Portrait

I didn't think much of Brien Flowers when I first saw him.

For a start, while all Maesters wore their trademark cloaks, the one Brien wore was in tatters. It was as if they gave him a cloak on his first day at the Citadel, and that's all he wore since.

His dark hair fell below his pale eyes, and his neck was slightly forward as if he was always reading something. His well-kept nails had a ring of ink around them, and the middle finger of his right hand was so calloused from writing that you could have sworn a bee had stung him just moments prior.

Brien Flowers didn't give me the impression that he had a life, let's say that.

But I'm getting ahead of myself. Let's rewind a bit.

When I died outside the prison, and the darkness shrouded my sight, I'll admit I felt utterly defeated.

I lost and regained my hope, only to be screwed over again. I know that's how life goes sometimes, but it sucked.

I just felt like sleeping forever, so that's what I did. I slept even when I chased the light and came out the other side.

But then, in my dreamless sleep, I felt a warmth. Not a physical one, as the whole point of my slumber, was to block out those feelings. But an emotional one.

Yet the closer I got to the warmth, the more the physical feelings returned. Soon I felt a heartbeat — B-BUMP, B-BUMP — and suddenly, I felt a heart of my own and realised our two beats were in sync.

Then a voice called out, only it was too faint to hear. You didn't exactly have a 'body' to 'walk' in this dimensional space, but for our purposes, let's say I walked closer to it.

When I got close enough, I could make out a mischievous voice.

['Play!']

['Play!']

['I want to play!']

I spat to the darkness, 'Play with yourself!'

But it wouldn't let up. ['Play, play, play!']

Over and over and over. If only there were a wall I could have smashed my head against.

'Fine!' I quaked, 'I'll play. Where the hell are you?'

Then, my mind's eye perceived my consciousness to be in a protective egg, and I realised this was a safe space of my own making. A cocoon of safety, like an author gone recluse to avoid criticism.

DOOF-DOOF, DOOF-DOOF

And the voice was knocking on my shell.

['I'm out here!']

'Oh no, I'm not going out there ever again. You come here.'

['I can't!]

I don't know why, but I became just as childish.

'Tough! If you can't come here, then I'm not playing!'

['But…']

A painting can speak a thousand feelings to your sixth sense, but sometimes two simple words can do the same.

['I'm trapped.']

Anger, denial, hate, hopelessness: they returned like a vortex in my heart.

'… I know how you feel.'

['Then let's play!']

'I don't want to go out there….'

['Yes, you do!']

'Why would I want to do that?'

['To play with me!']

'Ugh..'

It felt like a child who spent the entire car ride manipulating you into buying them a happy meal.

Then I just told it how it was.

'I'm scared, alright? I did what I thought was best. I fought, and I lost. Just leave me alone.'

['Neverrrrrr!']

['Together forever!']

['Together forever!']

['Together forever!]

'Quiet!'

It felt like I was in a cramped apartment with noisy neighbours, so I banged my fists at the walls to shush him down.

['Hehe!']

But the playful little shit thought it was a game, and he banged his fists in reply.

That's when a terrifying thought occurred to me. If this continued forever, it was only a matter of time before I went mad as he was.

Who knows what frame of mind I'd be in once I ventured out of my shell?

If I escaped now, at least I would have my sanity.

'Fine, you win. I'm still scared, though. We go at the same time. Deal?'

['Hooray!']

And just like that, I was counting backwards from three, and together, we escaped the darkness.

"Wah!"

But when I came to, I felt utterly alone. My eyes were so sensitive I could not see, and my speech was not what it once was. So I did the only logical thing: cry and scream.

"Wah!"

Then I felt something snuggle by my neck, and I knew it had to be the voice's owner. This was his idea of play?

"My gods!"

I heard many people come into the room.

"It can't be!" a woman said.

It was at that moment I grasped the situation. I was glad Nissan wasn't there to say, 'I told you so!'.

Reincarnation. That meant I had to be an infant. All I wondered was, where the hell am I?

I learned that in due time. My first clue was that I could hear how much everyone doted over me. They kept saying things like 'He's alive!' and 'I can't believe it!'.

But that still didn't explain why a million people touched me whenever I made even the faintest noise.

It was like they lined up for the privilege of wiping my ass.

Things made more sense when my eyesight returned.

I was born into royalty. Rhaenar Targaryen, they called me.

We lived in a castle. I couldn't believe the size of their room just for me.

The space made me nauseous at first.

My father's name was Viserys, and my mother, Aemma, looked suspiciously like him.

In fact, many of the marriage pairings in this family had symmetric qualities, but more on that later.

The Targaryen's had strong genes. We each had magnetic violet eyes of varying shades and the same silver hair.

I was reborn as a twin — Rhaenyra's twin — and we were nigh inseparable in those early days. That didn't help when people tried to tell us apart, which usually had to be settled by checking our genitals.

It was a big and colourful family. My favourite was my grandfather, Baelon.

Baelon was a burly man, hair cut short and battle-ready. My father did not inherit his solid frame.

He'd come and pick Rhaenyra and me up and fly us around the room. I remember being held up so high and feeling the flaps in my stomach. It always made me giggle uncontrollably, making Baelon smile and fly me around even more.

My mother had a big heart and treated my sister and me with equal love. I appreciated her efforts, as the attention would fall on me increasingly as time went on.

From very early, people had a thing about picking me up. If I were an infant without memories of their past life, I wager this would have been detrimental to my health. Just let the baby sleep!

But I enjoyed it. My equipment didn't exactly allow me to walk around, so I liked my daily tours around the castle.

The one who enjoyed taking us around the most was my great-grandmother, Queen Alysanne. Even in her twilight years, Alysanne was the sharpest woman I ever knew. Nothing got past her.

Sometimes she'd look at me, and I swear she wanted to say, 'I know you're in there.'

That would terrify me. Never did I feel so naked. It reminded me of people in your dreams who would glare at you when you told them they weren't real.

Every day, Queen Alysanne would carry me to the King's chambers.

"He's grown since yesterday," he'd always say, to which Alysanne would roll her eyes and reply, "You say that every day, dear husband."

Those two had an odd relationship, though I suppose that's what happens after decades of marriage. I found out later that the King and Queen had a history of 'quarrels', which were the stuff of legend in their own right.

Anyhow, it was just after my first name day, and Queen Alysanne took me to his chambers.

The small council was there, as the King held court in his chambers by then. He sat in his bed, propped up by puffy pillows, signing whatever documents Grandmaester Runciter put in front of him.

But when the Queen and I came into the room, he stopped whatever he was doing and gave his undivided attention.

"My my, he's grown since yesterday."

The Queen rolled her eyes, unwilling to play along today, "Yes, yes."

She leaned down so that King Jaeherys could kiss my cheek. Only, my attention was on something else.

"Mmm!" I said. My jaw didn't have the dexterity for speech yet. I could write a whole book on these nuances of infancy.

I made baby noises and reached for the quill and paper. They felt so far away.

The King found it remarkable, "You see that? He wants to be like his grandsire! You want to write letters like a King, Rhaenar?"

I don't know about all that, but I was desperate to feel a pen in my hands again, "Mmm!"

Delighted, King Jaeherys sat me on his lap and bid Grandmaester Runciter bring blank paper.

It was all fun and games at first, a cute moment where the baby does some scribbles. But the room fell silent when they put that quill in my hand and saw my deft grip, oozing with delicate elegance.

I drew the Targaryen sigil on that paper: a Dragon with three heads.

For some reason, everyone in that room froze and looked at King Jaehaerys.

It was like they all sensed an immense gravity from the situation, and their animal instincts deferred to their leader.

Baelon was in the room, serving as acting Hand at this time. Yet even his boisterous self was statue-stiff.

Their reactions to my art were so good I could only giggle and plaster pride onto my baby face.

King Jaeherys watched me for a while, speechless. Then, with conviction, he turned to Grandmaester Runciter and said

"Write to the Citadel at once. He shall have the finest tutors of all the land!"

And so, that brings me back to Brien Flowers and his motley little crew.

When the three arrived at the Red Keep on that cloudy day, I thought, 'These are the lands finest?'

Archmaester Mellos was OK. He had an aura of learned ability about him, and I knew it was rare for an Archmaester to leave the Citadel.

But the other two stooges — Theodore and Brien — gave me no hope for my education.

How wrong I was.

Beyond his craven-like stature, nerdy twig arms and orange hair, Theodore was perhaps the most extraordinary economic mind in the world.

The guy couldn't get enough of the stuff. Trade this, currency that. The guy would sit down and create maps with fictitious nations, prattling on their socio-economic nuances.

He would have had his Maesters chain years ago were it not for his single-minded approach to study. And even if he did graduate, no castle wanted a Maester that can't heal for shit but could babble your ear off about inflation.

No, I wouldn't trust Theodore to change a bandage.

Brien had a more rounded, jack-of-all-trades way about him. And yes, his passion for knowledge was infectious, but I felt like the guy needed to chill out and get laid or something.

However, I changed my view on those two when I introduced them to my Dragon.

That's right, I have a dragon, and our bond is even more potent than the one I shared with my sister.

His golden yellow scales sparkled in the sun like a galaxy of diamonds. A nimble little lizard who liked to nip around.

It was for this playful nature and dazzling appearance that I called him Sundance.

My studies began the day after Archmaester Mellos arrived. He and the two stooges came to my chambers.

I was already awake, playing with Sundance as a servant roasted his breakfast over the fireplace.

Dragons were fussy in the sense they only ate cooked meat. I wondered if Sundance would change his tune after eating some prison mush, the sweet summer child.

Archmaester Mellos responded by restricting his movements. But Theodore and Brien? They didn't even blink. They sat beside me on the floor to get a good look at Sundance.

I knew then and there that their thirst for knowledge outranked their fear, and I admired them for that. This was also when I learned of Brien's speciality, the thing that held him back from earning the Maester's chain: the mysteries.

The Maester's chain worked as a poignant metaphor. A link on their chain represents each subject a student mastered — gold for economics, silver for healing, and so on.

It was a reminder that they all form something tangible only when these things are together, working as a unit,

Otherwise, the chain breaks.

But Brien's unfinished chain had a particular link attached: Valyrian steel.

This rare link was attained only by Maesters who dabbled extensively in the mysteries of Old Valyria. In other words, Brien was one of the only men in the Citadel who took things like 'magic' seriously.

And boy, was Brien obsessed.

If I had to make a comparison, I'd equate him to one of those tinfoil hat conspiracy buffs who rave on about microwaves and how 911 was an inside job. He might have been right, but the way he went about expressing himself was like a mad scientist.

That said, the things he taught me were fascinating. The more he went on, the more I listened, and the more he got on a role.

He spoke of the distant lands of Asshai, black stones with unknown origins, wargs and warlocks, fish people and poisonous butterflies. I swear he was making most of it up.

Yes, I'll admit. I enjoyed Brien's company.

Once you got past his shabby book-worm appearance, the way he spoke of the world captivated the imagination. And I think he was finally happy to have a willing victim of his lectures.

Theodore and Brien became the start of my entourage after that fateful day. Their philosophical banterings were like insect repellent to the nobles at court, and I soon became associated with their otherworldly vernacular.

Archmaester Mellos had other, more political goals during his tenure in the Red Keep.

He and I both were eager to get our morning lessons out of the way. I found his teaching style a bore, he wanted to rub shoulders with the small council, so it was the perfect combination.

I was confident Mellos would succeed Grandmaester Runciter when the time came.

Things continued mildly for a while. I watched my sister grow more intelligent each day, basked in my parents' love, and did my best to absorb as much as possible.

The Red Keep might have looked safe, but my gut said differently. Whenever I turned the corner, I had that same fear of the unknown that I did in Thailand.

Because of my near-death hiccup at birth, I received more leeway than usual. A dragon hatching on the first night was unheard of, so they allowed Sundance to remain with me as long as possible. They reasoned the Dragon must have saved my life or something like that.

But when Sundance got too big, even King Jaeherys had to relent and order a relocation to the Dragonpit. Sundance would have lived at the Red Keep if he had his way. But even a great King can be swayed by politics, a lesson I stored forever.

I understood, but the idea of my best friend locked away profoundly disturbed me.

As a compromise, I went to the Dragonpit each day before dawn to relieve Sundance of his bonds. It only took an hour or two of play before Sundance was satisfied, when and I shared enough 'us' time before he got bored and went off to play with the other Dragons.

I felt like a parent whose presence only embarrassed their teenage child who was too cool for school. I digress~

Everything continued mildly until I was only three years old.

King Jaehaerys held a tournament celebrating the 50th year of his reign, and people from all over the continent migrated to the capital.

Minor lords, ambitious knights, high lords of grandeur…

People from all walks of life came from Bear Island to Sunspeare.

A month from the date, the streets of King's Landing already ran amok with celebration.

Even from the castle, I could feel the festive vibrations. It was a boiling pot, slowly whistling, and everyone could anticipate a grand climax.

A grand climax they got.

It was to be a fortnight of tourneys, feasts and balls. Tomfoolery too, but that went without saying.

I was in my chambers painting a fruit bowl on the table.

Theodore poured over his maps in one corner, Brien beavered away with scrolls in another. We all stopped when my father walked in.

"Rhaenar, it's time."

"Aww, come on, father. Just a few more minutes."

Father took me by the wrist, "Come. Your paintings will be here when you get back."

Unconvinced, I shot Theodore a glance, and he knew to pack a quill and paper. You never knew when I could get inspired.

Through the Red Keep, we walked.

Father and I sported matching red and black doublets. From our shoulders flapped golden capes — my suggestion — and with Theodore and Brien at either side, we made quite the procession.

"Are mother and Rhaenyra coming with us?" I asked.

"They'll meet us there," my father said before teasing me, "Not all of us take so long to get ready."

I blushed, "Apologies. I was up all night reading."

Father smiled at that, "So the Valyrian scrolls from Dragonstone are working a treat?"

I put a finger to my lips, "Hush, father. You don't want Brien to hear…"

The roar and rumble of the jousting arena could be heard the moment we stepped outside.

Dragons pierced through the sky, swooping low near the city. It was a fun spectacle to the masses, but I only saw a not-so-subtle power flex.

We Targaryen's had Dragons, and you peasants didn't. It reminded me of the Dons who boasted their legions of crackheads, keen for their next fix of Ya ba pills, who would do their every bidding.

By the time we entered the arena, the noise of the crowd was deafening. We found my mother and sister in the Royal Booth, our seats reserved next to them.

"There you are," my mother said. My heart eased at the sound of her voice, "What took you so long?"

Father chuckled, "You know our Rhaenar, ever the artist."

He kissed mother on the cheek, "And how are my darlings?"

Rhaenyra perched on Mother's lap. My sister's pure smile could always melt my heart. She and I were slowly differing in terms of appearance by now. That fact was blatant whenever you saw her and Mother together.

Indeed, the whole narrative of my sister and I looking identical was starting to fade. Not so much in regard to appearances but more so in our personalities.

Rhaenyra played with our cousins Laenor and Laena — toys and games. I pondered reality with Theodore and Brien — books and debates.

Rhaenyra giggled as our father pinched her cheek. Bringing a three-year-old girl would be considered queerness under normal circumstances, but Rhaenyra and I did everything together.

I was 'mature' enough to attend, so by extension, my sister was dragged along. Not that she processed the violence of tourneys in those days, but I thought it was worth mentioning.

Rhaenyra was my best excuse back then. As the supposed child genius who could draw, I was naturally dragged to any royal function for my 'Dance monkey, dance!' moment.

I leaned on the whole 'twinning' thing, which meant Rhaenyra was always with me. It never took long before she got tired of all the adult stuff. She'd kick a fuss, and we were gone within the hour.

Today wasn't like those boring feasts, however. I wanted to stay the whole way through and thank the gods I did.

We took our seats in the royal booth, our entire family in attendance.

Uncle Daemon was taking part in the tournament and thus backstage. Him aside, the entire Targaryen clan was there.

I felt like my ears would implode. The crowd roared with anticipation.

Outside the arena, thousands spilt to the streets. Songs spread from every tavern, inn, and brothel. People danced to La-La-La's.

And yet, when the great King Jaehaerys emerged through the drapes, everyone in the city held their breath.

I saw not the bedridden man, his eyes with no shimmer, his skin without life.

I saw a King: Tall, confident, full of vigour. Even besides granddad Baelon (who I could tell was worriedly looking after him), not even the crown could compare to the shine of Jaehaerys.

Everyone else probably saw a God. Time stood still as King Jaehaerys waltzed to the podium.

He bothered not to silence the crowd. The King didn't need a 'Shh!' or 'Applause!' neon sign to get attention.

"Be welcome!"

His voice commanded respect.

"I know many of you have travelled long leagues to be at these celebrations. But I promise you will not be disappointed."

"The fine knights on this list are without equal in our histories. Everyone here has made this great day more auspicious, and for that, I thank you all."

"May the luck of the Seven shine upon all combatants!"

The crowd cheered and whistled. It was hard to make out, but you could hear little snippets if you listened carefully.

"Long live the King!"

.. "50 More Years!"

… "Jaehaerys the Conciliator!"

My grandsire held his arms out, reminisce of a Christ-like figure. But from behind, I noticed his shoulders drop ever so slightly.

My eyes rained. I could tell that he put every ounce of effort into that walk, that speech, that everything.

When push came to shove, Jaeherys was a King in every right. Nothing— not age, not self-doubt, arthritis or achiness could stop him.

I bet when he sat down, he sighed with great relief.

As the crowd cheered, I said

"GrandGrace did very well. I couldn't be more proud."

"Of course," father replied, "The blood of the Dragon runs through his veins, just as it does yours."

I chuckled, "As I'm so often reminded."

Prince Baelon then stood, relieving his lord father from any more talking duties, and with a clap of his hands, he shouted

"Let the games begin!"

Now, even at age three, I was no stranger to jousting.

Our Kingdom had wealth, it seemed, as I'd already encountered more tournaments than I could count.

But just as the King promised, these games were to be like no other.

Each combatant in the list represented the best Westeros had to offer, perhaps in all history.

My uncle competed, of course, but even he was no match for the upper echelon.

Brutal spectacle after brutal spectacle. Many got unhorsed, some died, and the crowd never stopped through it.

No matter how great the performance was, they wanted more.

Like Picasso, each painting completed, the first thing they ask is 'Next?'

Or an author when no one expresses goodwill at their efforts. Each paragraph they release instead met with

'wHeN nExT cHaPtEr?!'

However, the plight of an artist was a pointless discussion as far as today was concerned.

This was one of those rare moments where the insatiable appetite of the mob got quelled by popular demand.

The long-awaited finals saw Ser Clement Crabb and Ser Ryam Redwyne pitted against each other.

Though competent in killing, these two men were from reasonably low-standing families.

Well, that's not fair. The Crabb and Redwyne are respectable in their own right. But the realm won't be moving heaven and earth whenever they make a move.

It took an event like today's finals to make people consider otherwise.

Ser Clement and Ser Ryam broke their lances on each other over and over.

Five times, ten times, fifteen, twenty…

After these valiant men broke their lances on each other for the thirtieth time, the King took action.

Though riddled with grief, pain, and stiffness, King Jaehaerys made his way to the centre of the arena. Then, with his droop-skinned hands, he held the arms of Ser Clement and Ser Ryam to the sky, declaring them co-champions.

And like clockwork, petals released from the stands, and the songs and cheers ensued.

"!!!" I almost fell back in my chair. With haste, I found Brien and Theodore

"With me. Hurry!"

Together, we sprinted down to the arena. There we found the perfect angle, and I framed the perfect portrait.

I joined my fingers to a rectangle, which was all in my picture frame. King Jaeheries, the flower petals, the crowd… And the faces of Ser Clement and Ryam, each worth a million photographs.

Theodore gave me my quill and paper. Brien's back acted as the desk. I sketched that scene.

I later painted it on a wall in the great hall. A mural of epic proportions.

The bout between Ser Clement and Ser Ryam was the greatest jousting display in history. My mural only expanded those notions.

You had to wonder what came first. The legendary joust Egg, or the 'culture-defining' mural Chicken.

Either way, my mural of that scene went down in mainstream opinion as

'Perhaps the greatest work by Rhaenar Targaryen of all time.'