| Author's Note:
For reference:
- Maegor Targaryen [Picture Here]
- Elia Martell [Picture Here]
- Cersei Lannister [Picture Here]
...
| With Aerys II Targaryen, During The Tourney Of Harrenhal, 281 AC:
The day had gone splendidly for him, and that brought a smile to Aerys's face,— twisted and dark. The jousts had begun, men had fallen, blood had sprayed, and chaos had unfolded.
And yet, nothing pleased him more than watching Maegor fight to the death against Tywin's dog, that had been the true highlight of this farce of a tourney.
How ironic, he thought, that a tournament meant to plot my downfall has given me such joy and advantage.
Tywin's son and heir being present was a gift, and his own father's absence, another.
And the fact that the young lion sought a place in the Kingsguard,— all at the quiet urging of his twin sister,— amused Aerys beyond measure.
He took great delight in it. In knowing Cersei Lannister's little schemes before she herself thought them clever, in watching from afar as she poisoned old Ser Harlan Grandison of his Kingsguard. True, the man had been frail and well past his prime, hardly fit to guard a king.
But to watch it happen had been delicious.
And that it was all part of Joanna's daughter's plot? Oh, that made it even sweeter.
Yes, he thought, perhaps I'll find the perfect moment during these jousts to make Tywin's son and heir take the white cloak. That would sting my 'old friend' most of all, I'm sure.
But that was later, the present was now.
Aerys's gaze drifted over the royal dinner table. His eldest son sat still as a corpse, barely touching his food. If Aerys had been the kind of father who cared for his heir, he might have asked what troubled him. But he wasn't that kind of man,— not anymore.
To Rhaegar's other side sat that Dornish wife of his. Elia Martell,— delicate, pale, and poised, with a quiet beauty even Aerys could not deny, as much as it disgusted him. Not the sort of beauty Joanna Lannister had once wielded, no, but beauty all the same.
He would never admit that aloud, of course.
Elia's gaze was far away, lost somewhere in the dark night beyond the windows. Aerys chuckled to himself.
So, he thought, Maegor is already haunting Rhaegar's wife's thoughts. Good, very good.
Speaking of Maegor, he was not present, and that made Aerys frown. Surely his strongest son had recovered by now from those petty bruises and scratches.
A knock came at the door, pulling him from his thoughts. His head turned sharply toward it. "What is it?" he rasped, his voice sharp with irritation.
Rhaegar didn't even look up. His mind was clearly lost in whatever foolish dreams and legends he liked to drown himself in.
Foolish boy, Aerys thought.
"Ser Sandor Clegane is here, Your Grace. Shall I let him in?" came Ser Lewyn Martell's calm voice.
Aerys's mouth twitched into something close to a grin. "Yes. Let the man in." His tone was uneven, his eyes gleaming too brightly,— though he didn't realize how mad he looked.
The doors opened, and the Hound entered in dark, dull silver armor, his sword left behind in the hands of the Kingsguard. Ser Lewyn and Ser Oswell Whent flanked him as he approached the royal table.
Sandor dropped to one knee, his burned face angled toward the floor. "Your Grace." he said, voice deep and rough. "You called for me."
He didn't look up. Aerys liked that. No man should look easily upon me, he thought, smiling faintly. And this one knows it.
'My father did." said Rhaegar suddenly, his calm voice cutting through the hall.
"Congratulations are in order. You are now the new Lord of your House, Sandor Clegane." The words made Aerys grind his teeth. Presumptuous whelp! He forced himself to breathe, then slowly turned his burning violet eyes on his son.
Rhaegar finally looked up from his thoughts, his expression cold as marble, and gave the knight a single nod.
Aerys's lips twitched. Then he spoke, his voice rising with a manic sort of pride.
"Indeed, my son speaks true. With the… fortunate passing of your brother, you are the new Lord of your House. And so, I summoned you here. Kneel, Clegane, and swear your fealty to me,— your King."
His voice cracked with fevered intensity. His eyes gleamed with a greenish light in the torch's reflection,— and to himself, Aerys imagined he looked every bit a dragon reborn.
Sandor didn't react to the king's not so thinly veiled insults, or if he did, he hid it well. And that pleased Aerys even more.
Cleverer than your dead brute of a brother, that much is clear. Sandor bowed his head lower, still kneeling. "I do swear my fealty, Your Grace. To the king, and to the Iron Throne." He said nothing more, didn't glance at Rhaegar or Elia, he was a sour man like that. When he finished, Aerys waved him away with a flick of his long fingers, already bored.
Then came Ser Lewyn Martell's voice again, louder this time, "The Prince, Maegor Targaryen!"
Every head in the room turned toward the great doors. And there he was,— Maegor, walking tall despite the stiffness in his movements. His black armor gleamed under the candlelight, newly polished, his dragon-helm tucked beneath one arm. He moved with deliberate slowness, but his presence filled the hall.
The sword pommel at his hip caught the firelight as he passed Sandor Clegane, not even sparing the new said lord a glance.
Aerys saw however, his jaw tighten for a heartbeat,— a quiet storm behind the prince's calm mask.
Ah, the joys of youth, Aerys thought with amusement.
"Maegor." he drawled, "Finally decided to grace us with your presence?" He noted how Ser Gerold Hightower walked beside his son, the white cloak trailing behind him, his pale eyes scanning the room.
The sight made Aerys pause,— odd, that the Lord Commander should guard the second son so closely, even in his king's presence.
Across the table, Rhaegar's gaze met Maegor's. They locked eyes,— a brief, cold stare,— then looked away from each other at the same time, a knowing look upon Rhaegar's expression as he eyed the Kingsguard Lord Commander.
Elia, though… Elia watched Maegor closely.
Her expression gave her away, as always,— concern, interest, something unspoken flickering behind her eyes. Aerys caught it instantly and smirked. The way her eyes followed Maegor, the way her breath seemed to still for a moment,— he saw it all.
Is she undressing him with her gaze already? he wondered, thrilled by the thought. Oh, this is far better than I imagined.
He laughed silently to himself, a low sound bubbling in his chest. Things were unfolding faster,— and far more deliciously,— than even he could have planned.
At last, his gaze slid back toward Rhaegar, the faintest glimmer of madness still in his eyes.
...
| With Maegor Targaryen, During The Tourney Of Harrenhal, 281 AC:
"I was growing tired of being abed, Your Grace." Maegor said evenly as he stepped into the hall. His boots rang against the stone floor, echoing through the long chamber.
The smell of roasted meat and wine hung heavy in the air, and at the head of the table sat his father. The king's crown sat crooked on his tangled silver hair, and his eyes gleamed with that wild, knowing madness that had long taken root in him.
Maegor bowed his head,— just enough to show respect,— and took the seat to Aerys's left. The king looked him over and smiled thinly, a cruel twist of lips that was neither welcome nor kind.
"And the armor?" Aerys asked, his tone dry, almost mocking. Maegor didn't answer at once. He wasn't wearing silks or rings,— only the black armor he'd bled in.
The metal caught the candlelight, sharp and bright, and the red dragon across his chest seemed to breathe with the fire of the hall.
He had no reason to explain himself. The armor spoke for him,— it was a message, plain enough.
"I felt like it." he said, and noticed that his father, Aerys, gave a low chuckle, the sound rough as gravel. "Is that so?"
Then came Rhaegar's voice,— calm, smooth, and cold as winter rain. "How curious however. Most men would rest longer after nearly being slain by the late Clegane. Why are you rushing your healing, brother?"
Maegor turned his head toward him. His brother's face was unreadable, eyes pale and distant, as if he were already somewhere else,— above them all, beyond them all.
So that's how it will be, Maegor thought. Two dragons circling the same flame.
So be it, I always liked chaos in the end. He smiled, a thin, cutting thing. "Is there a problem with me being here, brother?"
The question hung in the air. Knives stilled, the clatter of plates died away. Every guard's hand went to his sword, even the white cloaks shifted, tense and ready.
"Not at all, brother." Rhaegar said at last. A ghost of a smile touched his lips,— not warmth, but challenge. Their father leaned forward, eyes darting between them. There was pleasure there,— sick, eager pleasure.
He wants this, Maegor thought with a dark smile. He wants us to fight. He wants blood, even here at his table.
"Then eat your food." Maegor said, voice low and firm. "And don't bother me."
The hall fell silent.
For a long moment, no one moved. Then the scraping of knives returned,— slow, cautious, like men trying not to wake a sleeping beast.
Aerys gave a soft laugh, pleased by his own amusement.
Rhaegar said nothing more. His jaw tightened as he cut his meat with quiet precision. Elia, sitting beside him, looked between the two of them, worry plain in her dark eyes. She tried to hide it,— gods, she always tried and he knew,— but her gaze lingered on his bandaged hands and the bruise that ran down his neck like spilled ink.
He noticed, for a heartbeat, and his expression eased. Her concern reached him,— just enough to stir something deep and unwanted. But then it was gone, buried under iron and pride.
Aerys saw it too. The king leaned back, grinning like a man watching a play, his voice slithered out, low and sharp. "It warms a father's heart to see his sons so… spirited. And my dear daughter-by-law so concerned."
Elia blinked, startled. "Your Grace, I only,—..."
"Only care, yes, yes, I see it." Aerys cut her off, waving a bony hand. "Such devotion. It reminds me of the good old days, when me Tywin and Joanna were at court." He let out a harsh laugh, spilling wine down his beard.
"Perhaps I should hold another tourney in the capital,— your mother would surely like to see our sons bleeding, I'm sure."
No one laughed. Rhaegar's hand clenched around his knife, and Maegor didn't move at all. He stared at his plate, the meat now cold, the taste long gone from his mouth.
Aerys tilted his head, eyes gleaming as he looked at them both,— the dutiful heir, the bitter second son, and the quiet Dornish princess between them.
His grin widened. "Ah, my sons." he whispered, almost fondly. "Such dragons I've bred."
Silence followed, then came his laughter,— rough, sharp, echoing through the hall, bouncing off the stone walls like madness given voice.
Maegor chewed slowly, every bite dry as ash, he didn't look up. Across from him, Elia's gaze lingered on him one last time before she lowered her eyes.
Rhaegar never looked up again.
...
| ?
There was a mountain in gods-know-where,— vast, ancient, impossibly high. It rose like a black spear against the clouds, so massive it could have dwarfed even the Wall of ice far to the south.
Halfway up its frozen face gaped a small cave, pale-blue in its dim light, its air colder than death. No map marked it, and no traveler had ever reached it. For thousands of years, it had remained untouched,— silent and forgotten.
To any who might have seen it, it would seem nothing more than another wonder of nature. Yet, on this day,— in the year 281 after Aegon's Conquest, as the mortal world counted time,— something changed.
A trickle of water began to seep from the cave's mouth. Only a small flow, faint and steady, yet strange all the same. No creature, living or dead, lingered near enough to notice,— but if one had, it would have sensed something stirring deep within the dark.
This small and quiet event, meaningless to the world above, would in time become something far greater. A turning point. The beginning of something none in the living world could have imagined,— not yet, at least.
For if one were to step inside that cave, if they dared to walk its narrowing path to the frozen heart within, they would find a wall of crystal ice at its end,— vast, shimmering, and alive with ghostly light.
The sight behind it was blurred by frost, but still terrible to behold. Gigantic membranes, stretched far, glimmering blue eyes, slit like a serpent's and glossy like crystal glass.
A shape so large the mind could barely hold it. Even the strongest of magical beings, such as krakens, children of the forest and much more,— man, beast, or spirit,— would falter before it.
Not from the cold of the cave, but from the sheer magical weight of what slept there.
At the very base of that icy wall, a small crack ran through the surface. Thin, unassuming,— yet from it flowed the water now spilling into the world. What that meant, only the future would reveal.
One thing, however, was certain... not even the dead themselves would dare to cross that cave's threshold easily.
The magic that lived there was too strong, too old. And the thing that slept inside its frozen prison… was beginning to wake.
Just then, somewhere deep within the ice, a low sound echoed,— a faint, drawn breath.
...
| Author's Note: So, any thoughts? Powerstones and comments please! <3