Chapter 02: Dreams and Prophecies

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Harrenhal - 281 AC / Maekar Targaryen Pov (The Next Day):

Maekar Targaryen awoke to a pounding in his skull, a relentless throbbing that pulsed behind his eyes with the rhythm of a war drum. He groaned, his hand instinctively reaching to cradle his head, as if he feared it might split open like a ripe melon.

"Gods." he muttered, his voice rough with sleep, "How much did I bloody drink last night?"

He then rubbed at his temples, trying to push away the pain, when memories of the previous night, hazy and fevered, came rushing back. The image of Ashara Dayne,— those deep violet eyes, the scent of her hair, the feel of her skin against his,— still lingered in his mind.

He could still taste her lips,— both of them, still hear the breathless way she had whispered and moaned his name in the darkness of the woods.

The thought brought a faint smirk to his lips, despite the pain he still felt. "The most beautiful woman in the Seven Kingdoms..." he murmured, half to himself. "And she was only mine to take."

The realization filled him with a fierce sense of triumph, a thrill that coursed through his veins like wildfire.

It wasn't just that he desired her,— though that much was undeniable,— it was the fact that he had claimed her, a prize that men spoke of in hushed tones. Yet even in that thought, there was something more, something deeper.

It wasn't just lust or conquest that made him remember her touch; it was the warmth in her eyes, the way she'd looked at him as though he were the only man in her small world.

His thoughts lingered there, on that knife's edge between desire and something he did not dare to name, until the pain in his head pulled him back to the present.

With a growl, he pushed himself off the bed, his feet hitting the cold stone floor, and moved to the nearby window. The morning air, cool and sharp, caressing his face as he stared out at the expanse of Harrenhal's grounds.

The forest stretched out beyond, dark and silent, and he thought he could almost see the path he and Ashara had taken the night before. His hand ran through his silver hair, letting the breeze ruffle it, and he took a deep breath.

"Today..." he murmured, feeling the weight of it settle on his shoulders, "... is the day that I face you, brother."

Rhaegar Targaryen.

His brother, his blood, and the one he had always stood in the shadow of.

Today they would meet on the jousting field, dragon against dragon, and there would be no more hiding, no more pretending that this was just another tourney.

He would face his brother not just for honor, but for something greater,— recognition, glory, and a chance to crown the woman who haunted his thoughts as the Queen of Love and Beauty.

Maekar's heart quickened then, a mixture of excitement and dread coiling in his chest like a viper ready to strike.

He could not afford to lose.

Not today, and certainly not against his brother.

And so he dressed with quick, practiced movements, fastening the buckles of his armor and smoothing down his unruly hair with the comb left by his bedside. His silver strands fell back into place, catching the morning light and gleaming like molten steel.

With a donned crimson cloak, fastened at the shoulder with a dragon-shaped brooch, he felt the familiar weight of it settle across his back.

Without thinking too much, he made his way out of his chamber, being then greeted by the sight of Ser Gerold Hightower standing at attention, his white cloak trailing behind him like a specter. The old knight's face was as stern as ever, his eyes watchful beneath his heavy brows, and yet there was a glimmer of something in his gaze,— perhaps amusement or maybe even approval.

"Gerold." Maekar greeted with a smirk. "Fancy seeing you here so early. One would think you have nothing better to do."

Ser Gerold's mouth twitched into the barest hint of a smile. "It is my duty, my prince. I'd not see you run off again into the woods chasing shadows."

Maekar's laugh was low, a rumble deep in his chest. "Who's to say I won't, old man? Perhaps there's another beauty waiting for me in the trees."

"Aye." Gerold said, and the smile vanished as quickly as it had come. "But there are 'wolves' in those woods too. And not all of them wear fur."

They walked in silence for a time then, their footsteps echoing through the stone corridors. Servants hurried past, bowing low, their eyes flickering with curiosity and awe.

Maekar ignored them all, his thoughts already drifting back to the joust, to the thunder of hooves and the shattering of lances that would follow.

"Gerold." Maekar said suddenly, his voice carrying a weight it hadn't held moments before. "What happened last night…"

"You need not worry, my prince." Ser Gerold interrupted, his tone as smooth as polished marble. "What happens in the shadows belongs to the shadows. I'll not speak of it to any soul."

For the first time that morning, Maekar allowed himself to relax. "I'm glad to hear that." he said, his smile returning. "The less said about it, the better. I wouldn't want to give the bards any more songs to write and sing."

They rounded a corner then, in their way to the kitchens to grab something to eat, and found themselves face-to-face with a tall, broad-shouldered man whose cloak bore the direwolf of House Stark.

Brandon Stark stood before them, his dark hair tousled and his grey eyes gleaming with something that looked very much like a challenge. Ser Gerold's hand moved to the hilt of his sword, his expression hardening, but Maekar raised a hand to stay his hand.

"Prince Maekar." Brandon said with a slight bow, though the smirk on his face betrayed the mockery and disdain he had of the targaryens. "I hope the day finds you well."

"It finds me well enough." Maekar replied, matching the Stark's smirk with one of his own. "I don't believe we've had the pleasure of meeting properly. You would be Lord Rickard's eldest wolf, yes?"

"Aye, that's me." Brandon said, straightening his back. "And you, my prince, are the famous 'Daring Dragon' everyone speaks of. Though I must admit, I expected you to be… taller."

Maekar's eyes narrowed, but there was a glint of amusement there. "And I expected you to be less of a fool, in all honesty." he said, his tone light. "But the day is still young, who knows."

Brandon laughed, a deep, booming sound that echoed off the stone walls. "Perhaps we're both disappointed then."

The air between them crackled with unspoken tension, the kind that promised either violence or something far more dangerous. But before it could go any further, a voice cut through the air like the howl of a winter wind.

"Brandon!"

The younger Stark's smirk vanished, his shoulders stiffening as he turned to face the imposing figure of his own father. Lord Rickard Stark approached, his face a mask of calm authority, though his eyes flashed with barely restrained anger.

"What is going on here?" Rickard demanded from his son, his gaze shifting between his son and the Targaryen prince.

Maekar nodded slightly, ever the image of courteousness. "We were merely exchanging pleasantries, Lord Stark." he said, his voice smooth as silk. "Your son has quite the tongue on him, but I've found it most entertaining."

Lord Rickard's expression did not change, but he gave a curt nod. "My prince, Ser Gerold." he said, his tone respectful but firm. "Forgive any offense my son may have caused. He sometimes lets his wolf's blood get the better of him."

Brandon's face flushed red, but he remained silent, glaring daggers at the ground.

"No offense taken." Maekar assured him. "If anything, I've enjoyed our little encounter. It's not often I find someone willing to speak so freely with me."

"That is a rare thing indeed, I suppose." Lord Rickard replied, though his gaze never wavered from Maekar's, and after a few seconds, he continued speaking. "I should leave with my son, though I wish you the best of luck in the joust to come, my prince."

"Thank you, Lord Stark." Maekar said, offering a smile that was all teeth. "I hope I do not disappoint."

And as he and Ser Gerold continued down the corridor, leaving the Starks behind, Maekar allowed himself one last glance over his shoulder.

Brandon stood there, his head held high, but his father's hand was a firm grip on his shoulder, as if to hold him back from leaping at the dragon.

"Interesting young man." Maekar muttered.

"A wolf with a death wish, that's what." Ser Gerold grumbled.

"Perhaps you are right." Maekar agreed, the corner of his mouth curling upwards once more. "But then again, aren't we all?"

And as they walked toward the kitchens, where his morning meal awaited, Maekar's thoughts were filled not with his brother, nor the joust, but the memory of a violet-eyed beauty waiting for him somewhere beyond the walls of Harrenhal, where dragons and wolves could not follow.

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In a hidden glade on the outskirts of Harrenhal, three figures stood amidst the tranquil hush of early morning, each caught in their own rhythm of sparring, observation, and contemplation. The mist clung stubbornly to the ground, swirling around their feet like ghosts reluctant to surrender to the warmth of dawn.

The scent of pine mingled with the damp musk of earth, and the air was thick with the lingering freshness of night's passing. Sunlight filtered through the dense canopy above, its golden rays breaking through the tangle of branches to cast shifting patterns of light and shadow upon the clearing. The dew on the blades of grass caught the morning light, sparkling like a thousand tiny diamonds, or the points of swords unsheathed, ready for battle. It was a moment suspended between stillness and motion, where even the air seemed to hold its breath, as if unwilling to disturb the balance between warrior, lady, and knight.

"Bring your shield higher." Ser Gerold Hightower commanded, his voice cutting through the morning stillness like the edge of a blade. It was not the voice of a courtier or a noble, but that of a warrior hardened by countless battles, tempered and unyielding.

The White Bull stood across from Maekar, his posture relaxed, yet there was a coiled energy about him, like a great beast waiting to pounce. In his hand, he held a simple castle-forged longsword, its blade glinting in the sunlight.

Maekar cursed under his breath, adjusting his stance, his muscles aching with each movement. Sweat clung to his skin, and his silver hair hung damp and unruly across his forehead. He gripped the shield tighter,— his only weapon for this sparring lesson, feeling the rough wood and leather dig into his fingers, grounding him, reminding him that he was very much alive, that every bruise, every cut was a reminder of that.

"I'm not some green boy to be lectured on the basics!" he snapped, his tone sharp, though it carried an undertone of frustration and tiredness.

"No." Ser Gerold agreed, his eyes never leaving Maekar. "You're a prince, which means you've more to lose than any green boy out there." Without warning, he struck, the flat of his blade crashing against Maekar's shield with a force that sent the younger man stumbling. "Again."

Nearby, leaning against the trunk of a twisted, ancient tree, Ashara Dayne watched with an expression of faint amusement. Her gown, a deep violet that matched the striking shade of her eyes, seemed to drink in the light.

A gentle breeze ruffled her dark hair, and the soft flutter of wings accompanied the small sparrows that had chosen to settle on her arms and shoulders, as if drawn to her by some unseen force. They hopped along her arms, chirping softly, a stark contrast to the violence of the sparring before them.

"You're as predictable as the sunrise, Maekar." she called out, her voice carrying that lilt of Dorne that made every word sound like a song. "If you move as sluggishly as you do now, your brother will unhorse you before you can even lift your lance."

Maekar shot her a look, one that might have been a glare were it not softened by the way his lips quirked into a smile. "And if you continue to taunt me, Lady Ashara, I might have to teach you the difference between jest and folly."

"Oh?" Ashara's eyes sparkled with mischief. "Perhaps you should, my prince. I've always been a quick learner."

Ser Gerold's snort interrupted their banter.

"You'd be wise to keep your focus on your opponent, my prince." he said, and before Maekar could respond, the old knight's blade lashed out, a blur of steel that Maekar barely managed to block. The force of the blow sent a jarring pain up his arm, and he gritted his teeth, digging his feet into the soft earth to keep his balance.

"Steady." Ser Gerold murmured, circling him, his eyes never wavering. "The lance is not the only weapon your brother wields. You'll need more than strength if you wish to best him."

The words stung, more than Maekar would ever admit. "I'll defeat him!" he growled, pushing forward, his shield strikes coming faster, harder. "You'll see."

Ser Gerold parried each blow with an ease that bordered on disdain. "Perhaps you will." he said. "But not like this."

And then came the strike.

A sudden, vicious blow that crashed into the rim of Maekar's shield, sending it back into his face with a crack. Stars burst before his eyes, and for a moment, the world blurred, dissolving into darkness.

He was somewhere else.

Maekar stood in a cavern of ice, his breath curling in the frigid air like tendrils of smoke.

Frost clung to the jagged walls, and the ground crunched beneath his boots as he decided to take a few steps foward. A chill seeped into his bones, colder than any winter he had known, and for a moment, he could scarcely breathe. In the shadows, a raven perched on a twisted branch, its eyes gleaming like twin coals, watching him with an eerie, knowing intensity.

Before him, resting against the frozen stone, was a sword,— a blade as dark as a moonless night, its edge sharp and wicked.

Darksister.

The name whispered to him, echoing through the cavern like the wind's mournful cry. It called to him, promising power, promising glory, and something else, something that pulsed with an ancient, unspoken hunger.

The raven let out a harsh, jarring caw, the sound slicing through the stillness. "Not yours!" it seemed to scream, its voice filled with fury. "Not yours!"

But Maekar took a step forward, drawn to the blade, to its promise. His hand reached out, fingers trembling, aching to grasp its hilt,— but then a thought formed on his head.

Where even was this... cave? And as if lighting, an answer came to his head, as if the gods themselves were granting him the knowledge.

Beyond the wall.

At the same time, his fingers almost touched the black sword, before his vision went dark, and a desperate voice called out to him.

"Maekar!"

He blinked, and whatever that vision was, shattered.

He was back in the clearing, the sunlight harsh and blinding, the scent of pine and sweat filling his lungs. His heart pounded like a drum, and he could still feel the icy bite of that otherworldly place, lingering like a phantom's touch.

"You went still." Ser Gerold's voice was rough, though there was a thread of concern woven through it, barely audible. "What did you see?"

"Nothing." Maekar lied, swallowing hard, forcing a grin that felt hollow. "A trick of the light, perhaps. Or maybe you finally knocked some sense into me, old man."

Ashara had already moved closer, her expression no longer one of amusement but of genuine worry. "Are you certain?" she asked, her voice soft, like the rustle of leaves. "You looked as though you'd seen a ghost."

"A dream...?" Maekar murmured to himself, dismissing it with a shake of his head.

"It was nothing." He tried to steady his breathing, but the memory of that raven's cry, of the cold that had seeped into his very bones, would not leave him.

Ser Gerold narrowed his eyes, studying him, having catched onto Maekar's words.

"Dreams have a way of turning into nightmares if you let them, my prince."

Maekar waved him off, unwilling to delve deeper. "Let's continue." he said, raising his shield once more, though it felt heavier now, like it bore the weight of that vision. "I've a match to win today, and I'd rather not look like a fool in front of the realm."

The White Bull nodded, though his gaze lingered on the prince a moment longer, as if searching for something hidden. "As you wish."

The spar resumed, but there was a tension now, a shadow that hung over them, as if the vision had left a mark, one that could not be easily erased. And though Maekar parried and struck back, and though he moved with the same fierce determination as before, he could not shake the feeling that something had shifted.

From the edge of the clearing, Ashara watched, her eyes never leaving Maekar, the small sparrows fluttering back to perch on her arms as if drawn by her warmth, her presence. "Be careful, my prince..." she whispered, though her words were carried away by the wind, her worry for Maekar was felt in the small clearing.

And Maekar felt her gaze, even as he clashed with Ser Gerold, his mind distracted momentarily.

That led him to think of Darksister yet again.

But that was a battle for another day. Today, he had to defeat his brother. Today, he would be the dragon.

And as the sun climbed higher, casting their shadows long and dark upon the grass, they continued, blade against blade, the echoes of their struggle lost amidst the whispering leaves, the cawing of distant ravens, and the silent, watchful eyes of a woman who now cared for the prince that stood to inherit nothing.

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Harrenhal - 281 AC / Rhaegar Targaryen Pov (A few hours earlier):

It happener in Rhaegar's bedchamber at Harrenhal, just before sunrise.

The room steeped in shadows, cloaked in the stillness that lingers before the first light of day. The faintest trace of sunlight seeps through the narrow windows, a mere whisper of warmth in the cold, damp air of the ancient castle.

And it was then and there, that the dream came as it always did,— wrapped in mist, elusive and dark, where voices echoed like distant memories.

"You must take her."

The words, as soft as a breath, floated through the fog, yet their weight was undeniable. Rhaegar stood on the edge of a vast, shadowed abyss, the air heavy with foreboding. Through the mist, the shape of a wolf emerged, fierce and untamed, its eyes gleaming with primal intensity.

"Lyanna Stark. She is the key." The voice pressed on, sharper now, the insistence in its tone like the edge of a knife. "The world will fall to darkness if you do not act."

The vision twisted, the mist clearing to reveal a realm in ruin.

Castles crumbled, their stones swallowed by blackened skies, and flames clawed at the heavens. Dragons soared above, their wings vast and dark, but their fire was snuffed out by an all-consuming shadow. The darkness grew, spreading like a plague, drowning the world in silence.

"The dragon must have three heads." The voice spoke again, more distinct now, its tone unmistakable in its authority. "Without her, without your Visenya, your children will perish. You will fail, Rhaegar."

And as swiftly as it had come, the dream dissolved, the mist falling away like ash scattered on a cold wind.

Rhaegar's eyes flew open then.

The bedchamber was still wrapped in shadows, but the faint light of sunrise crept slowly over the stone floor, spilling pale and ghostly across the room. For a moment, he lay still, his chest rising and falling rapidly, his heart pounding as if he had just returned from battle. Sweat clung to his skin, dampening his silver hair, which fell in soft waves against his brow. But it wasn't the physical toll that weighed on him,— it was the dream, that voice, those words.

"You must take her."

Beside him, Elia lay in peaceful slumber, her dark lashes resting softly against her cheeks, her face serene in the stillness of sleep. Her presence, so calm and familiar, tugged at his heart, but it did nothing to quell the storm brewing inside him. At her side, their daughter, Rhaenys, lay curled beneath a blanket, her tiny form barely stirring. And nearby, in a cradle by the bed, Aegon slept soundly, his breath steady and even.

Rhaegar stared at them, a swell of guilt rising in his throat. Elia. She had been nothing but kind, gentle, the perfect wife, a queen in all but name. His children,— their children,— were his pride, his legacy. But they were not enough.

There must be three. It echoed in his mind, a drumbeat of certainty, louder than the guilt, louder than the doubt.

Visenya.

He needed his Visenya, the third head of the dragon. Without her, the prophecy would remain unfulfilled, the balance incomplete.

Without Lyanna Stark, the wolf with fire in her veins, the kingdom would fall, drowned in the darkness the gods had found fit to shown him.

The entire realm would perish.

His hands clenched beneath the furs, the fire building in his chest. It wasn't desire that filled him, not in the usual sense,— it was something deeper, something sharper. It was necessity.

The fate of the world hung on the edge of a blade, and he would be the one to tip the balance. He would win this tourney. He would crown Lyanna, and with her enamored by him, he would forge the future that prophecy demanded.

Slowly, Rhaegar slid from the bed, his movements careful and deliberate so as not to wake his sleeping family. His bare feet touched the cold stone floor, grounding him, tethering him to the reality of what must be done. The dawn's first light crept through the narrow windows, brushing over the chamber like the promise of something distant. But Rhaegar felt none of its warmth.

The shadows of the dream clung to him still.

Rhaegar dressed in silence, pulling on the fine silks and embroidered doublet, the familiar weight of his armor pressing against his shoulders. His mind was already consumed by the joust, by what was to come.

And as he stepped into the corridor, Arthur was there, the Sword of the Morning standing tall in his Kingsguard cloak, white and resplendent, a mirror of all that was noble and true.

Arthur's sharp eyes studied him as Rhaegar approached, his brow furrowing slightly. He senses it, Rhaegar thought. He always does.

"Good morrow, my prince." Arthur greeted him with a slight bow, his voice low and steady, carrying the comfort of long companionship. "It seems we have a fine day ahead. Would you not agree?"

Rhaegar smiled, but it was a distant smile, more hollow than warm. "Indeed. A fine day for many things."

Arthur held his gaze for a long moment, and Rhaegar saw the flicker of concern in his friend's violet eyes. "You seem... troubled, Rhaegar. Is it the thought of facing your brother?"

"No." Rhaegar replied softly, shaking his head, though the smile faded from his lips.

"Not troubled, Arthur. More certain than I have ever been." He lifted his gaze toward the windows, where the morning light streamed in, bright and golden. "Everything happens today."

Arthur blinked, a shadow of uncertainty crossing his features. "I see..." he murmured, though the words seemed more for himself than for Rhaegar. "There has been a weight on you of late. Perhaps, after the tourney,— "

"There is no after." Rhaegar interrupted, his voice quiet but firm, the words carrying the weight of a man who had glimpsed something beyond the present. "Everything happens today. The dragon must have three heads, after all."

Arthur's brow furrowed deeper at the cryptic words.

Three heads.

The phrase seemed to linger in the air between them, heavy with meaning, but Arthur did not press. He knew better than to question the prince's dreams, his visions.

But the unease settled deeper within him.

"You intend to win." Arthur said slowly, choosing his words with care. "But I wonder, is it only the joust you mean to conquer today?"

Rhaegar's eyes flickered, and for the briefest of moments, a shadow crossed his face. "Perhaps not."

Arthur held his gaze, the doubt growing in his mind, but he did not voice it. He had fought beside Rhaegar for years, had seen the prince's visions guide him through many trials. But this… this felt different. Prophecy could be a guide, but it could also be a snare.

And the certainty in Rhaegar's voice, the conviction in his eyes,— it was the kind that could lead a man to his doom.

"Then may the gods grant you strength." Arthur said at last, though the words rang hollow in his own ears.

As they walked toward the tilt-yard, the air between them thick with unspoken tension, Arthur's gaze remained fixed on the man he had sworn to protect. Rhaegar's path was clear, but it seemed now that it led toward something darker than he had ever imagined.

And in the back of Arthur's mind, a question began to form, quiet and insidious: If Rhaegar's dreams led him to ruin, would Arthur follow him into it?

A few years ago, the answer would easily be an yes. Today however, the answer would not come so quick to his mind...

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Thoughts on this? I need interactions with you lot hahaha.