Rips and Roses

'War never ends. Pray you don't learn that the hard way.'

- Taken from 'The Travels of Fyrio Fartold.'

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The trio spoke just outside the great hall, surrounded by the activity of lords and ladies. Each murmured 'My Prince, My Princess' in deference as they passed.

"What say you, uncle? Shall we keep this party going?" Rhaenar said.

Prince Daemon stifled a yawn.

"No. I'll take our King's advice and rest. There are things I must do before the bulk of guests arrive."

"I see you take your duty as commander of the city watch seriously. Very well."

With a mischievous half-wink, Prince Daemon took his leave.

"I'll keep going," Princess Rhaenyra offered.

Rhaenar pinched her cheek. Despite the bags under her eyes, her beauty remained undiminished. 

"Nay, get some sleep. A bath would do you wonders."

"Why don't you join me?" she suggested in a low voice. "Just like when we were little."

"I recall you taking up all the space in that regard," Rhaenar chuckled.

"There's room."

"For you, I have no doubt."

With that, Rhaenar bid his sister farewell.

Rhaenyra watched as the red cape of her brother swayed with his long strides. Rhaenar always walked quickly in the Red Keep.

In reality, it was to hurry to his destinations, and the pace deterred any would-be admirers who sought to give him company.

With each step he took, the distance between them grew. Rhaenyra was reminded limited time they had. It seemed these days that amidst the opulence of royalty, time remained most precious.

Thus, Prince Rhaenar made his way to Maegor's Holdfast. 

On the way, Lord Caswell intercepted him in the halls.

"Prince Rhaenar," Lord Caswell greeted with the utmost respect. "Might I be the first to welcome you back?"

Rhaenar smiled. "My father beat you to it. Thank you, my lord. You're very kind."

Allun Caswell beamed at the simple compliment, his hand placed over the crest of his House, yellow centaur aiming a bow upon a white field. 

"If there is any way I can be of service, House Caswell is honored to serve."

Rhaenar observed Lord Caswell with veiled skepticism. "The Crown is blessed to have such stout Defenders of the Ford. I still cherish the time spent at Bitterbridge with your family."

Lord Caswell chuckled. "I dare say we won't celebrate like that for quite some time."

"I dare say it will come sooner than you think," Rhaenar said, cryptic. "Now, if you'll excuse me."

And so Rhaenar continued to the royal apartments, where he found a familiar face stationed outside his quarters.

"Ser Steffon!" Rhaenar called out. "Waiting for me?"

"Prince Rhaenar," Ser Steffon replied dryly. 

 Ser Steffon, a member of House Darklyn, had served in the Kingsguard for the entirety of Viserys's reign thus far. Duskendale was no stranger to Rhaenar, who spent much time in the Crownlands during his youth. 

Ser Steffon was also there during Rhaenar's campaign in the Vale. His dry tone hinted at a mixture of respect and exasperation towards his unpredictable prince.

"Yes. I thought I'd meet you here."

"You'll have to wait a little longer, I'm afraid."

Ser Steffon was not phased, "As is my duty," 

With that, Rhaenar shut the door to his chambers. He savored the silence of loneliness as he scanned the room, the same as he'd left it.

The room was densely packed. A cluster of half-finished paintings. Books and scrolls filled every available surface, stacked haphazardly upon tables and overflowing from shelves. But to Rhaenar there was a sense of order to the chaos.

The hearth still had some embers, indicating someone had been there during the night. Such occurrences were not uncommon. The clutter might be nauseating to the some, but to those used to it, it offered a glimpse into the prince's past and present. 

Rhaenar surmised this gave some comfort to his family. He sighed.

Then something colorful caught his eye. There on the round table in a tall vase was a rose, emerald green. Rhaenar picked it up and savored the sweet fragrance. 

"Alicent..."

This had been their tradition for years. Each day without fail, Alicent Hightower would pick a flower from the gardens and place it in Rhaenar's room. Each time, the flower would be different, a fresh burst of color and fragrance. 

It was remarkable how much Rhaenar looked forward to this simple gesture. The sweetness of it wasn't lost on him, considering that Alicent continued the even during Rhaenar's absences from the Red Keep.

After all, one never knew when he'd return. All the same there'd be a new flower waiting.

Suddenly, Rhaenar felt renewed with energy. He beckoned the servants to draw a bath.

.

..

…

..

.

After bathing, Rhaenar donned the lightweight armor of the legion's urban kit. 

Equipped with forearm guards, shin guards, and a breastplate, the ensemble provided ample protection while allowing unrestricted movement. Etched into the black breastplate were the fine contours of an eight-pack, which gave a needlessly intimidating finish.

And indeed, with Blackfyre strapped to his waist, Rhaenar cut the figure of a warrior prince.

His route took him to the godswood, where a weirwood with a carved face stood vigil.

Approaching him with a stroppy stride, Alicent Hightower wore a sky-blue dress that complemented her pale, smooth skin and high cheekbones. 

Her hazel eyes, always warm, appeared green in certain lighting conditions or depending on her attire.

Not this day.

"Alicent—," Rhaenar began. He noticed the determination in her gait, the pout on her lips. "Something wrong?"

"Rhaenyra," she said, laden with frustration. "She can be so disagreeable at times"

Rhaenar arched a brow. "When is she never?"

He noticed the book in Alicent's hands and deduced the situation. She and her sister often studied together in the godswood.

Princess Rhaenyra approached with regal poise, hands behind her back.

"Princess Nymeria led her Rhoynar across the Narrow Sea on 10,000 ships to flee their Valyrian pursuers," Rhaenyra recited.

Alicent hurriedly flipped through the book to find the passage. To her surprise, Rhaenyra had quoted it accurately.

Crossing his arms, Rhaenar watched with a smug expression as his sister displayed her knowledge.

'Know-it-all.'

"She took Lord Mors Martell of Dorne to husband," Rhaenyra continued, "and burned her own fleet off Sunspear to show her people that they were finished running."

Alicent gazed at her like a fawn. For a moment, Rhaenar could have mistaken them for lovers.

Then, abruptly, Rhaenyra tore the page from the book.

"What are you doing?" Alicent exclaimed.

Rhaenyra tossed the page to her, "So you remember.

"If the Septa sees this book, then—"

"Fuck the Septa."

Alicent's eyes widened at the unladylike language. "Rhaenyra!"

Rhaenar laughed and tore out a page of his own. "Fuck the rules!"

Both turned to Alicent, awaiting her response. Her hands moved almost of their own accord as she tore a page.

"Fuck… turnip greens!"

Alicent's cheeks flushed as she covered her mouth with a delicate hand. The Prince and Princess shared a laugh at their childhood companion's embarrassment.

After they composed themselves, Rhaenar offered his arms, and together Rhaenyra and Alicent linked theirs with his, happy to be escorted.

The trio strolled through the gardens as distant bells tolled.

Immersed in the clean scents of their hair, Rhaenar said. "Seriously though, the Septa will be very cross. Mind taking one for the team, Rhaenyra?"

Rhaenyra chuckled softly. "For you, brother, I'll take on the world."

"You hear that, Alicent? And here I thought you were the favorite."

Feeling the cool touch of the vambrace, Alicent tightened her grip on his forearm. "We ladies must stick together."

"Of course," Rhaenar mused,

"As is my fate. Doomed to be ever outnumbered."