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A Golden Path by Ideas-Guy
Dune & A Song of Ice and Fire Xover Rated: M, English, Adventure & Drama, Paul A., Eddard S./Ned, Words: 172k+, Favs: 2k+, Follows: 2k+, Published: Jun 17, 2024 Updated: Aug 24
882Chapter 20: Foundation 2-11
Answers. At long last, they felt like they were in the cusp of his hand - all he had to do was reach out and grab them. The questions that plagued him every waking hour of the day as he tried to make sense of his senseless dreams… Rhaegar wasn't aware how desperately he wanted those answers until he could finally have them. But, the very act of being able to receive them left him with more questions than ever as the initial burst of excitement faded.
For months, visions of Paul and what lurked beyond the Wall troubled his sleep. Each and every vision felt like a fever dream that left him gasping and drenched in a cold sweat. He couldn't even remember the last time he had a restful night's rest, but he suspected that it was a great deal longer than what a maester would recommend. As troublesome as the visions were, Rhaegar welcomed them. With the aid of his journals, he pieced together the fragments of the visions and they painted a rather clear picture.
That Paul Atreides was not an ally. That he brought the Long Night to the Wall and to the Seven Kingdoms. That picture was difficult to mesh with what he knew of Paul - a rather quiet, yet sharp minded young man that had an astonishing talent for combat and mercantile matters.
It made him cautious as he awaited the new lord in the godswood, beneath a great oak tree as there was no heart tree in the Red Keep. Still, it was private and that suited his ends quite well. No doubt many spies would note the private meeting, but so long as they didn't have an inkling of the contents of the discussion, it mattered little.
"He comes," Arthur warned Rhaegar and Rhaegar forced himself to stop the bouncing of his foot. He stilled himself, sitting straight, and turned his gaze to the entrance of the godswood. There, Rhaegar saw him.
Paul Atreides moved like the ground would never dare to trip him, and with a sense of unyielding purpose that couldn't be dissuaded even by a brick wall. Everything about him was controlled, Rhaegar noted, and not for the first time. He was immaculately dressed, the natural waves of his dark hair were carefully styled to seem effortless, while his expression was one of polite interest and even caution.
It struck him then how little Rhaegar truly knew of him for all that he had become a centerpiece for many plans - both his own and within the North. His father hid his plans well, but not well enough - Aerys had no love for the North, but their political isolation had earned them his favor. Jumped up barbarians that froze to death every winter and they worshiped the wrong gods. In his father's eyes, allowing them to replace their imports was a way to avoid empowering lords he already distrusted. Such as Lord Lannister.
Paul seemed to be a great stone tossed into a lake, the ripples of his actions having far greater consequences than he should otherwise merit. And, for the life of him, Rhaegar couldn't puzzle out why the stone had been tossed in the first place.
Why the Seven Kingdoms? Why Skagos? Why now?
"Prince Rhaegar," Paul greeted him with a polite bow. His voice was even and the action rehearsed. "I am here, as summoned." Nothing to hint at what he might suspect the conversation might be, though he uncountably did. It could be no coincidence that the summons came after he gave that message to Arthur. Arthur himself stood guard at the entrance of the godswood, while Richard Lonmouth stood guard to make sure that no one overheard in the hidden corners of the godswood.
"I thank you for coming so promptly, Lord Atreides. Please, sit," Rhaegar said, gesturing to the seat across from him. A small short table separated them, but Rhaegar wasn't foolish enough to believe that would serve as a deterrent should Paul attack. Rhaegar knew that he was a lifted swordsman and he had no lacking in natural talent, but what he had seen in Paul during the Melee… Paul would kill him dead a dozen times before he realized he had died.
Paul did as bid, taking the seat across from him and seemingly perfectly at ease despite the tension that seemed to be strangling Rhaegar. Paul met his gaze unflinchingly, and that was a very rare thing. Even the highest lords in the realm rarely dared to hold his gaze for long, fearing to be seen as impertinent. Something that Paul had no concern over. "It is my pleasure to serve, Your Grace. I'm glad that my message reached you so swiftly."
It was a prompt, allowing Rhaegar to take control of the conversation, and for a moment, he found his tongue tied. Twisted into knots because of how many questions he tried to ask at once. But, he controlled himself and stilled his hammering heart. "It did," Rhaegar began, his voice low but sharp. Curt. "I hope that you don't begrudge me a few questions, would you?"
"I would never be so presumptuous, my prince," Paul replied evenly. No hint of his inner thoughts.
He had imagined this conversation a hundred times by now, trying to figure out what approach to take. Did he make demands? Did he speak vaguely to force Paul to reveal what he knew? Did he prod and prob for a reaction? But, now that he was here in the moment, he found his plans slipping from his grasp like smoke in the wind. Paul seemed like a wall - he gave nothing away, while being perfectly polite.
You couldn't convince a wall to move. You were either forced to go around or through it.
"The Others," Rhaegar began, and even uttering their name out loud made a chill race down his spine. "You know of them. You claim to be an ally in combating them, and you somehow know that to be my intention." He searched Paul's face, but his expression gave nothing away.
He only offered the barest of nods, "I do." He replied, answering all three observations.
It felt so overwhelmingly underwhelming that Rhaegar felt like he was walking face first into a trap. Of what kind, he could only guess. But, despite the fact that he was the one that summoned Paul here, he felt unbalanced. There was a loud silence between them and it was Paul who broke it, "Tell me, your grace, what do you know of them? The Others and the Long Night?"
Rhaegar hesitated to answer, uncertain if he should confess his ignorance, but he found himself telling the truth. "Not as much as I would like," he admitted. "Time has turned them into little more than a folk tale, and as a result, it has been… difficult separating fact from fiction. What I know for certain is that the Wall was not built to keep out wildlings. They slumber in the North- the far North of Lands of Always Winter, and when they rise so too shall the dead with the Long Night come again."
Paul nodded, as if he expected all of that. "That is largely correct," he said, and all but confirmed that he knew more. Rhaegar felt a surge of… anger in his chest that came so suddenly it caught him off guard. He spoke so lightly of the subject, as if he were a maester and Rhaegar a young and foolish student.
Swallowing down his anger was something that came easily to Rhaegar because of practice. "I discovered a prophecy when I was young, and within it, I recognized the signs that the Long Night is upon us once more. Since then, I have dedicated my life towards stopping it." He stressed, clenching his teeth as he did so.
It had been a terrible revelation to have. There were times that Rhaegar wished desperately he had never found that dagger, and with it the clues he needed to piece together the prophecy. In his weakest moments, he craved ignorance. He had no love for the sword. No love for war or politics. He wished he could go back to being that ignorant boy who spent all his time reading and practicing the harp.
But destiny cared not for wants or desire. And he could never be so selfish as to ignore what could be the end of the world itself because it was easier to turn a blind eye to all of the signs-
"It has nearly come a thousand times," Paul stated, disrupting his thoughts and it felt like someone else had just punched him in the stomach. "Eight thousand years is no small amount of time, even for beings such as the White Walkers. They are eternal, but that does not mean their patience is infinite. For eight thousand years, they had probed and prodded for weakness, and should they have found what they were looking for… the Long Night could have begun at any era before now. It was only forstalled until now because their victory wasn't assured."
Every thought that Rhaegar had came to a halt, his lips parting to respond but he found that his words had left him. He had to force himself to swallow a lump in his throat, "H-how…?" He hated how weak his voice suddenly sounded and how shaken he felt.
"Preparation," Paul answered, mistaking his question. "The Starks of old seemed to be aware of the Others, and they made their preparations to defeat them a second time, but time has not been kind to them. Rituals and methods for doing things have long since become a matter of tradition. They lack the understanding of why they do things a certain way. Thus, they break from tradition when it becomes inconvenient."
He had to control himself. Rhaegar wanted nothing more than to leap across the table, grab Paul hy the tunic, and start shaking Jim while demanding answers. But one who cannot control himself cannot control his circumstances. He had to take a step back, examine this new information, and decide how he would act on it.
According to Paul…
"What does that mean for the prophecies?" He questioned sharply, deciding to withhold judgment and his belief in what Paul said. Wanting to believe something didn't mean that he could. "My ancestor, Ageon the Conqueror, came to the Seven Kingdoms and united them not out of ambition, but because he, too, received visions of the Others." He revealed, expecting some kind of reaction.
What he got was the barest tilt of the head from Paul that was reminiscent of an animal looking at something unexpected. However, a reply was quick to spill from his lips. "That was a mistake," Paul concluded so bluntly that it gave Rhaegar pause. "I cannot claim to understand the visions your family has been blessed with, but Ageon's conquest has only served the Great Other. You need only to look at the Dance of Dragons to see that the arrival of your family had served his ambitions. Dragons, the greatest threat to the wights, were snuffed out by civil war."
Rhaegar found that a retort was stuck behind a lump in his throat. The idea was utterly unthinkable to him, yet he found that he was struggling to offer an argument. Something Paul didn't fail to seize upon as he continued. "With the uniting of the Seven Kingdoms, the Night's Watch, while always struggling to man the Wall, became a means to escape the noose for every criminal in Westeros. A once noble institution has become polluted with criminals to the point that those seek honor no longer consider it a possibility to find any. In a mere three hundred years, the two greatest threats to the Others have been removed from play."
Paul leaned forward and there was a cutting glint in his striking blue eyes, "Prophecies are dangerous, my prince. They are weapons by their very nature, and a prophecy that you do not wield is one that is as likely to harm you as it is to aid you." There was a note of bitterness in his voice that sounded like it came from a place of experience.
No. He refused to believe it. He couldn't believe that everything that his family had done was all a mistake. All in service of the enemy they were trying to combat. Everything he had done for more than a decade by this point was all to prevent the next Long Night and it was all… a mistake? Is that what Paul trying to convince him of?
"That… does not answer my question, Lord Atreides," Rhaegar gathered himself, swallowing the lump in his throat with sheer force of will. "I have seen the signs of the prophecies - The Prince That Was Promised. Azor Ahai. The chosen warrior who will forestall the Long Night once again."
"The Long Night has already been forestalled, your grace." Just when Rhaegar was starting to build momentum, Paul spoke and dashed everything that Rhaegar thought he knew upon the ground. "The Others will not attempt to attack for another few centuries at the very least. The opportunity that they sought to exploit has been closed - the Night's Watch is still a shadow of its former self, and there are no dragons, but my efforts to fortify Skagos and cultivate Beyond the Wall have had their intended effect. They will let this opportunity slip by them and wait for another. Simply because time is their ally and our enemy."
Rhaegar froze. A lifetime of dealing with grasping nobles and his own father had taught him how to hide his emotions and true thoughts. It taught him how to respond even when he had nothing to say. But those lessons failed him as he openly gaped at Paul, who sat across from him with a polite expression that told him he realized the enormity of what he just uttered. All the implications and consequences, and he was doing him a favor of allowing him to… process the information for a brief few seconds.
He couldn't. It was impossible. "The others… will… not attack?" He echoed the words not feeling real as he said them.
"Not for a few centuries at the very least," Paul answered with a certainty that cooled Rhaegar's blood. How could he be so confident in that? "Skagos, in the coming decades, will become a thriving port in the North. The North at large will share that prosperity - booms in population, local development, and cultivation of largely neglected lands. However, the North's greatest ally has always been its stagnation. The harshness of the land cultivates a special but insular mentality."
Rhaegar listened closely, forcing himself to remain calm. He couldn't believe it just because Paul said it. But his certainty was more convincing than his words could ever be. Paul spoke like it was all a foregone conclusion, as if he was spoiling the ending of a tale rather than divining the future.
"With wealth and excess, that mentality will be lost. The lords of the North will find that the kingdom grows smaller the more interconnected they become. And they will find that they are no better than the lords of the South when it comes to petty politics. Some will become jealous of others' successes, they'll find reasons to feud, and they'll pull on the leash that the Kings of Winter placed upon them millennia ago," Paul continued. "It's human nature. It is inevitable, with it only being a question of when. The Others can wait as long as they like - a century, a millennium, or ten. It makes no true difference to them. Meanwhile, people will forget their oaths. The guards against the Long Night will grow lax. When they do, the Others will be waiting."
"You paint quite the vivid picture, Lord Atreides," Rhaegar voiced, his tone far calmer than he felt. "You seem remarkably well informed. One does wonder how you came across such information," he prodded lightly, and by this point…
Rhaegar wasn't sure if he really wanted an answer. It was simply too much. Far too much.
The very idea that the Targaryen conquest of Westeros was a mistake was too much. The idea that the foe he dedicated his life to fighting and vanishing simply… deciding to not attack within his lifetime was…
It felt like the floor was giving out from underneath him, and he was in free fall.
But there was a conflict. The visions. The visions that plagued him for months… They, too, painted a very vivid picture of Paul being the enemy.
"And I cannot help but wonder… why now?" Rhaegar continued, tilting his head to the side ever so slightly. "If you had this… trove of information, why not come to me directly? It would be a challenge, true, but you have proven yourself to be a man of means so I cannot imagine that it would be an impossible task for you." The pieces didn't fit.
No. They did. He merely had to change his perspective - if Paul was, in fact, an enemy… then every word he said up to this point could easily be perceived as an effort to break his confidence. His certainty that he was the Prince that was Promised. That he should lower his guard because the Others wouldn't invade in his lifetime.
"Because you are difficult to predict," Paul answered with what sounded like honesty. "The Starks? Far less so."
"I'm difficult to predict?" Rhaegar echoed, narrowing his eyes ever so slightly. "Explain."
Paul inclined his head, as if deeming him owed an explanation. "The closest thing that I am that you would know of is a Greenseer," he answered, and his tone didn't at all convey the weight of the admission. "I'm not, but the differences are… superficial in practice."
A greenseer. Little and less was known about them, with the only true definitive evidence coming from the records of the Wall's Library, which were given to him by Maester Aemon. A rare breed of men who supposedly could see both the past, present, and future. How they could was never explained in any detail, and the entire ability was poorly understood, as all magic seemed to be.
"Those with prescience cannot perceive each other," Paul continued, his lips thinning and his gaze growing hard. "That is a lesson it took a great deal of pain for me to learn. I can no more perceive the Great Other than he can me. Yet, I can feel the ripple of his efforts, just as he can mine. You, on the other hand, seem to change course for seemingly no definable reason. I was quite… surprised to be invited to your wedding." That sounded like the first honest admission Paul had made since this meeting had begun.
This didn't make sense. It couldn't. If he believed that Paul was a Greenseer, which would honestly explain a few things about him, he had contradicted himself. Rhaegar had seen visions of Paul. He could perceive him. Why was that if those with prescience can't perceive each other?
"Meaning?" Rhaegar questioned sharply, his mind churning over all that he heard.
"Lord Steffon wasn't meant to find a bride for you," Paul stated, and that earned a blink from him. "He would return empty-handed and upon returning to Storm's End, he and his wife would be caught in a storm and drown at sea." He spoke of their fates without emotion, all except for an idle curiosity as to why it hadn't happened. "You would then marry Elia Martell."
That sounded… very plausible. It mirrored his own thoughts quite well before he had resigned himself to his current marriage.
"What changed?" Rhaegar asked, his tone growing harsh to his own ears. This conversation was… far more taxing than he had prepared himself for.
"A ripple from another player, I suspect," Paul answered with surprising candidness. "Someone put Lady Aenessa in the path of Lord Steffon. For what reason, I am unsure. Only that whoever did stands to benefit."
Rhaegar clasped his hands in his lap and clenched his jaw. He was a Prince of the Seven Kingdoms. He was not some pawn to be moved along the board in another's game. "If what you tell me is true… then the list of suspects will be rather short," Rhaegar remarked. "Perhaps that shall be the test I shall give to confirm if anything you've said here has any trace of the truth."
He had hoped to see Paul blanch. Some kind of sign that would hint that he was a fraud and a liar who was afraid of his lies being unveiled. Instead, what he got was a single deliberate nod. "That would be quite helpful, my prince," he said, almost as if they were allies. And that was… puzzling.
Puzzling in a way that Rhaegar wasn't quite sure how to describe.
Aenessa was always someone who troubled Rhaegar, right from the very moment that they met. Her mere presence had denied him a strategic marriage within the realms, all because of the whims of his father. He would never dare to trust her, and he was… admittedly more willing to find fault with her than a good husband should.
But, if there was a chance that he could discover something - that Paul's words held some truth to them… perhaps it would be enough to call the entire thing off.
It wouldn't, he knew. Too much had been spent on the wedding already. His family would never live down the shame. So, failing that, he wanted something that could serve as a lever for his bride-to-be. He wanted… something. Even as he desperately hoped that Paul was wrong and making the entire thing up.
"I shall conduct my own investigation into the matter," Rhaegar declared, though he had no idea how he would begin to do such a thing. How did one see the unseen hand? But it mattered little. This conversation had worn thin on him, and he needed time. Time to process everything he heard. Time to decide if he was willing to believe any of it.
Paul inclined his head to him, accepting the dismissal for what it was. "By your leave, your grace," he said, standing up and simply leaving the godswood with the same unyielding confidence that he entered it with. It was more than what Rhaegar could claim for himself.
He was shaken. All the way down to his core, he was shaken. Paul knew too much to dismiss his claims so easily - the mere fact that he knew about the Others lends some credence to his claims. As did his efforts in the North. There were simply far better places that he could have settled down in if mere wealth were his goal. Yet, his claims were so hard to swallow. As hard as they were to argue against.
"My prince?" Arthur began, his tone concerned and Rhaegar found his gaze affixed to the table. There was one thing in particular that was nagging him. One thing that he couldn't quite explain. A single deviation in everything that Paul had talked about.
Those with prescience couldn't perceive others with prescience. It was possible that Paul was simply wrong about that, but… the look in his eyes told Rhaegar differently. That was a lesson that was learned the hard way, though Rhaegar couldn't imagine how. Then there was how Paul spoke to him towards the end, as if their alliance was some foregone conclusion.
His mind lurched to an answer, and he felt his stomach lurch alongside it.
The answer was overwhelmingly simple. So very simple that it was glaringly obvious, no matter how much he might wish otherwise.
Paul didn't know about his dreams. He didn't know how he was portrayed in the visions that plagued him. And if those visions hadn't… poisoned the well, so to speak, he could very well see himself allying himself with Paul with little need for tests. The contradiction wasn't there in that case… but it meant something else that had Rhaegar's stomach lurching once more.
"I'm…" He began, before he abruptly stood and walked to the edge of the godswood. The truth of it slammed into him like a fist to the gut, and his stomach rebelled. "What… have I been doing all this time?" He breathed in a broken whisper, tears stinging at his eyes as a terrible revelation washed over him.
He wasn't presciencent. His visions weren't his own. There were something given to him, pulling him along like a puppet and he hadn't been able to see the strings.
His entire damn life was a lie and for the very first time… he saw the truth.
"What a damned fool I am."
...
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A Golden Path by Ideas-Guy
Dune & A Song of Ice and Fire Xover Rated: M, English, Adventure & Drama, Paul A., Eddard S./Ned, Words: 172k+, Favs: 2k+, Follows: 2k+, Published: Jun 17, 2024 Updated: Aug 24
882Chapter 21: Foundation 2-12
The fickleness of lords was a fascinating thing to witness, Rickard Stark thought to himself as he gazed out at the celebration that carried long into the night and showed no signs of slowing down. Since Paul was presented to the court of the North, he had been an outsider. Someone… Other. He wasn't one of them, a northerner, even if he claimed Sakgos as his fief, the northern most land still in control of the North.
His established lords were wary of him. They were wary of change in general, but they were especially wary of Paul as he seemed to come out of nowhere and with his arrival, he enjoyed his favor. They felt threatened by him as in hardly any time at all, his small fief matched the wealth that their own lands gave them. House Atreides was not his richest vassal yet, but that would change only in a matter of time.
When his daughter granted Paul her favor? Rickard genuinely thought that would be it for the young lord. It was simply too much for the proud lords of the North to swallow, so they would spit it out. They would unite in their petty hatred rooted in fear of their own inadequacies. If they were particularly bold and stupid, as some were wont to be, then they would attempt to kill Paul during the Melee. Or they would simply look the other way when one of the many southern nobles tried their hand at removing a potential problem from the field.
Rickard expected the need to corral his lords. To make reassurances, to offer promises, to grant favor and privilege to mollify their anger. He expected that he would have to arrange opportunities for Paul to ingratiate himself with the rest of the northern nobility to make the lot of them understand that Paul was of the North, and ostracizing him was exactly what the southern lords wanted. It's what the King wanted.
Instead, he gazed out at the party to see Paul lifted up as he was seated on a chair and the northern lords, who had just hours previously said every foul thing about the young lord were now singing his praises with a bawdy tavern song that'd make a copper whore blush. There was a tankard of ale that was pressed into Paul's hand, and he offered a toast before he downed the entire thing, much to the adoration of the lords. It was the tenth time he had done it, and as their own drunkenness increased, so did their amazement every time they saw the same trick.
"He can drink and he can fight," Rickard mused to himself. Two things that the North valued above all else. All their previous animosity had been forgotten in the moment. It wouldn't last, not forever, but it was enough for Paul to forge connections. The bitter taste of his rapid rise had been washed out with the sweet taste of victory. So, they celebrated. They celebrated him. He was more than a copper counter and a merchant playing lord. He was a warrior. A great one. One unlike any of them had ever seen, and he forged a legend by facing off the very best that the Seven Kingdoms had to offer, and he saw them all off one after another.
It was the bedrock of a powerful reputation. The North had won much glory with the victory of the Melee, and few would have any doubt as to the role Paul played in that victory. That reputation would open doors for him that his prior reputation had barred. Already, he could see the web of intrigue trying to attach its strings to the young lord - trade deals, marriages, fosterings…
Paul was aware of it. It would be impossible for him not to be - he had proven himself to be entirely too cunning for him not to understand the opportunity before him. It was likely his intention all along, and why he put on such a display. All of it to cultivate this exact situation where his poor reputation had been completely wiped away, and he had a window of opportunity to establish connections with the other lords before they sobered up and remembered his origins.
"You're too serious, Father!" Bradon crowed from nearby, his eyes glossy and cheeks flushed. An admonishment sat heavily on his tongue, but Rickard held it back. This was a time of celebration, and while it would be better if his tone learned some restraint, he doubted anyone would have any memories of the night. "Celebrate! We've proven it to those Southerners without a shadow of a doubt now - the North is the mightiest kingdom!"
His declaration got another drunken shout, and Paul was nearly dropped from the chair as the lords got so caught in the fervor that they forgot they were carrying him. Rickard offered a thin smile, and he doubted any of them even remembered his first toast. Still, his son wasn't wrong. This was a great victory for the North. Seeing those flowers of the Reach trembled… the Westerlanders trounced… even the Eyrie and the Riverlanders - seeing them brought low…
He stood up and held aloft his watered wine and gave the crowd an honest smile. "To you, the Lords of the North. The odds were long. Many doubted us. And where are they now?"
"Dusted and defeated!" The crowd slurred back.
"Who stands at the top?" Rickard asked, his voice rising higher.
"The North! The North! The North!" They chanted back. Honestly, he could have stood up and said anything and they would have cheered for it. Such was the mood in the hall that they had commandeered to celebrate their victory.
They had accomplished what they set out to do. Precious few lords were participating in the joust. The archery contest would draw a few eyes, but it was the least important of the main attractions. All that was left was the tournament of duels, which Paul was participating in. Given that he had already bested most of the favorites… the North would claim that prize too. And Rickard couldn't deny it.
It felt good. It felt so damned good to have something to rub in the South's face. It was short-sighted, it was petty, but it was a great feeling after centuries of being dismissed and forgotten.
"All of you who fought are deserving of praise," Rickard continued. "But it surely cannot be denied that some distinguished themselves more than others. My son Brandon, who led you into battle!" Already, he had commissioned songs and ballads about the victory. He paid no small amount of coin to make sure that the bards were singing them in every tavern. "And Paul Atredies. The North's Fangs!" He added, and the crowd cheered, handing both his son and Brandon another tankard of ale. They downed them both, and the crowd cheered that much harder.
With that, he took a moment to examine the crowd. Ned was elsewhere, likely with Ashara. Given how diligent the boy was, Rickard supposed that he was owed some bout of foolishness. He saw his daughter with the other ladies of the North, though her gaze lingered on Paul. Something uncomfortable shifted in Rickard's gut. So much of his damned life seemed to revolve around Paul Atredies these days - the North, the Tourney, and now his children.
Rickard stole away for a moment, slipping by unnoticed as the party was too drunk to realize he had slipped out. He found himself standing on a balcony and cursed the warm humid air. It was almost as bad as the stench. He rested his hands on the railing, gazing out towards the city and seeing the sea in the distance.
However, it would seem that he couldn't so easily steal a moment of peace. As he heard the door open behind him, he caught the reflection in his wine cup of who it was. "The party will notice your departure, Atreides."
"... I don't believe they will. They grabbed a boy who looked like me, and they're celebrating him in my place," Paul answered with a note of amusement in his voice. "My apologies for intruding, my lord. But there is something I wish to discuss with you."
Rickard took a steadying breath. "As it so happens, so do I," he started, turning around and leveling a heavy stare in Paul's direction. "What are your intentions with my daughter?"
He had reexamined every moment that the two had spent together that he knew about, but there wasn't an easy explanation. Paul, as much as he would like to blame him, was polite but distant. He acted befitting his station. Which meant that could be moments that he didn't see and if Paul was seducing his daughter…
He'd strangle the life out of the boy.
"I don't have any, Lord Stark," Paul answered swiftly with a small, almost apologetic bow of his head. "Lady Lyanna's affection is not something that I have sought. To do so… please do not believe me to be so foolish." Paul finished and Rickard blew out a sigh.
That was probably the best possible answer that he could have given, Rickard reflected. Because Paul might be many things, but Rickard wouldn't call him a fool. He'd like to at times, but only so he would have something on the boy who found himself at the epicenter of the North. No. He believed him. Which meant that Lyanna's favor was bestowed because of her own infatuation.
That was its own headache, but it was a manageable one. At most, he would have to deal with a few tears as his only daughter convinced herself she was in love and he was denying her what her heart wanted. That was vastly preferable to having Paul actively pursue his daughter. It was…
It was becoming increasingly evident that Paul was the kind of man who succeeded in getting what he wanted.
"You have my word that I will make no untoward action towards Lady Lyanna," Paul added, and Rickard accepted that with a small nod and only that. He wouldn't thank the young man for not seducing his daughter.
"Hm. What is it that you wish to speak about, then?" He asked, and Paul raised his head. His expression was solemn, and Rickard searched his gaze. The blue of his eyes was something that had always disquieted him… as that hadn't been their original hue. He couldn't recall what color Paul's eyes had been when the boy first deceived him as posing as a member of the Night's Watch, but there was no doubt in his mind that they hadn't been the same shade of intense blue. Simply because Rickard would have remembered if they had been.
More interesting, however, was that he didn't detect so much as a hint of drunkenness from Paul. He was as sober as Rickard was. Either his liver was made of iron, or he had someone slip him watered-down ale.
"I wonder, does it have to do with the private audience with Prince Rhaegar?" Rickard continued, and to his faint surprise, Paul nodded.
"It does, my lord," Paul confirmed and suddenly Rickard wished that he hadn't watered down his wine so much. This seemed like it would be a particularly troublesome conversation and being drunk would make it vastly more tolerable, even if he knew he would need his wits about him. Rickard nodded and prepared himself for a blow.
The meeting was known to him - he kept a close eye on Paul's activities and those of the Prince. When they had met in private in the farce of a godswood within the Red Keep, his mind raced with possibilities and imagined betrayals. The King offered much to the North, but the man was a greedy fool who only thought of the next offense, imagined or otherwise. Perhaps poaching Paul, either to drag him to the South or to name him as a member of his Kingsguard, would be his way of punishing the North for his son not winning the Melee.
"The Prince fears that his father and the other lords vastly underestimate the… attachment the Free Cities have to the status quo. He asked for my opinion on the matter, as well as several others. He seemed distraught with the answers he received." Aye, that was a word for it. Another way of saying it was that the Prince had fled to his quarters and forbade any from approaching. The servants told tales of a ruckus happening within, with sounds of the room being thrashed, followed by sounds of weeping.
That was an intriguing piece of gossip, but it had been overshadowed by the fact that the Prince looked to Paul for advice.
That was influence on a scale that outstripped Rickard's expectations. It was simply too fast. Too much. The boy had barely put down roots in the Seven Kingdoms and now he was advising the Prince?
"Speak," Rickard ordered, hiding his thoughts away. As well as his discomfort at how high Paul's star had risen in such a short amount of time.
"The Lords of the Seven Kingdoms looked down upon trade, and because of it, they do not understand how the Free Cities perceive it. To them, to be a merchant is to be a noble," Paul began, and Rickard nodded slowly, knowing that much. "They already feel threatened by losing the Seven Kingdoms as customers for their wares. The attack on the Stepstones will escalate the conflict - in their eyes, it will be an attempt of conquest on their livelihood."
That was the point, Rickard wanted to say but he held his tongue. "They prefer the pirates because when no one holds the Stepstones, they all do."
"Precisely, my lord," Paul voiced with a nod. "The Free Cities will react strongly to the Seven Kingdoms' incursion on the Stepstones. Far more so than King Aerys is prepared for, and that will embolden him as it will be one of the few opportunities the Iron Throne has to display its strength. As not even with dragons were the Iron Throne able to hold the Stepstones for any length of time."
He could all too easily foresee the outcome that Paul described. They would take the islands, but they would not be prepared to hold them. Odds were, within a year, whatever garrison would be left would be starved out or whistled down by pirates and slavers acting on the will of one of the Free Cities. The King, his nose tweaked, would react as he always did and lash out with a heavy hand. The Seven Kingdoms would endeavor to take back the islands, and in doing so, would find themselves dragged into a quagmire that had no end in sight.
What Paul brought to him wasn't a revelation. It was what he already expected, and why he decided that he would send a token force. Enough that the Iron Throne could not fault him, but not a man or dog more than that.
"I hardly see why that news would have such an adverse effect on the Prince," Rickard noted.
"That is because I voiced a fear that the Prince has long harbored- that the entire affair in the Stepstones is a front to disgrace the Prince by the King. And a pretence to remove him as the heir in favor of Viserys, who the King favors." Paul delivered the news without shying away from a very ugly truth.
"... Aye, that would do it," Rickard admitted. He hadn't even seen the boy prince. The tension between Aerys and Rhaegar was old news, but Rickard was surprised by the depths of it. To engineer failure for your heir and son? The Targaryens were degenerates one and all. "Yet, you speak as if you have some manner of… solution."
"Of course, my Lord. While mending the relationship between father and son is well outside of my ability, I believe salvaging the operation in the Stepstones is possible. Even… advantageous," He continued, and Rickard's gaze sharpened. He didn't need Paul to explain the opportunity.
If the whole operation was doomed to fail from the very beginning, then those who committed and succeeded would have the favor of the Prince. And that was an interesting possibility. The very nature of the alliance with Tywin necessitated that at least Areys die. That was the cost of his participation in the power block. However, perhaps his desire for revenge could be directed only to Areys?
It would be a very long shot, but the idea of using Prince Rhaegar as the face of their alliance had a great deal of appeal. It would give the entire plan a vast amount of legitimacy in the eyes of the realm, and something that would be far more difficult for any future kings to roll back on when they gained the upper hand. They could exploit the rift between King and heir, feed Rhaegar's fears of being passed over for the throne, and use that as leverage to get the concessions they wanted in exchange for four of the Seven Kingdoms supporting him.
That being said, it was a long shot. Unlikely to manifest as Rhaegar would have to be rather desperate to accept that deal. And a fool as well. It wasn't impossible, but it was unlikely.
In the short term, they still could benefit from a commitment in the Stepstones.
"Has the King come to a decision on how the spoils would be divided?" Rickard questioned and to that, Paul offered a humorless smile.
"At this stage, the current thought is that the islands shall be divided up between the Seven Kingdoms," Paul answered and Rickard felt a smile curl at the corners of his lips. That was a decision that the King and Steffon had been keeping close to their chest, likely because the King sought to put the islands under royal authority.
The King's own nature was getting in the way of his long-term ambitions. It was a beautiful thing to see.
"Naturally, those who take whatever island will have the strongest claim to that island," Rickard mused, bringing his watered wine to his lips. Most of the Stepstones were desolate rocks barely worth holding, but those who controlled them controlled the flow of trade through the Narrow Sea. It would be a commitment, however. And not a small one by any means - not in manpower, ships, or gold.
Gold… his treasury was overflowing due to the trade ships to Braavos. Manpower… doable.
A plan was piecing itself together in the back of Rickard's mind. Angles that he hadn't considered due to his natural distaste for the South. The Stepstone islands were barely worth holding, but if he could control key islands… manpower would be a significant issue but a solvable one. With the wars natural escalation came opportunity.
Tyrosh.
To control the most pivotal islands of the Narrow Sea, House Stark would need to take control of Bloodstone and Tryosh - the former was a large island off the coast of Dorne. Tyrosh itself was one of the Free Cities, and a very likely participant of the war to come. Taking the city would allow them to control both sides of the coastline.
Greed. His greed felt insatiable. As if he could hold the entirety of Westeros in the palm of his hand and it wouldn't be enough. It was a risk. An unnecessary one, at that. He was in the middle of rushing development throughout the North - claiming two islands on the other side of the Seven Kingdoms was the very definition of overreach. Yet, his greed whispered in his ear of the possibilities.
Brandon was his heir and all of the North would be his. Ned would receive Moat Cailin. Lyanna would become the wife of a lord. But Benjen? What could he hope to receive but a position? A trade? That seemed so unworthy of one of his children. All of them deserved more than he could reasonably give them but now there felt like an opportunity to give his youngest his due.
A lordship in the Stepstones, ruling over Tyrosh as his personal fief. A cadet branch, possibly.
He liked the idea. He liked the idea far more than he was willing to admit, all the more so because Rickard knew one undeniable fact. To achieve what he sought for the future, he would once more find himself dependent on the young lord before him.
"Naturally, my lord," Paul agreed, oblivious to his thoughts.
"Naturally, those who offer the most in claiming these islands for the North would receive a just reward for their efforts," Rickard stated, holding Paul's gaze. The boy didn't flinch away in the slightest.
"That would be most agreeable, my lord," Paul said and he felt more hooks digging into his flesh as the pact was sealed. "I can offer one hundred of my household guards. I trained them myself."
He had grilled Ned and Brandon about Muad'Dib and his household guards. Brandon had spoken of a seamless ambush and thirdhand stories from the Night's Watch. Ned, however, spoke of a perfect battle and monstrous skill for every one of the warriors Paul brought with him South of the Wall.
"Their numbers are few, but you have my word - each one is worth the kingsguard," Paul continued, and the promise made a shiver race down his spine.
"... You claim that each could best a member of the kingsguard?" Rickard questioned, hoping that he misunderstood. To that, Paul offered a smile that didn't reach his eyes.
"The entirety of the Kingsguard," Paul corrected mercilessly.
Too much. The very idea that someone in the Seven Kingdoms possessed such a fighting force was terrifying, but the picture of Paul leading such a force… it was simply too much.
'I have to bind him to my house.' It wasn't the first time that Rickard had that thought, nor would it be the last. Even if it was an exaggeration, and Rickard desperately hoped that it was an exaggeration, that was a monstrous fighting force. If those hundred men could fight half as well as Paul claimed, then they'd cut through a peasant levi like a knife through butter. But that was hardly the worst part.
There wasn't a shadow of a doubt in Rickard's mind that Paul still had assets beyond the Wall under the name of Maud'Dib. How many did his Fremen tribe number? How many warriors could he truly call upon if pressed? Five hundred? A thousand? Ten thousand?
Raymun Redbeard, the last King-Beyond-The-Wall had led an invasion with fifty thousand wildlings at his back.
Rickard had accepted that risk when he welcomed Paul into the North and confirmed him as a vassal, but his influence was growing simply too swiftly for his own comfort. All the more so because they lacked a lever on Paul - something, anything, to be used to manipulate or check him. Worse, it felt like he was only growing more reliant on Paul and the seemingly endless well of strength he offered. Because his 'Fedaykin' warriors would be invaluable when clearing out the network of tunnels and coves located on the islands.
An idea lurked on the back of his mind, but he dismissed it as he always did when the thought occurred to him. Only this time it wasn't dismissed so easily.
However, thankfully, before he could dwell on what increasingly felt was his one alternative, the door opened once more. And it was there that a pale faced Ned stepped onto the balcony and with his expression alone, Rickard knew something was wrong.
"Father," Ned rasped, barely paying Paul a glance. The young lord, however, sensing the heavy topic to come and dismissed himself and closed the door behind him. It would be a great deal easier to dislike Lord Atreides if he weren't so courteous. "Duty compels me to speak to you about…" He trailed off, and Ned shifted where he stood, visibly uncomfortable.
Damn it all. "Did you get the Dayne girl pregnant?" Rickard questioned sharply, and Ned's eyes flew so wide that there was a genuine risk of them falling right out of his head. Impossibly, he paled even further. "No? Then speak, Ned. I swear to you, whatever you say will be a secret between us-"
"It's Brandon!" Ned blurted, physically forcing himself to speak. Rickard closed his eyes, as if to avert them from a truth he already suspected was coming. "He… Lady Ryswell is with child. His child."
Well… maybe he wouldn't need to conquer the stepstones to give Benjen lands. He could inherit Moat Cailin and Ned could inherit the North.
Because he was about to murder his eldest.
...
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A Golden Path by Ideas-Guy
Dune & A Song of Ice and Fire Xover Rated: M, English, Adventure & Drama, Paul A., Eddard S./Ned, Words: 172k+, Favs: 2k+, Follows: 2k+, Published: Jun 17, 2024 Updated: Aug 24
882Chapter 22: Foundation 2-13
His room felt like an adequate representation of his life, Rhaegar Targaryen felt as he raised his head from his hands. Everything in his quarters had been destroyed - the wardrobe, his desk, chairs, candlesticks, pitchers and cups, even his bed. All of it was destroyed in a manic fury that came and left him in fits and bursts. There were even scoring marks on the walls where he beat his sword dull against the stone. He sat upon the floor of his bedroom with his back against the wall, feeling completely undone. Untethered.
He tried to deny it at first - everything that Paul had said, he tried to deny it all. He tried to reason with the words, poke holes in the seemingly ironclad truths, and remain firm in his convictions. To convince himself that Paul was mistaken. He poured over all the arguments that he could have made in the moment, but they never managed to spill past his lips. All the arguments in the world meant nothing in the face of one undeniable fact.
He was a puppet dancing on the strings of a marionette. His entire life was a lie. A sham. Wasted effort as the Others wouldn't invade in his lifetime, or even the lifetime of his great-grandchildren.
He felt like a fool. That he was the butt of a joke that the whole world was laughing at. Because, as much as he wanted to argue and deny it all, he couldn't. He believed Paul. He didn't want to, but he couldn't. It was as if there was this… thing in his head whispering in his ear that he had been told an undeniable truth, and it was hopeless to deny it.
"What an absolute waste," Rhaegar muttered, groping for his dream journal. One of many. He flipped to a random page, and he saw the madness scribbled on the parchment. He saw his efforts trying to make sense of the senseless, layering his theories and the fragments of dreams half remembered upon waking. He had taken great care to hide his journals, knowing that any who saw them would think him mad. It was the bitterest revelation that he was something far worse than a madman.
He was a fool.
"Damn it all," Rhaegar muttered, looking at his mania. The theories he crafted, trying to make sense of his dreams. Dreams that still tried to plague him, his puppet master not at all caring for his newfound awareness. So, to avoid those dreams, he hadn't slept for… a few days now. Two or three.
He felt sluggish when he got up and walked to the hearth of his bedroom, mindful of the shattered glass. Taking a broken leg chair, he used it and a bit of tinder to get a fire going. Sitting before the flames, he looked down at the first page of his journal. Compared to the later pages, the observations were concise. He tried to make things orderly for ease of reference. He…
He ripped out the page and fed it to the flames, feeling hollow as the fire blackened the parchment before being reduced to ash. Another page was fed to the flames, and while he didn't feel better, it did feel good to just… cast off the weight that had been slowly suffocating him since he was a boy.
"I am not the Prince That Was Promised. I am not the mythical hero that'll put an end to the Long Night and the Great Other. I'm just a fool and a madman with delusions of grandeur… I… am my father's son," Rhaegar muttered, his hand pausing on a page to tear out. Disgust welled up deep from within his chest and with a snarl, he tore out a handful of pages to throw into the fire. That black anger started to claim him again - he could feel its vile taint darkening every thought. It was a rage so dark it felt like he could destroy the Red Keep with nothing but his hands.
But he couldn't. Shouldn't. Let the lords think he was a sullen boy who didn't want to get married. That was far better than the truth. He contained his rage to this room, and only this room. The Kingsguard had orders to turn away everyone who would approach until he could regain some level of control over himself again. At least, that's what they should be doing.
Rhaegar was about to toss the entire book into the open flame when the door suddenly opened. He half expected Arthur to disobey his order - he was a loyal knight and a fast friend, but he had great misgivings and fears. Who he would let by him was something of a question. He expected his mother, and when he saw the hem of a skirt from the corner of his eye, he thought it might be her. But, when he looked over, an excuse on his lips, his gaze met the very last person that he wanted to see.
"Your servants have grown quite lax," Aenessa began, her expression indifferent as she closed the door behind her, her gaze surveying the destroyed room before landing heavily on him. "To leave your quarters in such a state. And yourself in a state of undress."
He didn't want to see her. What Paul said rang in his ears like a bell - a life that he could have had if Steffon Baratheon hadn't found her. He could have married Elia Martel. He could have strengthened his grip on the Seven Kingdoms by binding one to the Iron Throne with blood.
'For what?' A voice in the back of his mind whispered. There was no Long Night to face and prepare for. Only the tedious squabbling of petty nobles, and their problems that seemed so very small in comparison to the death of all the living in the world.
"Why are you here?" He questioned, trying to keep his voice even but his anger leaked into his tone despite himself. A wave of exhaustion threatened to knock him off his feet, and his patience was short. Looking at her - he felt robbed. Like some thief in the night had stolen a life that could have been his, and left him with… this. Her. A woman he didn't know, didn't trust, and didn't understand. A woman that he should have never met, but now he would be bound to until the end of one of their lives.
"You are my betrothed - is it truly so strange that I would take an interest in your well-being?" She questioned, raising an eyebrow as if he were the unreasonable one. "Your mother said that you had taken ill. A malady has been sweeping through King's Landing, and I worried that you may be among them."
Every word that she said felt like a lie, and he hated it. He had no patience for it either, "No. Why are you here," he continued, his tone as sharp as a dagger. He wanted to grab her by the shoulders and demand answers. He hated the loss of control he felt - so much of his life was decided by others, and he had taken solace in at least being able to control himself. But even that seemed beyond him.
"What a strange question," Aenessa deflected, eyeing him carefully and with poise. He wondered what she thought when she looked at him - devilish hair, dark bags under his eyes, wearing but a pair of sleepwear trousers with his knuckles bruised from punching the walls. He must be quite the shock for how he usually comported himself. "I am here to be your wife. Your queen," she said, as if it were obvious but there was a caution in her tone that he couldn't quite place. Was she afraid of the question or him?
"You know that's not what I meant," Rhaegar growled, and he saw it. A flash in her eyes that told him the remark struck home. "I'll ask again. Why. Are. You. Here?" With each step, he closed the distance between them until he stood so close that a hand could barely pass between them. She looked up at him with wide eyes, the political mask slipping ever so slightly to reveal her uncertainty. But, she slipped it back into place a second later.
"I would have my own questions answered, if this is to be some… interrogation," she replied sharply. Everything was a negotiation with her, and Rhaegar was sick of it. All the same, he offered a single curt nod. "What has driven you to such a state? I cannot claim to know you well, but this… is unlike you. Even I can see that."
He took a step back, a lie sitting heavily upon his tongue. He was a weak man, Rhaegar realized, far too late. A stronger man would have been able to hold out. To have the mental fortitude necessary to endure this… revelation and maintain his dignity. Instead, Rhaegar felt like a frightened child clutching at his mother's skirts as he half sobbed about the monsters under his bed. It was pathetic. Even as the truth began to spill from his lips, he couldn't find any catharsis in the confession.
Rhaegar told the story in fits and bursts, jumping years ahead from the start, only to jump back when he needed to explain something. Aenessa listened patiently, even when Rhaegar began to pace across his room. He was ranting. He was raving. He felt every bit as mad as his father as he told her a truth that he had guarded closely for years - about his dreams, about the White Walkers, and now about how Paul had pulled the rug out from underneath him with a simple conversation.
His throat ached, he was utterly spent, and by the end of his racings, he half collapsed before the open flames - clutching at his journal as a source of comfort. Even as it tormented him. He half expected for Aenessa to run for the hills by the time he was done. Instead, he heard her approach before kneeling next to him… and then she spoke.
"Paul is right about something putting me in your path, my beloved," Aenessa confessed and… Rhaegar had hoped that she would deny it. That she would tell him that it was all a lie. He hoped that she would give him a sliver of proof needed to deny everything that Paul said. "But it was not out of malevolence," she reassured, reaching out and grasping a hand, running her fingers over his stabbed knuckles. Her hands were soft and gentle and Rhaegar found far too much reassurance in the gesture.
"... Meaning?" He rasped, not even sure if he wanted to know anymore. He craved ignorance desperately. He wished that he could just forget it all and go back to being what he was before.
"My lord, what do you know of R'hllor?" Aenessa asked him, and he stilled.
"The God of Light in Essos?" He had researched the god thoroughly, in particular the prophecy of Azor Ahai. "You claim that a god put you here?" Despite it all, he couldn't keep the disbelief out of his voice. Something that Aenessa didn't seem to particularly mind, offering a simple smile that told him she expected his disbelief.
"Indirectly, but yes," she continued, unbothered by the ludicrous notion. "You see… Master Malik is a practitioner of magic, one of the few that still exist in this world and one of the even smaller number that have any talent for the art." Master Malik. The old man that had accompanied them - Rhaegar had the man investigated, but he found little of substance. Yet, he had a position of trust with the Valis siblings, it would seem. "Master Malik… made a sacrifice to R'hllor, and he was awarded a vision in the flames. He saw a great disaster coming from beyond the Wall, the Long Night come again."
Rhaegar nearly laughed. Had he truly been so arrogant in his assumption that it was up to him and him alone to prepare for the Long Night?
Unaware of his thoughts, Aenessa continued. "He… entered the service of my family with the intention to fulfill the vision - when Steffon Baratheon came to Volantis, it was he who reached out. From there, the marriage was arranged, all so that we may face what comes." She gave his hand and gentle but reassuring squeeze, and Rhaegar swallowed down his denials.
Instead, a long sigh escaped him. "I fear that it's for naught, my lady. The Long Night won't come again in our lifetime." He was surprised at how bitter the words were. It should be a good thing, Rhaegar knew - it was a good thing that the world wasn't facing annihilation by an everlasting winter. It's something that he should take comfort in. He should be happy. Yet, he wasn't.
His heart was full of bitterness and he despaired.
"Because one lord in Skagos of all places says so?" Aenessa questioned, scoffing derisively. "That is a great deal to take faith from a single arrogant lord, my beloved. He is but a mortal meddling in the affairs of gods." Rhaegar swallowed a lump in his throat, reflecting on the conversation he had with Lord Atreides once again, for what felt like the hundredth time.
He had believed every word so utterly. So completely. He had doubts, of course, but even those doubts had been worn away. Even when he grasped for proof of Paul's claims or sought evidence that would disprove them, he already believed them to a degree, at the very least. If he hadn't, then he wouldn't have hid away in his room for the past few days, avoiding sleep, and beating his fists bloody against the wall when he wasn't weeping like a lost child.
"You claim that he's lying?" Rhaegar questioned sharply, but Aenessa simply shook her head.
"Mistaken is far more likely, I fear," she corrected. "Nor do I believe that he is on the side of the Others. If he were, then he would gain very little by telling you of his… abilities. But, I fear that he is assigning mortal limitations upon the gods themselves. Arrogant, foolish, but not inherently malicious. However, merely because he is not an ally of the Great Other does not mean he is any ally of ours. He could very well have his own base ambitions and desires."
There was a loud silence between them, and Rhaegar felt himself being pulled in two directions. Wanton desperation for Paul to be wrong, to mistrust him, and everything that he said. The other was a dreadful belief that he had spoken honestly. Aenessa was right in that Paul wasn't necessarily an ally of his, but that didn't mean he lied about everything.
Aenessa sensed his hesitation before speaking once more, "Perhaps you require proof, my love?" Aenessa asked, her tone soft as she turned her gaze pointedly towards the fire before them. Apprehension crawled up Rhaegar's throat as he realized what she meant.
"Sorcery?" He breathed, his lips thinning at the mere thought.
"Magic is like the tide, my love. It ebbs and flows with time - in the Age of Heroes, magic was as plentiful as air. In this time, it is sparse, and the few who practice it invite fear from those without. Don't allow the fear of smallfolk and fools rule you. You are a dragon," she reassured him, her voice soft with a musical quality to it.
She undersold the dangers spectacularly. His family had a long history with magic and its inherent destructiveness. His own birth had been marked with tragedy at Summerhall when his grandsire attempted to reclaim their dragons, and in doing so, he not only got himself killed but many others. He had often heard magic being described as a blade without a hilt - one could not wield it without being cut by the blade in turn.
Desperation. Desperation made a fool of everyone, and Rhaegar felt like he could be no greater fool than he already was.
A small shaky nod gave his consent, a gnawing need in his chest for answers. Aenessa offered a pleased smile, and he thought it might be the first earnest emotion she had displayed since he knew her. A hand drifted to a shard of glass, and she pressed the edge of it to a finger, letting fat drops of blood fall to his ruined journal with a pinch of pain.
"Blood has power, my love. You possess the blood of kings. Of dragons," Aenessa told him as his blood fell, streaming down his finger for a second more before she began to wrap the finger in a strip of cloth. "Dragons are said to be the first children of R'hllor as they are living flames. And the Dragon Lords are said to be kin to them. Which will make your offering all the more valuable, my love. Now, feed your journal into the flames and tell me what you see…"
It felt like a farce, Rhaegar thought to himself, as he did as bid - distantly aware that this could be a terrible mistake, but one that could be worth whatever consequences might come. He tossed the journal, years of work, into the fire and gazed into the flames as the leather began to curl into itself as it blackened.
And then…
And then he saw.
A strangled breath was caught in the back of his throat as in the flames he saw… something. At first, he wasn't sure what but with every passing second, it became clearer.
He saw himself landing on a white sandy beach from a gangplank of a ship, arrows falling from the sky like rain, ushering forth a charge of his lords and soldiers.
The vision changed along with the flickerings of flames - he saw himself pressing a head to a crowd, a cry spilling forth from his lips, 'Long live the fighters!'
A breath was caught in his throat as he watched it unfold, wonder and apprehension filling him as he watched the future unfold. The Stepstones - he was watching the battles in the Stepstones unfold. A campaign that his father was setting him up for failure foretold his success.
But then the visions changed.
"No… I… I wouldn't…" Rhaegar heaved, watching as a man with his visage sat upon the Iron Throne, gazing down at… at…
A pyre.
His father was bound at the center, his expression rapturous with eyes shining with excitement. It contrasted so very harshly with the three others that were bound, who were gagged but they still shouted and thrashed. All the more so when torches were tossed upon the pyre filling the throne room with smoke and the scent of burnt hair and cooking meat. Their screams were hellish and filled with anguish for what felt like an eternity…
But when the screams and flames died, from the ashes emerged…
"Dragons," Rhaegar breathed, watching as three baby dragons crawl forth as he descended down the steps. Distantly, he was aware of Aenessa's hand grasping at his when she heard that. He wanted to see more, but the vision faded. It was a struggle to swallow the lump in his throat, and the surge of emotions in his chest. Dragons. The foundation of Targaryen rule over the Seven Kingdoms, a foundation that had been lost to them in the aftermath of the Dance of Dragons.
"Do you see, my love?" Aenessa began, cupping his face to make him look at her. "Banish your doubts and hesitations. We work on behalf of the gods themselves," she said before leaning forward and kissing him.
Her lips were soft and he was a weak man. Far weaker than he thought as he clung to her like a port in the storm, kissing back fiercely. He didn't know if he believed what he saw, but he wanted to. He desperately wanted to believe. Not because it would secure the future of his family, or because it meant that they hadn't lost their greatest weapon to be used on the Others. He hoped because it meant that he was more than a madman and a fool.
He hoped, even as he wondered if he was once more dancing to the tune of his puppet master or if he he found a new marionette to pluck his strings.
...
In the end, Rhaegar was always going to be someone's puppet. He was primed for it since the moment he found the prophecy and believed that he was the Prince who was Promised. Paul ended up pulling the rug out from underneath him, and other powers that be saw an opportunity to strike when he was at his lowest.
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