Chapter Text
The wine was deep and dark, like crushed velvet on Jon’s tongue, and he drained his cup quickly. It must’ve been his fourth—or was it fifth?—of the night. All around him, the Red Keep was alive with color and light, musicians singing out over the din, their voices mixing with the chatter and laughter of noble guests. Acrobats twisted and tumbled on a wooden stage, their limbs moving in ways that made even the dullest lord chuckle. Jon clapped along with the music, half-drunken laughter bubbling up from his chest as he watched the lords and ladies of the realm dance in front of him.
His gaze was set on the heart of the throng of dancers, where his silver prince moved through the crowd as if born of music itself, his steps nimble, graceful. In his arms was a child, his little brother Viserys, who clung to his older brother’s neck as they spun. Rhaegar threw his head back and laughed along with the child—clear as a bell, ringing above the din. Jon’s heart quickened, warmth creeping through him as he watched him. How could he describe Rhaegar’s laughter? It was sweeter than any song, like the world grew softer in its presence, brighter, for a single, fleeting instant.
A sharp clap on his shoulder broke through his daydream. Jon jolted and looked to his right, where Ser Oswell Whent had seated himself on a free seat. “Seven hells, Connington,” chuckled Oswell, “why aren’t you up and dancing? There's enough fair maidens here to put the Maiden herself to shame.”
Jon scoffed, taking another swig of wine. “Not with these feet,” he replied, his words slurring just slightly. “I’d trample her skirts, ruin the night for her.”
Oswell snorted and leaned back in his chair. “Then maybe you ought to try with someone who’d forgive a stumble or two. Ashara Dayne, perhaps? Arthur’s sister—look, she’s over there,” he gestured with his goblet to one of the long tables, where a dark-haired lady in lavender silk sat, deep in conversation with a woman clad in vivid orange.
Jon hiccuped, his gaze lingering on her only for a moment before turning back to Rhaegar. Oswell’s grin only widened as he leaned closer, nudging Jon with an elbow. “Princess Elia’s a beauty too, isn’t she? Sharp as a blade, though. I doubt you’ll get close to that one. But you’d best take your chances tonight, my friend. Who knows when you’ll have another one?”
Jon squinted at him. “What’s the rush, Whent?”
Oswell’s smile faded as he reached for the wine pitcher. “You know, I ought not to say it just yet, but… Rhaegar offered me a place in his Kingsguard.”
Jon’s eyes widened, the surprise sobering him just enough to understand. “Kingsguard? You, Ser Oswell?” A wide, toothy smile split his face. “Seven hells! That’s…well, that’s bloody incredible! Rhaegar chose well. Congratulations, truly.”
“Aye, I’m pleased for it. But—ah, I’ll miss the women. Every one of them.” Oswell chuckled, lifting his cup and downing the wine in a single gulp.
Jon watched as a shadow crossed Oswell's face, his usual light dimmed. Kingsguard—an honor few could dream of, yes, but the price was steep. No land, no family, no sons to carry his name. The memory of friends and nights like these would be his only legacy. Oswell’s smile was back, if weaker, but Jon’s heart twisted slightly at it.
He filled and drained his own cup in one quick swoop, feeling the fire spread through him, and suddenly, an idea struck. Rising unsteadily, he offered a hand to Oswell. “Come on, Whent. Stand up,” he commanded.
“For what?” asked Oswell.
“To enjoy your last night as a free man, of course.” Jon’s grin was wild, his face flushed. “Come, let us ask Princess Elia and Lady Ashara for a dance. If you’re to take vows tomorrow, tonight we celebrate.”
Oswell’s eyes lit up, and a smile broke across his face. “Aye, Connington, you’ve the right of it!” he laughed, pushing himself to his feet too. Together, the two young men weaved through the crowd toward the long table where the two noblewomen sat absorbed in conversation. Lady Ashara was laughing loudly at something Princess Elia had said when they arrived.,
“Lady Ashara, Princess Elia,” Oswell began, his tone somewhere between formal and teasing, “might I trouble you both for a dance? My friend here,” he gestured at Jon, “has two left feet but a spirit of merriment he simply cannot contain.”
Jon decided to play along with the jest. “It’s true. I’m a hopeless cause. But if you’d be so forgiving, Lady Ashara, I’d be honored to tread upon your toes.”
Ashara’s laugh was warm and bright, and she raised a brow at him. “Is that so, Ser Hopeless? I like a challenge,” she replied as she took his hand and rose from her seat.
Princess Elia seemed a little more hesitant, her gaze flickering briefly to Oswell, who extended his hand with a smile. “And you, Princess? Up for a dance with a simple second son of Harrenhal?”
A small, almost shy smile crept onto Elia’s face, and she placed her hand in his, allowing him to lead her onto the floor. Soon, Jon found himself moving in a circle with the others, laughter ringing in his ears as he stumbled a bit with Ashara, who took it all in stride, smiling and guiding him through each step kindly.
They moved, spun, and laughed, as if the world had narrowed to just the four of them and the sound of the music they danced to. And then, suddenly Rhaegar stepped into their neat little sickle circle, his face still alight with joy, his brother now gone from his arms. Jon felt his own smile widen as he caught the prince’s eye.
“Is everyone enjoying the festivities?” Rhaegar asked, his gaze flicking to each of them in turn.
Princess Elia dipped her head and Jon noticed the blush creeping onto her cheeks. “Immensely, Your Grace,” she murmured.
Jon raised his voice so that Rhaegar would hear him above the music and cheering. “There will be tales woven of King Rhaegar, First of His Name, singer of songs and master of revels,” he proclaimed. “What a celebration!”
Rhaegar chuckled, shaking his head. “You flatter me, Jon. All this praise will turn my head.” His eyes were warm as he looked over each of them. Then his smile deepened, turning slightly conspiratorial. “But tell me, are you up for a little adventure?”
Ashara’s hand shot up with an eager grin. “I am!” she declared.
Oswell grinned and clapped his hands together, clearly ready for whatever mischief Rhaegar had in mind. Jon, of course, didn’t hesitate—he’d follow Rhaegar to the edge of the world and back, if that was where the prince wanted to go.
Princess Elia looked a touch more hesitant, her expression a mix of shyness and curiosity as he offered her a hand. She hesitated for a brief moment, glancing between Rhaegar and the others, her face half-hidden in shadow, but then she reached out and took his hand. He gave her fingers a gentle squeeze. “Do not worry, Princess,” he said, his voice warm. “It’s just a quiet spot, with a view worth seeing.”
Together, the five of them moved away from the noise and light of the hall, leaving behind the swirls of dancers and the laughter. Rhaegar led them through a small corridor off the main hall, where the flickering torchlight gave the shadows an almost playful cast. Jon stumbled as they made their way deeper into the winding halls, the evening’s wine hitting him in full force. He chuckled, though his legs wobbled more than he’d like to admit. Oswell caught him by the arm, steadying him with a laugh.
“If I’d known you were this far gone, I’d have brought a cart to carry you,” teased Oswell, patting him on the back.
Jon tried to muster a retort, but his words came out in a half-laugh, half-hiccup. Rhaegar glanced back at them, grinning as he led the way, Elia and Ashara on either side of him. The prince was speaking softly to them, recounting memories of his childhood in the Red Keep.
“I used to chase cats through these corridors,” said Rhaegar. “They say that, two centuries ago, a Hand of the King released over a hundred cats into the keep. I swear, half of them are still lurking in the shadows.”
Ashara turned to him, her eyes wide. “A hundred cats? Truly?”
“Oh yes,” Rhaegar nodded. “When a ratcatcher shortage grew dire in the capital. He brought them from all corners of the city, let them loose here, and they multiplied into a small empire of their own.”
The two noblewomen seemed glued to the prince’s every word, and how couldn’t they? Rhaegar was unlike any other man he’d ever met—a prince, but never too proud; noble, yet as full of warmth as a hearth’s kindle fire. Even here, in the shadows of the Red Keep, he radiated a light that pulled them all closer.
At last, they stopped beside an ordinary section of wall, a simple stretch of stone amidst a dozen others. Ashara frowned. “Is this it?” she asked.
“Not quite,” Rhaegar said, and raised his hand, running his fingertips along the stone. “Maegor the Cruel had secret passages built into the keep. None were never mapped; they’re known only to a few… and to those lucky enough to stumble across them.” He looked back at them with a twinkle in his eyes. “I found this one while chasing cats.”
And then, to Jon’s amazement, Rhaegar pressed against a loose brick, and with a quiet, grating sound, a narrow passage opened in the wall. Rhaegar clapped Jon on the shoulder with a grin. “You lead, my friend.”
And so, he took the first step into the hidden corridor, which turned into a tight and steep stairwell that wound upward. As the entrance closed behind them with a low groan, the world outside vanished, leaving them in a cloistered silence, broken only by the scuff of footsteps and Oswell’s muttered curses about cobwebs.
“Damned cobwebs,” Oswell grumbled as he brushed away a particularly thick one, earning a laugh from Ashara.
“Don’t tell me a knight of the realm fears a few cobwebs,” she taunted, her voice light and teasing.
“Not afraid, my lady,” Oswell shot back. “Just mindful of ruining my hair.”
They climbed higher and higher until, finally, they emerged into an open space. Jon blinked, feeling the cool air of the night on his skin as he stepped out onto a tower with no walls—only the open sky above and a breathtaking view before him. He felt as though he were suspended between the stars and the world below.
The city of King’s Landing sprawled out beneath them, a mass of rooftops and winding streets that often seemed to lead nowhere. Beyond lay the dark expanse of the Kingswood, and to the east, Blackwater Bay stretched like an endless black mirror, catching the faint reflection of the stars and the moon. Jon took it all in, his heart pounding in his chest not just from the climb, but from the sheer beauty of it, the way it felt to stand so close to the stars with the world at his feet.
Beside him, Rhaegar was watching the view as well. “When I was younger, I would come here often,” he said, his voice quiet, a secret shared between the two of them. “Sometimes I’d bring my harp and I’d play to the stars. It’s peaceful.”
Jon’s gaze flicked to Rhaegar. He could almost see it—the silver prince alone under the vast sky, pouring his heart into the strings, the heavens his only audience.
Ashara, caught up in the moment, stepped forward to the edge, spreading her arms out wide. “It’s like standing at the edge of the world!” she said with a smile. “Thank you for sharing this with us, Your Grace.”
Oswell sidled up beside Jon. “Quite the view, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” Jon nodded, watching as Rhaegar lifted his face to the wind. “It is.”
The five of them sat scattered around the rooftop, each taking in the beauty of the night. Jon leaned back against a cool stone pillar, his eyes on the waters of the bay. It shimmered like dark silk beneath the night sky, stars twinkling above and below, both sky and sea drawn together in some secret conversation only they understood.
And then, Rhaegar began to sing.
His voice came soft and clear, barely more than a murmur at first, but it grew, weaving itself through the quiet. It was a song Jon had never heard before, he felt like he would remember it for the rest of his life.
“Long ago, before the flame,
There lived a star without a name.
Through endless skies it drifted lone,
And dreamed of worlds it’d never known.
It fell to earth, in tears and ash,
In birth’s embrace and death’s last clash.
And where it touched, the earth would bloom,
Yet yearn once more for star’s cold gloom.”
As Rhaegar sang, Oswell pulled Ashara up to dance, his arms wrapped loosely around her frame. Ashara’s laughter rang out, bright as the stars, while Oswell’s face seemed stuck in a perpetual grin. They swayed and stumbled, their voices catching in the spaces between Rhaegar’s verses. And still, the prince sang on.
“Its light grew faint, its fire dim,
Yet still it dreamed, and dreamed of him—
A sun to cast its shadowed fall,
A warmth to cradle through it all.”
Princess Elia did not laugh or move. She sat cross-legged on the stone floor, her gaze fixed on Rhaegar. Jon watched her for a long moment, noting the tears that had gathered in her eyes, the way her hands lay in her lap, the way she smiled at him. It reminded him of himself.
“It rose, it set, it broke, it yearned,
But never found the flame it burned.
So there it lay, in dark unknown,
A star to sleep, forever lone.
For suns may set, and stars may fall,
Yet dawn renews its ancient call.
And what was lost returns in worth,
To light the heavens and warm the earth.”
The final verse trailed off, lingering in the air for a moment before giving way to the low hum of the city below. Jon blinked and realized that tears were now rolling down his own cheeks. Bloody Arbor Red, turning me into such a mess . He wiped them away with a brush of his sleeve, hiding them—from the others, from himself.
The wine still clung to Jon’s senses the next morning, a slight heaviness in his head, a warmth lingering in his chest. It softened the edges of everything around him, blurring the thousand faces pressed into Baelor’s Great Sept. He sat among them, surrounded by the low murmur of voices and the rustling of heavy gowns.
Baelor’s Sept rose around him, towering pillars and high archways stretching into the heavens above, where light streamed from stained-glass windows, bleeding reds, blues, and greens over the packed hall. Jon craned his neck, catching a glimpse of Queen Rhaella seated at the front. She was draped in deep black, her hair neatly hidden beneath a long, dark veil. Her face was turned downward, her hands tightly clasped together.
But Jon’s attention drifted from her soon enough. Every house of importance from the Crownlands had come, and the nobles from the Stormlands, Riverlands and Reach had come in contingents that filled entire sections with their sigils in greens and blues, willows and roses, stags and stallions. Even here, deep in the south, Jon glimpsed northern banners he knew well: a grey direwolf in a field of white, a black axe on silver or a merman on a base of blue-green.
The noise in the hall stilled abruptly as the High Septon approached the front. He was an ancient man, hunched beneath the weight of his robes, his every breath came with a faint wheeze and his fingers trembled as he finally reached the front and raised his voice to the crowd. Jon wondered if the man’s faith was all that kept him standing.
“Today a king will be crowned.” The High Septon drew in a labored breath, “let us pray.”
The sept filled with whispers as the names of the Seven were invoked, voices wove together and Jon murmured along. The Mother’s mercy, the Warrior’s strength, the Father’s justice—these were words he’d learned to recite, the words he’d say when his mother would force him to visit the sept in the early morning hours, the words he’d whisper deep in the night to forget the thoughts that haunted his sleep, the words that never made it better.
A ripple of movement disrupted the prayer, and Jon turned his head with the rest as the doors opened wide. Into the quiet hush walked Rhaegar, flanked by his Kingsguard, all seven of them. Ser Gerold, Ser Lewyn, and Ser Barristan walked ahead, then came Ser Arthur and Rhaegar himself. The remaining three knights walked behind their prince, there was something almost ghostly about the three. Ser Jonothor Darry walked with his hands clasped tightly behind his back. A plain man, weathered by years of service, his eyes were sharp and searching, though he avoided meeting anyone's gaze for long. Ser Harlan Grandison, older still, had a thinness to him, a kind of frailty that no polished white armor could conceal.
And, of course, Ser Oswell, freshly anointed to the Kingsguard. He bore none of his sworn brothers’ grim solemnity. His face was young, unlined, and betraying a nervous energy he struggled to mask. When his dark eyes met Jon's, he smiled—a quick, boyish thing that seemed almost out of place in the heavy sanctity of the moment. He was not yet made of the stone that a knight of the Kingsguard was expected to be, but there was steel in him still, even if it had not yet cooled.
Jon returned the faint smile with the barest nod, though his eyes were already drawn back to the prince. The king, he thought, not without bitterness. He held every gaze in the sept captive, not with a raised voice or grand gesture, but with that majesty that seemed innate to him. When Rhaegar reached the altar, he knelt, his long frame folding gracefully to the floor, his forehead pressed to the stone in a gesture Jon could only describe as reverent.
“Face me, my child,” the High Septon intoned and Rhaegar raised his head slowly.
An attendant, a boy of perhaps ten, approached with the sacred oil, shaking ever so slightly under the scrutiny of so many. His robes of white seemed almost golden in the light. With trembling hands, he handed the bowl to the High Septon, who held it up high before dipping his fingers within.
Seven lines traced along Rhaegar’s brow, seven oils for the seven faces of god. Another moment passed, and the boy returned, this time with a crimson cushion upon which rested the crown. It was a simple thing, just a golden circlet that bore no gems, no ostentation. It had been the fifth Aegon’s crown, the same king who perished in the flames that brought forth Rhaegar. Born in grief, born in sorrow. The dragon’s song had ended in screams and smoke that day, both a pyre and a cradle for the last of their hope. Rhaegar had spoken of his birth only once to him. They’d been younger then, he remembered the prince’s distant gaze, the slight furrow of his brow as he’d talked about the day Summerhall burned.
No one told me much, Rhaegar had said, his voice quiet, almost apologetic. Only that I was born amidst the flames, and my mother wept when she held me. They called me their last hope, but how can a babe bear such a weight?
The High Septon’s hands trembled as he lifted the circlet. It seemed to weigh far more than it should, but he managed to lower it gently onto Rhaegar’s head. The circlet had other wearers before the fifth, it had been the crown worn by the second Viserys, and before him by the Dragonbane. “I name you King Rhaegar of House Targaryen, First of His Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm.”
The septon bowed low, his robes pooling around him as Rhaegar rose. The crown did not wobble—it seemed to belong there, perched on Rhaegar’s brow, as if he had worn it all his life. He was the fourth king to wear it. He turned to face the crowd, and the hall erupted in cheers, but Jon could only stare.