RHAEGAR
"So this is how you meet all sorts of people?" Rhaegar asked, his voice barely audible above the din of the bustling tavern on River Row.
He sat on a rough wooden bench, feeling the stuffy warmth of dozens of bodies around him. The air was thick with the smell of spilled ale, sweat, smoked fish, and something cloyingly sweet from a cold meat pie. The sounds of rough laughter, arguments in various accents, and the clinking of cups created a deafening symphony of common life. To disguise his identity, Rhaegar had covered his conspicuous silver hair with the hood of a simple traveling cloak, an act that felt strange and liberating at the same time.
Across from him, around a sticky table, sat his companions. Arthur Dayne, who even in this crowd seemed calm and alert; Addam Marbrand, who looked deeply uncomfortable, his nose slightly wrinkled; and of course, Jaime Lannister, who looked completely at home, with his sworn shield, Jon, standing silently behind him.
"Places like this usually have a lot of interesting stories," Jaime nodded, his eyes sparkling as he surveyed the crowd. "People from all over the country gather here. Sailors, merchants, sellswords... every face has a song."
"And those interesting stories seem to make them forget what 'bathing' is," Addam grumbled, grimacing as a large dockworker passed him, leaving a strong odor in his wake.
Arthur chuckled softly behind his cup. "I've heard some call it the smell of a 'real man'."
"A real man wouldn't make women avoid you," Addam sighed.
Jaime teased him. "Is that why you always wear perfume?"
Rhaegar sniffed the air discreetly. Yes, there was a faint, expensive scent of perfume coming from Addam's direction, a futile attempt to combat the tavern's stench.
"Shut up," Addam said, his face flushing slightly as he quickly drank his ale.
"So," Jaime leaned forward, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Let's play a guessing game. Let's guess what the people here have been through."
"Troublesome," Addam muttered after swallowing his drink. "Honestly, I don't care what they've been through, as long as they don't spill their drink on me."
"Now, that's interesting," Arthur countered, joining the game. He lowered his voice and subtly pointed to a middle-aged man standing anxiously near the door. "That man over there. His clothes are good, made of decent wool. His posture is straight, not stooped like a laborer. His face isn't bad. But right now, he looks terrified. Why?"
Rhaegar frowned, whispering along, intrigued by it. He observed the man. Arthur was right. The man looked out of place, his anxiety palpable amidst the casual ruckus. "The first answer that comes to my mind is that he might be a swindler," Rhaegar said. "Clothes, face, and posture are their weapons to gain trust. And someone is about to expose him."
"The second," Rhaegar continued, "is that he's the victim of a swindle. He's lost his money and now doesn't know what to do."
Jaime nodded, considering the possibilities. "Or," he said, "he's just a skilled craftsman from out of town. Maybe a stonemason or a cabinetmaker. He came to King's Landing to meet a Lord who promised him a big project. His nice clothes are his best, worn to make a good impression. But the Lord didn't show up. And now he's alone in a city he doesn't know, his money is running low, and he's afraid of having to go home empty-handed."
Rhaegar fell silent. Jaime's explanation was far more detailed, more... human. He didn't just see a role swindler, victim he saw a life.
"More likely the last one," Addam added flatly. "Waiting for a Lord is the most frightening thing of all."
"What about her?" Arthur pointed again, this time to an old woman sitting alone in a dark corner, sipping a small glass of red wine. She stared into her cup as if the whole world were inside it.
"A widow," Rhaegar said instantly, the image of his mother at the breakfast table flashing through his mind. "Perhaps her husband was a soldier. She comes here every year on the anniversary of his death to remember him."
"Maybe she's just tired," Addam said with a shrug.
"Look at the pendant on her neck," Jaime whispered. "Small and made of silver, worn down. It's shaped like an anchor. Maybe her husband wasn't a soldier. Maybe he was a sailor. Maybe he sailed out of the harbor twenty years ago and never came back. And she still comes here, to the first tavern they ever visited together, hoping that one day the door will open and he'll walk in, smelling of salt and adventure."
A silence fell over their table for a moment. Jaime's story, whether true or not, felt so real. It turned the nameless old woman into a symbol of enduring loyalty and sorrow. Rhaegar felt a pang of ache in his heart for her.
"You read too many fairy tales," Addam muttered, though his words lacked their usual bite.
"And you?" Jaime turned to Rhaegar. "What about the young man near the hearth? The skinny one with the lute on his lap. He hasn't played a single note, just keeps tapping his restless fingers on the strings and staring at the door."
Rhaegar looked at the young man. He recognized that look. The look of desperate hope. "He's a musician," Rhaegar said, feeling a familiar connection. "He's hoping the tavern owner will give him a chance to play for a few copper coins. And he's afraid of being rejected."
"He's not just hoping to play," Jaime corrected gently. "He's hoping for dinner. There's a big difference."
And Rhaegar understood. For Rhaegar, music was an escape, a noble art form. For that young man, music was a tool for survival.
They continued the game for nearly an hour. Every face in the crowd became a story. A sellsword with a scar on his face wasn't just a killer for hire; perhaps he was saving up to bring home a gift for his daughter across the sea. A serving girl who laughed too loudly wasn't just cheap; perhaps she was just trying to forget the ache in her feet and the emptiness in her stomach.
Slowly, Rhaegar began to see. He began to truly see.
He had always viewed the kingdom as an abstract concept. A vast map with the names of Houses and border lines. Its people were a faceless mass, the "smallfolk," a collective entity to be ruled, fed, and controlled.
But here, in this smelly tavern, there were no "smallfolk." There were only individuals. The anxious man, the grieving woman, the hopeful musician. Each with their own fears, dreams, and hungers. Each the center of their own world.
He glanced around his table. Arthur, the embodiment of honor and duty, his unwavering protector. Addam, who behind his posturing just wanted a comfortable life and maybe a smile from a pretty girl. Jon, the knight of common birth, who stood silently, his loyalty an unseen bedrock.
A kingdom is not the Iron Throne, or the Red Keep, or even an army of dragons. A kingdom is the sum of all these stories. All these hopes and fears. To rule them, you cannot just sit on a throne and issue decrees. You must, somehow, understand them. You must see them, not as the "smallfolk," but as people.
It was a frightening and humbling thought. Its weight felt far heavier than that of any crown.
Rhaegar looked at Jaime, who was now laughing at a crude joke he'd overheard from the next table. A lord, he thought to himself, must not only be able to sit on a throne. He must also be able to sit on a sticky wooden bench in a common tavern and, at least for a moment, understand the heartbeat of his kingdom.
Therefore, a lord must also think with utmost clarity so as not to sacrifice them in vain…
For example, in the wars of the past, how many of these people have perished because of greedy and foolish lords?
How many lives, dreams, and stories were extinguished?
So many…
They were all songs, never sung by anyone.
…
Word by word, a verse had formed in Rhaegar's mind. As they left the crowded tavern and returned to the wider streets of King's Landing, a melody began to weave itself around the words. It was a lyric born from his observations, a first verse about the faces in the crowd, about the hope and despair hidden behind a stranger's eyes. He had a lyric, and it was a more exhilarating feeling than anything.
Glancing at his friends walking beside him, he smiled.
They walked home as the sun began to set, painting the sky above the city in soft hues. The afternoon atmosphere felt different now. The noise that had been deafening now sounded like the heartbeat of a living city. The stench that had been overpowering now seemed like the honest smell of life itself. For a moment, Rhaegar forgot all the madness within the walls of the Red Keep. He forgot his volatile father, and his silently grieving mother.
The concept was so pleasant and warm. Friends. Arthur, of course, was more than a friend; he was a part of him, his loyal shadow. But Addam, with his amusing complaints about smells and perfumes, and Jaime, with his strange and unexpected insights... yes, Rhaegar thought he could call them friends. It was a new and welcome feeling.
When they finally reached the gates of the Red Keep, passing the guards who bowed respectfully, reality began to creep back in. The warmth of the streets faded, replaced by the familiar coolness of the long stone corridors. Their relaxed laughter subsided into quieter conversation. The golden cage, however beautiful, was still a cage.
And there he was, standing in the middle of the inner courtyard as if he had been waiting for him. His father.
King Aerys Targaryen stood speaking in a low voice to Ser Barristan Selmy. His father looked immaculate as always, wearing a doublet with the three-headed dragon embroidered on his chest. From a distance, he looked regal, majestic, as a king should. But as they drew closer, Rhaegar could see the tension in his shoulders and the way his violet eyes constantly darted around.
Their small group came to a halt a few paces away. Rhaegar, Arthur, Jaime, Addam, and Jon all gave a slight bow to their king.
"Where have you been, Rhaegar?" His father's voice was deceptively calm, the kind of calm that often preceded a storm.
"Out for a walk, Father," Rhaegar explained, keeping his voice respectful and neutral. "Seeing the people."
"Find anything interesting?" His father's restless eyes moved from Rhaegar, swept over his companions, pausing for a moment on Jaime with a calculated air of indifference, before returning to his son.
"Yes," Rhaegar replied, deciding to be honest. "I've just learned a lesson I believe to be valuable."
His father smiled, but the smile didn't reach his eyes. "Valuable in what way? Something that will help you rule this kingdom one day? Or something for your pleasures again?"
Rhaegar heard the slight mockery in that last phrase. Your pleasures. His father always referred to his music and his books as "pleasures," as if they were a child's hobbies with no weight in the real world.
"Both, thankfully, this time," Rhaegar answered patiently, refusing to take the bait. "I came to understand some corners of the kingdom that I didn't know before. So small, so narrow that I doubt most Lords would discuss them in the Small Council. And from there I also found an idea for a new song I will write."
"Ah, a song," Aerys said, his bitter tone now more pronounced. "How fortunate for the realm. While my Hand is busy building sewers to prevent a plague, my son is busy composing a song. A perfect balance." He glanced at Jaime again, this time with a hint of scorn. "I'm sure your new friend from the West, with all his songs, is a great inspiration."
Jaime remained silent, his face a mask of neutrality, but Rhaegar could feel the boy tense beside him.
"Understanding the people is not a pleasure, Father," Rhaegar said, his voice still calm but with a slight edge of steel. "It is a duty. Perhaps the most important duty of all."
"Is it?" Aerys raised a thin eyebrow. "I was always under the impression that the most important duty was to ensure the Lords remain obedient and the coffers remain full. But perhaps I am mistaken. Perhaps what the kingdom truly needs is more musicians." He paused, letting the insult hang in the air. "Tell me, what valuable lesson did you learn amongst the stench and poverty out there?"
Rhaegar took a deep breath. "I learned that the 'smallfolk' are not a monolith," he said, choosing his words carefully. "They are individuals. Each with their own hopes and fears. A king who does not understand that can never truly rule them. He can only control them."
Aerys stared at him in a long silence. For a brief, fleeting moment, Rhaegar saw something else in his father's eyes. Not paranoia, not anger. Something that looked like... regret? A memory of a young man who once held similar ideals?
But it was gone as quickly as it came, replaced by a cold cynicism. "A very poetic lesson," the King said. "Very suitable for a song. But songs don't fill hungry bellies or stop rebellions. Gold does. Iron does." He turned to Ser Barristan, as if Rhaegar were no longer there. "It is time for the council meeting. There are reports to be heard."
"Yes, Your Grace," Ser Barristan said, bowing.
Without another word to his son, Aerys turned and walked away. He did not look back.
The small group was left in an awkward silence in the middle of the courtyard. The warmth and camaraderie of the afternoon had completely vanished, sucked away by the chill the King had left behind.
Rhaegar watched his father's retreating back, and a familiar weariness settled over him. He had tried. He always tried. But talking to his father was like trying to hold smoke. The more you tried to grasp it, the faster it disappeared.
He felt a gaze on him and turned. Jaime Lannister was looking at him, not with pity, but with a strange, quiet expression of understanding in his green eyes. As if he had seen this kind of performance many times before.
Rhaegar gave a small, tired smile. The new song in his mind was still there, but now the melody felt different. The cheerful notes he had imagined had faded, replaced by a lower, more melancholic tone.
…
That night, Rhaegar could not find peace. He left his warm solar and walked out onto his private balcony, where the cool night air from Blackwater Bay could touch his face. Below him, King's Landing was spread out like a dark tapestry sprinkled with a thousand flickering lights torches, lanterns, and bonfires, each one a sign of a life.
He leaned against the cold stone balustrade, his small harp lying on a nearby bench, untouched. The music wouldn't come to him tonight. His mind was too full of the day's echoes, especially his father's cold gaze.
The soft, steady footsteps behind him did not startle him. There was only one person who would approach him with such familiar silence.
"A beautiful night," Arthur Dayne said, his deep voice a comfort in the midst of Rhaegar's unease. He didn't come close, just stood in the doorway of the balcony, giving him space.
Rhaegar didn't turn. "The stars always seem brighter here than they should be," he replied. "As if they're trying to compete with the city's lights."
A comfortable silence settled between them for a moment, the kind that can only exist between two people who have shared more battles and secrets than can be counted.
"You're going to be a good king, you know that right?" Arthur said suddenly, his voice filled with a simple, unshakeable conviction.
Rhaegar laughed, but it was a dry, humorless laugh, a bitter sound in the night air. "How so?" he asked, finally turning to look at his friend. "Is it because I anger my father just by stating an obvious truth? Or is it because I write songs while the kingdom slowly rots from within?"
Arthur walked closer, leaning on the balustrade beside him. He didn't look at Rhaegar, but out at the same city. "It's because you have a gentle heart," he said quietly, "and at the same time, you are strong in the convictions you believe are right. That alone is enough to be loved by the people."
Rhaegar shook his head, a familiar frustration rising in him. "Love can't build buildings, Arthur. Love can't defeat enemies, let alone rebels. Love can't fill the royal coffers." He paused, his voice becoming quieter, more bitter. "More importantly, love alone will not bring prosperity."
"No," Arthur agreed, and Rhaegar was slightly surprised by his quick agreement. "But that's why the kingdom has a Small Council. That's why a king has vassals. Even if you are king, you can never handle everything yourself. Aegon the Conqueror had his sisters." He turned to look at Rhaegar, his eyes serious in the moonlight. "You need loyal and skilled vassals in their respective fields. A king's duty is not to know how to build a sewer. His duty is to find the best man in the kingdom who knows how to build a sewer, and then trust him to do his job."
"And what if you choose wrong?" Rhaegar countered, his voice barely a whisper. "The history of our House is filled with betrayal. Trust is a luxury a Targaryen cannot afford."
"Then don't give your trust blindly," Arthur said. "Test them. Observe them. Listen to them. You did that today in that tavern. You looked past their clothes and their accents, you tried to understand who they really were. Do the same with the Lords around you. That gentle heart I spoke of, it's not a weakness, Prince. It's your weapon. It allows you to see into the hearts of others, to understand their motivations. Use it."
Rhaegar was silent, pondering his friend's words. He often possessed a wisdom sharper than any maester's.
"You see that Lannister boy," Arthur continued, as if reading his mind. "He's clever. Perhaps too clever for his own good. But you saw past his Lannister arrogance and found a musician, a thinker. You were drawn to him not because of his gold, but because of his ideas."
"His ideas... his ideas are big," Rhaegar admitted. "Big and dangerous."
"All big ideas are dangerous," Arthur said. "But you also see their value, don't you? A man who thinks about how to make his lands more prosperous through knowledge, not just through conquest. Isn't that the kind of man you'd want by your side?"
"He is Tywin Lannister's son," Rhaegar reminded, more to himself than to Arthur. "His father is a man who burned a House to its roots."
"And his son is a man who wants to build a place of learning," Arthur countered. "Men are not always their fathers. You are proof of that."
Those last words hit Rhaegar with an unexpected force. You are proof of that. He had spent so much of his life trying not to be his father that he'd forgotten it was a choice, a battle he was winning every day.
He looked out at the city again, at those thousands of little lights. They were no longer just nameless dots. They deserved a king who would fight for them.
He couldn't do it alone. Arthur was right. He would need a Master of Ships who could clear the seas of criminals. He would need a Master of Coin who could refill the coffers without squeezing the people dry. He would need a Hand who could advise. He would need men and women who were loyal, who were smart, who were brave.
He would need men like Arthur. And maybe, just maybe, men like Jaime Lannister.
"I will try," Rhaegar whispered, the words more a promise to himself than to Arthur.
Arthur placed a hand on Rhaegar's shoulder, his grip firm and reassuring. "I know you will."
Rhaegar turned from the cityscape and walked to the bench where his harp lay. He picked it up. The wood felt cool and familiar in his hands. He sat, positioning the instrument on his lap.
He didn't play the cheerful song from the Reach. Nor did he play a sad song about destiny. Instead, his fingers found the strings and began to play a new melody, the one that had been forming in his mind that afternoon.
It was a melody of sorrow.
...
Not much happens in this chapter, but it is necessary to establish the story and the characters in the future. As always, thanks for reading!
And, you can read chapters 21-41 early at Patreon.com/Daario_W 😄