| Author's Note: Greetings, fellow ASOIAF readers, you may call me Unknown.
I'm here to share a story I've long wanted to write,— a fanfiction set during Robert's Rebellion, beginning at the fateful Tourney at Harrenhal and unfolding through the chaos that follows.
Here's the catch: this first chapter is a test. If you enjoy it, let me know in the comments below. Your feedback,— good or bad,— will decide whether I continue this tale. I'll give it a day or two to see what the response is, though I hope to gather many comments, as I think that would be the motivation I need to publish this.
Until then, I hope you enjoy what's to come.
...
| With Maegor Targaryen, at Harrenhal, during the year of 281AC:
The torches in his temporary chambers inside the castle of Harrenhall burned low, their flame turning the recently placed carved dragons on the walls into shifting shadows. Gold and crimson draperies, which he had ordered his servants to bring from King's Landing, stirred faintly in the summer draft that crept through the tall windows, carrying with it the distant clamor of the tourney grounds,— drunken cheers fading into laughter, and laughter into blissful silence.
A silver goblet rested half-forgotten beside his right hand, the dark red of Arbor wine glinting like spilled blood against the polished oak table that remained still in front of him. Across from him, Ser Gerold Hightower stood in his white cloak and gleaming plate, every inch the Lord Commander,— stern, unyielding, and still as the statue of some long-dead hero, leaning against a velvet grand-chair that remained unoccupied.
His gaze lingered on the fire of a nearby torch, and then towards his sworn shield.
"Tell me, Ser Gerold,— do you truly think my brother has it in him to dethrone my father?"
The Kingsguard did not answer at once, as the flames danced in the growing, yet still very much unnoticed silver of his hair, graced by his age and experience, before he spoke.
"I would not claim to know the thoughts that stir in your brother, Prince Rhaegar's mind, my prince. Yet… even if I understand why the question troubles you, to speak such things aloud, is to tread the edge of treason against your father, the king." He turned to the fire then, a faint smile playing at his lips,— tired, and joyless. "Treason and truth often share the same face, I've found in the past few years." He gave a shrug at his white-caped knight, as the latter's eyes shone with catiousness, before continuing on. "All around me, men speak in riddles and half-words, as if that makes them any smarter and any more cunning than other men around them, and I find myself tiring of it as of late. You've also been long enough by my side to forgo such games, Gerold, so speak plain."
Gerold's jaw tightened, and shifted his weight, white cloak whispering across the stone. "Plainly, then. If,— and I stress the if,— your older brother harbors some design upon the Iron Throne, this tourney would serve him well enough. To summon the great lords of Westeros to one place, to treat with them, and perhaps show them that he is a promising future to be believed in… it is indeed a bold stage for any ambition."
Gerold took a breathing pause, and Maegor shifted in his place, interest rising. "Yet I find it too brazen by half, and his Grace's presence here makes it even more so. If Prince Rhaegar seeks to win the realm's favor in full view of his father, his play is daring, aye,— but perhaps ill judged on his part."
Gerold leaned more in the velvet grand-chair, the wood creaking under his armor, and Maegor nodded. "I thought as much. Still, one cannot deny the effect,— every song sung tonight bears his name. 'The Silver Prince', they call him. Sometimes I wonder if they truly believe him forged of silver, through and through." Gerold inclined his head, his tone measured. "Whatever his intent, I do not see Rhaegar triumphing in this,— not while your father draws breath. The shadow of the Iron Throne is long, my prince, and your father sits heavy upon it,— not to mention what your older brother woud suffer, were his grace to understand what his eldest son might be truly doing..."
Maegor's fingers traced the rim of his goblet, slow and deliberate. "Perhaps. Yet I begin to think, more and more, that my brother's road leads to ruin,— and the hand that casts him down will be his very own. The more Rhaegar dreams of crowns and prophecy, as I've heard from Arthur's own mouth, the closer he walks to the fire that will one day consume him."
For a time, only the crackle of the hearth answered them, before at last, Gerold spoke, softly. "Let us pray that it is only talk and rumor, my prince. The day the royal house turns sword against sword yet again, will be a dark one indeed,— brother against brother, Kingsguard against Kingsguard. It would, without any doubt, tear the realm apart."
"The realm, perhaps." Maegor murmured silently. "But prophecy cares little for realms, and less for blood. Whatever path Rhaegar walks, I fear it ends in chaos and war,— and the rest of us will be left to wade through the ashes of his madness."
Gerold bowed his head, the long day finally catching up to him. "Then let us hope, my prince, that your fears prove false."
At that, Maegor's smile returned, faint as dying embers. "Hope, Ser Gerold, is a poor shield… but I'll hold it nonetheless."
...
When Gerold finally withdrew from his chamber, trading post with the targaryen guards that would remain outside his door during the whole night, he remained seated in silence, the flicker of the torches painting his face in strokes of red, black and gold. The murmurs from the great hall below had faded into the night, leaving only the sigh of the wind through Harrenhal's broken towers.
He thought of Rhaegar then,— his brother, his rival, the realm's 'darling', as he liked to call it. Even here, far from the songs, Maegor could feel the pull of his brother's shadow, long and luminous, as it clung to him like a second skin.
Oh, how he hated that.
He had loved him once, when they were boys,— when Rhaegar's hands still touched a harp more often than a sword, or his prophetic books. But love had withered beneath years of quiet comparison, and their father's madness hadn't helped in the slightest. His father's laughter still echoed in his mind, sharp and cruel, when Maegor had stood between him and his mother once, that dreary night, long ago...
He rose, walking toward the window, and gazed out upon the mists curling over the lake, gazing upon the isle of many faces.
Torches flickered below his window,— tiny points of flame in the vast dark. 'The realm is a torch.', he thought. 'And my family the spark that will, one day, set it ablaze.'
For a long while he watched the night, silent but for the crackle of the hearth and the faint beating of his own heart.
...
The breakfast chamber smelled of warmed bread and spiced wine, the morning light slanted through the tall windows, striping the long table with pale gold. Draperies of red and black, depictions of old battles and portraits hung thick on the walls,— a great carved chair of oak and red velvet sat at the head where King Aerys Targaryen lounged, belly loose over his doublet and a bowl of porridge cooling at his elbow. Servants moved at the edges of the room like practiced shadows,— a cup refilled, a plate taken away,— their faces careful and small beneath the weight of the king's mood.
Maegor sat opposite him on a smaller chair, plate untouched, breastplate set aside, yet near him.
His sword, though no Darksister, nor Blackfire, lay within reach, its scabbard resting against the table leg as if it had come for company. He drank slow from his cup, tasting the wine as a man tastes news.
"Maegor." the king said, without looking up, the single-name summons was a small command, everyone knew it meant attention.
"Good morning, Father." Maegor answered, bowing his head slightly. Aerys toyed with a wedge of bread, tearing flakes with theatrical slowness, watching the crumbs fall as though each were a man. "You went to bed early last night, did you not?"
"I grew tired of the feasting." Maegor said, keeping his voice even. "I'd rather keep my strength for the lists." Aerys hummed, satisfied with his own counsel. "Hm, perhaps you are right. Your brother,— do you know where he is this hour?"
"I do not." Maegor swallowed, as he let the wine cool the taste of the words he did not mean to say. "Probably alone, babbling of the future, as he always does. I tire of his ways, and I pity his wife and children for them."
Aerys's smile thinned, as he set the bread down like a gauntlet. "It vexes me to hear you speak of such… people, son. You care for them too much, I think."
Maegor set his cup on the table with a measured hand. Court had taught him early on how to make his face say nothing, betray nothing. "I pity them for what my brother does to them by merely existing. He spends less time with his children, they could be fatherless by now, and gives his wife no company,— books and prophecies are his sole companions these days."
Aerys barked a laugh, sharp and sudden as a blade. "Gods, Maegor. Would you say, now, that you wish to take your brother's wife to your bed and claim your brother's children as yours?"
Maegor startled, lowering his eyes; there was no hiding from Aerys's gaze. "That was not my meaning, I only meant his neglect troubles me. Forgive me, Father."
The king's laugh filled the chamber, bright and dangerous. "Do not lie to me, boy. Have I not watched you pester that Martell girl since she first set foot in King's Landing? You followed her like a hound."
Maegor's throat tightened. "I would not say,—..."
"Do not lie." Aerys's voice snapped. "You wanted her then, you want her now. If you choose to bed Princess Elia, I shall not forbid it. I will even burn any man who objects that, a fitting punishment for a treasonous brood that is your brother." He brushed crumbs from the table with a grand, careless sweep as if sending petitioners to the pyre. Maegor swallowed, the words tasted like ash in his mouth, and he remembered how he once wished he had been the older brother. "She loves my brother, Father, and they have been married for long years, not to mention the children they sired. I do not think it would be right to bring such chaos to their lives."
"Love?" Aerys made a face. "Rhaegar and the Martell girl do not love each other as you imagine. She would be better seduced by a son of mine, burning with Targaryen blood as you do, than kept by your brother's dull side. That much I know."
Maegor's pulse quickened, as he folded his hands on the table. "If that is so… Anyhow, what will you do to Rhaegar, if his designs with this tourney are as they seem?"
Aerys's eyes brightened at that, as he set his cup down with exaggerated care and leaned forward as if telling a secret. "Do you think I will lift my hand against my son? No. I shall not soil these hands where others may do the work. You however, will."
Maegor frowned. "I do not follow your thoughts, Father."
"You will unseat him in the lists, you will break his pride before all, humiliate him as much as you can. You will keep him from showing the skill he fancies. And you...",— the king's grin split his face,— "... you will make his wife sing beneath you, so that all Harrenhal and the Seven Kingdoms may hear. Do you understand what I mean, boy?"
The order dropped like iron, and Maegor's eyes widened,— there was shock there, but under it a colder thing, an interest with teeth.
He had always fed on the glare of comparison to his namesake, being measured beside another, and found greater, had the flavor of triumph.
For a moment the room was only the king's low chuckle and the distant clang of training on the lists, while servants moved in their silent choreography, aware but unseen. Maegor let his mouth tilt into a small, slow smile,— deliberate, dangerous.
The thought came clear as a blade... 'This tourney will be entertaining.', and he tasted the idea and found it sweet.
...
So? Any thoughts? Remember, the ammount of comments and how positive they are will dictate if this fanfic goes foward, or not.