...
| With Elia Martell, During The Tourney Of Harrenhal, 281 AC:
The princess's chambers were dimly lit, save for the warm rays of the evening sun slipping through the open window. From outside came the sounds of birds and the distant noise of the tourney grounds, giving the room a calm, gentle air.
"I can't believe things came to that point earlier." Ashara muttered, carefully braiding little Rhaenys's dark hair while Elia lay back on the bed, her curls spread across the mattress, one hand covering her eyes to block the light.
"Mhm. One would hope the king would have sense enough to stop such madness before it began." Elia said quietly, her chest rising and falling slowly.
"Elia, we both know the king hasn't been right since Duskendale..." Ashara replied, glancing up from her work.
"Even so." Elia said, lowering her hand. "To allow a monster like Gregor Clegane,— Tywin Lannister's butcher,— to fight Maegor after he'd already won the joust… it makes no sense. Maegor could've died, you know."
"I've been by your side since you married Rhaegar." Ashara said softly, her fingers moving through Rhaenys's hair as the girl hummed a cheerful tune. "You're like a sister to me, Elia. But you need to stop thinking the king is a sane man who cares for his family,— he isn't." Elia sighed, the corners of her lips tightening. "You're right. I shouldn't have pleaded with him so many times to stop the fight."
"You shouldn't have." Ashara agreed gently.
"He could have punished you for it. Thank the gods Maegor won, and that Aerys was amused rather than angered." Elia turned her head to meet her friend's violet eyes. "I'll be more careful from now on."
"I would hope so." Ashara murmured. She looked toward Rhaenys, who had begun quietly singing one of Rhaegar's old songs.
Then came a knock. "Yes?" Elia called.
"The Crown Prince, my princess." came Ser Lewyn Martell's voice through the door.
"He may enter." Elia said, and Ashara stood at once, curtseying when Rhaegar entered.
Rhaenys squealed and ran to him, he smiled faintly and lifted her briefly into his arms. "My lady." he greeted Ashara politely. She bowed to Elia, then slipped out, taking Rhaenys with her despite the little girl's protests.
The door closed softly behind them.
"It's rare of you to grace me with your presence, husband." Elia said quietly.
"You'll forgive me." Rhaegar replied evenly. "I was speaking with some of the lords."
"Mhm." She hummed, and he studied her for a moment. "How are you and the babe?"
"We'll manage. I feel some nausea, but nothing more than that."
"I see. That's good to hear." Elia watched him in silence before asking, "Have you seen how your brother fares?"
"I haven't. Why the sudden curiosity?" His tone sharpened slightly. "Spare me that look." she said, her voice firm. "Maegor was forced to fight for his life after winning his match fairly. Surely you understand my concern? He's your brother,— and my good-brother."
"It's a tourney, wife." Rhaegar said with a sigh. "These things happen, and my brother knows the risks."
"The risks?" Elia repeated, disbelief growing in her tone. "Gregor Clegane was Tywin Lannister's hired brute for years. If Maegor had been killed, your father might've declared war on the Westerlands by sunset on a whim,— you know he's capable of it."
"Do not lecture me on politics or my father's nature." Rhaegar said tiredly, his voice tightening. "I know all of this, and his faults. That's why I tried to keep this tourney from his attention,— to limit the damage he does to our family's name, and to try and bridge the gap towards a fairer future."
"And yet here we are." she shot back, and he exhaled sharply. "I'd rather ask you to be more careful with your concern for my brother than to talk about my father right now. People talk, Elia, you know this. If you're not cautious, there will be whispers,— about your closeness with him."
"Excuse me?" she said, standing from the bed. "What's that supposed to mean? You have no right to even suggest such a thing. I've been nothing but faithful to you, Rhaegar,— even through this loveless marriage, even when I was the only one who ever felt something close to love for you."
"I've never turned from my duty either." Rhaegar said coldly. "And I'd have no one question yours as well. But this attention you show Maegor,— people notice. So let it end."
"I won't have you dictate who I can speak with or care for." she said sharply, desperation coloring her tone. "You barely spend time with me or our daughter. I'm always left alone to fend for myself, Rhaegar. I need company this far home, I need... friends."
"This will lead us nowhere!" Rhaegar's composure cracked, his voice rising. "I mean it, Elia. End this,— you want friends? Find some handmaidens, but I won't have the lords questioning our marriage or the stability of the royal family's future. Stop it,— or I'll be forced to act."
"Act? How? With drastic measures?" she demanded, nearing him sharply. "I only asked about your brother's health after that brute nearly killed him! I didn't ask you to stop pursuing whatever it is that you seek, nor did I ask your leave to run away with Maegor to the Isle of Faces or any other forsaken place, to shrink away from my duty and to live some foolish maiden's dreams of love!" Her voice broke, and both stared, stunned by her own words.
Rhaegar's expression shifted,— first hurt, then cold. "I always suspected you cared for him more than you should… but to hear it from your own lips…"
"Oh, don't pretend to be shocked, Rhaegar, you are not innocent. Are you surprised that I have a spine? That I have feelings and wants as well?" Her voice trembled, so did her whole body, but her gaze held firm. "You've ignored me for almost two years now, you ignored the wife you have even worse when the Maester told you that I wouldn't be able to conceive after this pregnancy, and by consequence, you have failed Rhaenys as a father as well. And for what? A prophecy you dreamed of once? It's madness, and I'm tired of it,— three heads this, three heads that, I'm sick of this Rhaegar!"
"Very well, then." He said simply after watching her turmoil silently, and turned away. "Where are you going? We're not done talking." She called for him.
"We are." He said, and left, the door closing softly behind him. Elia stood still, her pulse pounding in her ears, before sinking onto the bed.
The silence that followed was heavy, her fingers trembled as she stared at the door, and for a long while she didn't move. Her eyes drifted toward the window, where sunlight still filtered through the curtains.
Outside, laughter and music floated faintly from the tourney grounds,— life moving on, uncaring.
She exhaled slowly, closing her eyes. "Damn you, you fool." she whispered, unsure to whom she spoke.
Her husband had talked endlessly of prophecies, of destiny, of the family's role in it all. Those things mattered more to him than she ever had, and yet what shamed her most was not his coldness or her loneliness,— it was the warmth she'd felt when she said Maegor's name.
The fear, the anger, the concern she couldn't hide, and above all, the sinking truth in her husband's words...
Why had she cared so much? Since when?
Because, perhaps, he had looked at her,— seen her,— not as the frail trophy wife of a prince, nor as Dorne's dutiful daughter, but simply as Elia. Because in him she had glimpsed a kind of strength that felt safe.
And because she was tired,— tired of being careful, unseen, and unloved by the man which should have been, done, and given all the opposite.
Her hands came to rest on her belly, where the babe stirred faintly. "You deserve a much better world than this..." she murmured, voice breaking.
From the corridor came Rhaenys's laughter,— Ashara's voice close behind, gentle and warm. For a brief moment, Elia smiled.
Then the sound faded, and her face grew still again. She wondered if Maegor was still in pain from the fight, and she wondered if Rhaegar would ever understand what he was losing.
And yet, as she drew her shawl around her shoulders, she realized she no longer cared to know the answer to either.
...
| With Maegor Targaryen, During The Tourney Of Harrenhal, 281 AC:
He woke to the sound of cheering outside his window. Men's voices, rough and merry, carried up from the yard below. The light of dawn spilled through the half-open shutters, casting long bars of gold across the floor.
Maegor groaned softly, moving his hands to his face. His head throbbed, and for a moment, he couldn't remember where he was,— then it all came back like a blow to the skull.
The tourney, the Mountain, and the fight they had today. He pressed his palms over his eyes, trying to push back the pain. His skull felt split in two, every breath reminded him of his bruised ribs, his torn shoulder, the dull ache in his leg.
"Fuck…" he muttered under his breath, as he sat up slowly, the bed creaking under his weight. He was dressed only in a loose linen shirt and light trousers, his body was wrapped in bandages,— shoulder, arm, ribs, even his thigh.
The scent of crushed herbs and salves filled the chamber, and for a while, he just sat there, head in his hands.
His thoughts were a blur of anger and exhaustion. His father had allowed it,— allowed that brute, Gregor Clegane, to attack him like an animal after the joust was done.
Allowed it.
He could forgive his father's madness,— or at least understand it. Aerys had never been whole since Duskendale. But Rhaegar…
That cut deeper, even if there was no more love between brothers. Rhaegar had stood by and watched, calm as a statue, while he fought for his life. He had wanted Maegor to lose,— wanted him broken, humiliated, and gone.
All because of that damned obsession with dreams and destiny. "Prophecies, madness, and dreams..." Maegor hissed, his lip curling.
He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and ran a hand through his tangled hair. His mind drifted to his mother, once, she had been his only comfort,— until even she decided that showing him love would only bring him pain.
Am I truly fated to walk this life alone, as my namesake did?
When he tried to protect her from their father's rages, and he got the several scars that he now carries with him, she had turned away right afterward, thinking it would keep him safer.
"It's all madness." he whispered, gripping his hair in both hands. "Every single one of them is mad." He sat like that for a long moment, until a rough cough tore from his throat, he reached for the table but found no water before the door burst open.
"My prince!" Ser Gerold's voice was loud and steady as ever. The white cloak swept into the room, his silver hair gleaming in the dim sunlight.
"Ser Gerold…" Maegor rasped, his throat dry.
The old knight hurried to his side, poured water from a jug, and handed him the cup, watching as he drank it greedily, every swallow burning down his throat.
"Thank you." he said after a moment, setting it down, and yet, "Do not thank me, my prince..." Gerold said quietly.
Maegor frowned at the tone. "What do you mean?"
The Lord Commander lowered his head. "I allowed the Mountain to attack you. I stood by as per the king's command, and I did nothing while you fought for your life,— and for that, I beg your forgiveness."
Maegor studied him carefully, Gerold Hightower was not a man given to weakness or false words. His face showed the truth of what he said,— shame, but also the iron discipline of a man bound by vows.
"I forgive you." Maegor said finally. "But hear me well. If something like this happens again,— if you ever choose my father's madness over my life, or whoever may come to harm me,— there will be consequences."
Gerold looked up, eyes steady but grave, as he kept talking. "I won't stand by and die to feed my father's delusions." Maegor went on. "You'll have to choose, Gerold,— either you stand with me, or you return to his side. I'll not hold it against you if you do, but I'll find another man to guard my back."
For a long moment, neither spoke, then Gerold gave a slow nod. "I swore an oath to protect you after Duskendale, my prince. I will not fail you again."
Maegor gave a short nod in return. "Then let us speak plain,— the years to come will test all of us. My father grows worse by the day, my brother too hides behind dreams. You'll have to decide when duty ends and loyalty begins, I hope you understand that."
Gerold's jaw tightened. "I understand."
A knock came at the door. "Enter." Maegor said, his tone tired but firm.
The door opened, and Elia Martell stepped in, followed by Ashara Dayne. The Dornish princess was dressed in soft violet silk, her dark hair loose around her shoulders. Ashara smirked faintly, glancing between them before giving a small bow.
"My prince." Elia said softly, her eyes tracing the bandages on his arms. "You shouldn't be sitting up."
"I've rested enough." Maegor said. "I've spent too long in this bed already, I'd wager."
Ashara stepped forward with her familiar grin, the one reserved to them three only.
"Always a stubborn one, it must run in your blood,— you know you will give the Princess a headache because of it..."
"Perhaps." Maegor said dryly, and Elia moved closer, ignoring Ashara's teasing tone. "Does it still hurt much?" she asked, and Maegor looked at her,— truly looked. Her expression was gentle, worried, though she tried to hide it.
"Not as much as it did." he said quietly.
"You should thank the gods for that." she murmured, reaching for the fruits she brought with her. Their hands brushed briefly, and she drew back too quickly, having given him an apple that he took gently.
Ashara caught the moment, her lips curving slightly but she said nothing.
"Ser Gerold." Maegor said, not looking away from Elia. "You may leave us."
The Lord Commander hesitated only a second, then bowed. "As you command, my prince." When the door closed, the room fell silent. The faint breeze stirred the curtains, and Elia's gaze dropped to his bandaged arm.
"You scared everyone yesterday." she said quietly. "You could've died."
He gave a short, bitter laugh. "And not allow my father the glee for having his son kill one of Tywin's followers?" He teased.
Her eyes softened. "Don't say that, like it was an easy choice."
"Mhm."
"You're alive..." she said simply. "That's what matters." He looked at her again,— her calm voice, the warmth in her eyes, but never seeing her for the frail woman others painted. For a moment, the anger drained from him, leaving something quieter.
"Thank you." he said, his voice low, and she smiled faintly, and something unspoken passed between them,— a flicker of understanding neither dared to name.
Ashara, still by the door, watched with a knowing look. "I'll make sure the maester brings food." she said lightly. "You two can keep each other company." Elia shot her a glare, but Ashara only smirked wider before slipping out.
When the door closed behind her, Maegor exhaled softly, eyes lingering on Elia's face.
"You shouldn't be here, you know that." he said, though without conviction. "Perhaps not." she admitted, "But I wanted to see for myself that you were all right."
He met her gaze for a long moment. "Then you've seen it." She smiled faintly. "I have."
The silence that followed was gentle, almost fragile,— the kind that could break with a single breath.
...
| Author's Note: Any thoughts? I swear this was the chapter that I least enjoyed writing for some reason... too still, and too familiar... Idk, I prefer action scenes, lmao.