Chapter 4: The Lions' Internal Strife
Rhaegar did not remain long in the arms of Ser Ormund Baratheon, the Hand of the King.
Soon enough, the chamber doors opened again. His mother entered quietly, accompanied by her handmaidens, and with a few soft words she reclaimed him from the circle of men and war.
A lovely child—
the future of House Targaryen—
one cherished without reservation.
Men would decide the fate of the realm with swords and banners. The details of war still demanded voices sharp as steel. A babe had no place in such councils.
Princess Rhaella Targaryen, silver-haired and violet-eyed, wore a long blue gown that flowed like water when she walked. She was tall, graceful, and carried herself with a dignity that had been forced upon her far too early.
The blood of the great houses produced beauty as readily as it produced power, yet the beauty of the dragonlords always stood apart.
Still, a faint sadness lingered between the princess's brows.
A devoted mother—
and a powerless wife.
It was said that, in her girlhood, Rhaella had once favored another. A knight of lesser birth, a man who had crowned her Queen of Love and Beauty. But Westeros was a land where heaven and earth were divided by blood. The children of great houses did not choose their own fates.
She married Prince Aerys because the realm demanded it.
Rhaegar could only sigh inwardly at the cruelty of feudal order, where matching houses mattered more than hearts.
His great-uncle, Prince Duncan, had chosen differently. He had loved Jenny of Oldstones—a common woman—and paid for it with his crown.
To defy such a system was to stand against nearly every noble in Westeros.
As Rhaegar's thoughts drifted, his vision flickered.
The familiar tree-shaped panel shimmered, its branches spreading wider than before.
[Rhaegar Targaryen]
Identity: The Last Dragon
Aptitude:
Knightly Talent (A born warrior)
Sword Heart and Zither Mind (strength balanced with knowledge and art)
Sleeping Dragon (the giant dragon has yet to awaken)
Charm: Likable Dragon
Achievements:
Game of Thrones (Little Player — you witnessed the currents of power; Political Aptitude slightly increased)
Warrior (Little Warrior — you observed many duels; Martial Aptitude slightly increased)
Collection: None
So even observation had value.
Power—merely standing close to it—could change a man.
Since I am a dragon, Rhaegar thought, then I will play this game to the end.
Princess Rhaella carried him from the tower. Not far off, two noble ladies awaited her.
One was Lady Joanna Lannister, golden-haired and clear-eyed, slender and sharp as a lioness. She was not yet married, but already carried herself with the confidence of one destined for greatness.
The other was the Princess of Dorne, dark-haired and dignified, mother to Prince Doran, Prince Oberyn, and Princess Elia. Though older than Rhaella, the friendship between them had endured years and distance.
The women gathered close, their voices low and warm.
Men conquered the world.
Women shaped the men who did.
"May the Seven grant them victory over Maelys Blackfyre," the Dornish princess said softly.
They could not sit in councils or command armies—only wait and hope.
The following day, banners filled the mouth of the Blackwater Rush.
Black field and red dragon.
Crimson cloth and golden lion.
Gold and black crowned stag.
Silver trout leaping upon blue and red.
Longships rested upon the river—Ironborn vessels lent by Lord Quellon Greyjoy, a rare lord who favored the realm over the Old Way.
House Lannister had spared no expense: knights in their thousands, infantry beyond counting. Lord Tytos Lannister remained at Casterly Rock, sending sons, brothers, and bannermen in his stead.
Ravens darkened the sky. Armor gleamed.
At the forefront stood mounted knights, cloaks bright with sigils and pride.
Yet among the lions, division was plain.
Red lions of House Reyne stood apart from the gold of Lannister. Their looks were sharp, unfriendly.
At the head of the host, King Jaehaerys II presented the war banner to Ser Ormund Baratheon, Hand of the King—a crowned stag and three dragons intertwined.
Beside the King stood Queen Shaera, then Prince Aerys, Steffon Baratheon, and Tywin Lannister. Princess Rhaella held Rhaegar, flanked by Lady Joanna and the Dornish princess.
This was no mere farewell. It was a display.
The dragon still ruled.
The stag stood loyal.
The lion remained bound.
Summerhall had not ended House Targaryen.
Rhaegar studied the figures below.
So few dragons remained.
Then he saw them:
Ser Jason Lannister, commanding the Westerlands.
Ser Gerold Hightower, the White Bull, Lord Commander of the Kingsguard.
Lord Hoster Tully, young and unremarkable, his red hair the only thing that drew the eye.
And behind them—
Brynden Tully, the Blackfish.
Ser Barristan Selmy, already renowned, his presence calm and steady as stone.
Then came discord.
Lord Roger Reyne stepped forward, placing himself where he did not belong.
Too close.
Too bold.
Tywin's gaze turned cold.
A lion that bares its teeth at its own lord, Rhaegar thought, is already dead.
"Step back, Lord Reyne," King Jaehaerys said quietly.
Roger Reyne obeyed—smiling.
"Of course, Your Grace. Forgive an old man's misstep."
But the damage was done.
Tywin's voice was iron.
"A Lannister always pays his debts."
Roger laughed.
"Your father taught generosity, my lord."
Rhaegar watched.
And remembered.