the idea. He imagined a bustling port, an anonymous singer bringing songs from an unknown land. It was the kind of romance he usually read about in old books.
"You could say that," Jaime said. "I didn't want to pry too much. He was a good singer, and his privacy should be respected."
Rhaegar nodded, his curiosity growing. This morning, which had started with anger and tears, had suddenly turned into something else. Something interesting. "Well then," he said, leaning a little closer. "Tell me. What other songs do you know."
Jaime smiled, this time his smile was wider, more confident. It was as if he had been invited into his own world, and he was happy to have a guest. And he began to talk.
For Rhaegar, this was an escape. He was used to the songs of the Seven Kingdoms: epic ballads about heroes and kings, mournful songs about lost love, and the rough drinking songs of soldiers. Those songs were part of the fabric of his world, each with its own place and purpose.
But the songs Jaime told him about were different. They were the songs of common folk, sung not in great halls, but on the swaying decks of ships and in dimly lit taverns. Jaime didn't just sing the melodies; he told the stories behind them.
Rhaegar listened, completely captivated. He was a musician. He understood the power of a song to convey emotions that words could not express. And in Jaime Lannister, he had found an unexpected connoisseur of music, a collector of forgotten songs.
This boy was more than just golden hair and a powerful name. There was a depth to him, a rich inner world that Rhaegar had never expected. And Rhaegar felt that, in some ways, they were alike.
...
Thank you for reading! You can read chapters 18-38 at Patreon.com/Daario_W
Oh, don't forget to give Power Stones :'p, if we reach 50 this week, I will upload an extra chapter.