Chapter Text
♦♦♦
When Rhaegon Targaryen returned to the Red Keep after many years spent crossing seas and continents on diplomatic missions in service to his brother, King Viserys, he found the court immersed in a rare atmosphere of contentment. The halls seemed brighter, the corridors more lively, and even the servants carried an unusual lightness in their expressions. It did not take him long to learn the reason. The queen had been blessed by the gods with another pregnancy, promising a new heir for the House of the Dragon, while his only niece, little Rhaenyra, had already reached eight years of age. Time, he realized, had passed quietly while he sailed through distant ports and negotiated in foreign courts.
His arrival, naturally, became an immediate topic of discussion throughout the castle. Servants whispered in kitchens and hallways; ladies spoke of him between hushed laughs; knights watched him from the corners of their eyes. Some spoke with admiration. Others with unease. There was something about Rhaegon that inspired both. Perhaps it was simply the blood of Old Valyria that ran through his veins. Or perhaps it was something more.
Fire had left its mark upon him.
Years ago, the flames had claimed their price for his ambition. Nearly half of his body bore deep scars, permanent marks that wound across his skin like dried riverbeds cutting through a ruined landscape. The entire right side of him had been badly burned. Though still recognizable, his face carried traces of the suffering he had endured. The violet eye that had once reflected the unmistakable beauty of House Targaryen now held a dull, lifeless gray iris, like a stone worn smooth by time.
And yet, Rhaegon never made any attempt to hide his scars.
He wore no masks. He did not conceal his face beneath hoods. He did not cover the burns with heavy fabrics. He walked the halls as he always had—upright, unconcerned, and proud—as though the fire had taken nothing from him at all. Whenever he noticed the curious stares, he merely smiled.
He often said it had been a small price to pay for Cannibal.
And few men in Westeros could claim to ride a dragon so colossal and feared.
Still, idle tongues never allowed the truth to remain simple.
They said the prince had attempted to tame Cannibal three times.
The first time, the dragon had nearly taken his arm.
The second time, it had burned his face.
The third time, however, the rumors took on a darker tone. Whispers claimed that Rhaegon had turned to the ancient blood arts of Valyria; that he had spoken words long forgotten by men; that he had sacrificed a part of himself to bend the beast's will and bring it to heel.
None of it was ever confirmed.
Yet no one could deny that the prince held a fascination for the darker aspects of Targaryen heritage. While many of his kin viewed dragons as the greatest legacy of their bloodline, Rhaegon sought answers in forgotten manuscripts, ancient legends, and knowledge that prudent men would rather leave unspoken.
— Rhaegon!
Viserys's voice carried across the hall before he had taken more than a few steps.
The king approached swiftly and pulled him into a firm embrace, holding him with genuine affection. Then he ruffled his silver hair just as he had when they were boys.
— By the Seven, you've grown thin! Did they not feed you properly in Essos?
A smile appeared on the prince's face.
—I'm afraid constant travel has taken a greater toll on me than I expected.
—Then you'll gain it all back during the feasts.
— What a terrible ordeal.
Viserys laughed loudly.
— You've still got your sense of humor.
— Some things survive even the fiercest storms.
For a moment, they simply looked at one another. The years apart had done nothing to diminish the affection they shared. There was sincerity in that reunion; the rare comfort of two brothers finding each other again after a long absence.
— It is good to be home, — Rhaegon said.
Viserys's expression softened.
— And it is good to have you back.
— Uncle Rhaegon!
A small figure shot through the crowd like an arrow loosed from a bow.
Rhaenyra.
Her silver-gold hair gleamed beneath the torchlight as she ran across the hall without the slightest concern for etiquette or decorum.
Rhaegon opened his arms just as the girl threw herself at him.
— Little Flame!
He lifted her effortlessly and spun her through the air. The child's delighted laughter echoed throughout the hall.
— Look how you've grown!
— Father says I become prettier every day!
The proud smile on her face widened immediately.
Rhaegon set her back on the floor and gently brushed a hand over her braids.
— And more vain as well.
— That is certainly true. — Viserys added with a laugh.
The king rested a hand upon his daughter's shoulder.
— And soon you'll be a big sister.
— May the gods be kind to all of us…
But scarcely had the words left his lips when something caught his attention.
Or rather—
Someone.
His gaze swept across the hall and settled upon a young woman he had somehow failed to notice among the guests until now.
The world seemed to slow.
Voices faded into indistinct murmurs. The music became distant. Laughter vanished. For a fleeting moment, everything around him lost its importance.
Only she remained.
Brown hair fell in long, carefully braided waves. Delicate strands caught the golden candlelight, creating soft copper highlights. Her gown was modest by the standards of the court, fashioned in pale shades of green reminiscent of new leaves at the beginning of spring. Its cut was simple, elegant, and free of excess.
And yet, nothing had ever seemed so beautiful.
Rhaegon watched her for a long moment.
Perhaps too long.
There was grace in her movements. Serenity in her posture. A natural elegance that could never be taught.
Then she lifted her face slightly.
And he saw her eyes.
Olive green.
Deep.
Alive.
Eyes that seemed to hold ancient forests and secrets whispered by the wind. For the first time in many years, Rhaegon Targaryen felt completely disarmed.
Dragons did not intimidate him.
Kings did not intimidate him.
But those eyes made his heart stumble. The young woman noticed his lingering stare. Her eyes met his. Then she smiled. A small smile.
Gentle.
Sincere.
Nothing more.
Yet it was enough to leave him completely motionless.
— You won't catch the lady's attention if you keep staring at her like a complete fool.
Viserys's amused voice reached him.
Rhaegon did not even look away.
— Who is she?
The king followed his gaze.
A smile immediately appeared on his face.
— Alicent. Alicent Hightower. Otto Hightower's daughter.
Rhaegon repeated the name silently.
Alicent.
The word drifted through his mind like a soft melody.
Alicent.
Sweet as honey. Light as a song.
— She was the girl who read to our grandfather every night. — Viserys continued.
But the prince was no longer listening.
His gaze remained fixed on her.
Alicent Hightower.
For reasons he could not explain, her name seemed to settle within him the very moment he heard it. At last, without taking his eyes off the young woman, he declared:
— I am going to marry that woman.
Viserys turned to his brother, eyebrows raised.
Over the years, he had watched Rhaegon brave rough seas, survive dragonfire, and face dangers that would have sent ordinary men running.
But never had he seen him so utterly certain as he was in that moment.
♦♦♦
On rainy days, the Red Keep seemed wrapped in an ancient, solemn silence. Corridors usually crowded with the constant bustle of servants became nearly deserted, and the few who still hurried through the halls did so with quick steps and hushed voices, careful to ensure no window remained open against the advancing storm. The sound of rain ruled over everything. It echoed across the stone roofs, streamed down walls darkened by moisture, and drummed endlessly against stained glass windows, weaving a melancholy melody that seemed to envelop the entire castle.
Rhaegon had always loved such days.
He enjoyed the rain, but even more so the cold it carried with it. The air became cleaner, lighter, carrying the scent of wet earth and the distant sea while washing away the stench of the capital. There was something comforting about it. As though the whole world had been forced to slow its pace for a few precious hours.
He stood motionless beneath the stone arches of the gallery stretching along the southwestern wing of the castle. The elevated walkway offered partial shelter from the weather, though occasional gusts of wind carried thin curtains of rain through the openings, scattering droplets across the marble floor. The banners hanging along the walls stirred gently, while the gray mist of the storm wrapped King's Landing in an almost ghostly haze.
The prince's eyes, however, remained fixed upon the Dragonpit.
Even from a distance, its massive structure dominated the landscape, rising above the city's buildings like a mountain of dark stone.
Cannibal was not kept there with the other dragons.
He never could be.
The beast was too aggressive, too untamable, too ancient. No dragonkeeper dared approach him more than necessary, and the men responsible for caring for the dragons agreed that confining him would be a monumental mistake. They feared that, deprived of his freedom, the dragon would vent his fury upon any smaller creature unfortunate enough to share his prison.
And so Cannibal remained free.
As free as a dragon could be.
At that moment, he was perched atop the immense dome of the Dragonpit.
The sight was both awe-inspiring and unsettling.
His colossal body rested upon the stone structure as though testing its limits, silently judging whether a building raised by men could truly bear his weight. His folded wings formed a dark mass that blended with the storm clouds themselves. Claws, as large as tree trunks, gripped the stone with apparent carelessness, though every subtle movement hinted at a strength capable of tearing down castle walls.
There, motionless against the gray sky, Cannibal resembled a gigantic bat carved from shadow.
Watching.
Always watching.
His long neck shifted occasionally, and his eyes swept over the city below with an almost unsettling attentiveness. He seemed to watch King's Landing in every detail, like an ancient predator surveying a territory that had belonged to him long before the coming of men.
The rain fell without pause.
It streamed down his black horns.
Slid across the membranes of his wings.
Gathered between the plates of his scales before spilling once more in long, shimmering rivulets.
Beneath the pale light of that overcast afternoon, the droplets became tiny liquid crystals, adorning the dragon like fleeting jewels scattered across living armor. With every subtle movement, thousands of silver reflections appeared and vanished across his dark body.
For a moment, as he watched the colossal creature silhouetted against the storm-darkened sky, Rhaegon understood why the ancient Valyrians believed dragons to be more than mere beasts.
There was something about them that transcended the ordinary nature of the world's creatures.
Something ancient.
Something wild.
Something that reminded men, if only for a moment, how small they truly were.
— Do you not wish to go inside, my prince? The chill of this rain cannot be good for your health.
The voice came softly from behind him.
Sweet as honey.
Rhaegon recognized it immediately, even before he turned.
And when he did, a pleasant warmth spread through his chest. A smile found its way to his lips before he even realized it.
— Ah, no, my lady. Quite the opposite. — There was a trace of amusement in his voice. — I have always enjoyed the cold. In truth, i would say i enjoy it more than ought to.
His eyes settled upon her.
It was Alicent.
The very same young woman who had captured his attention at the feast days before. Beneath the gray light of the rainy afternoon, she seemed even more beautiful. Her brown hair was arranged in delicate braids, though a few loose strands danced in the wind. Her pale green gown blended perfectly with the damp, melancholy scenery around them, making her seem as though she belonged to the landscape itself.
For a moment, Rhaegon completely forgot what he had been watching.
— But if you wish to return inside — he continued — I would be delighted to accompany you, my lady.
Alicent's eyes widened slightly when he took one of her hands.
The gesture was simple.
Natural.
Rhaegon bowed his head and placed a brief kiss upon her fingers.
The stories told about the prince usually spoke of his scars, of Cannibal, or of his fascination with subjects most men considered far too dark to entertain. Few ever mentioned his impeccable manners. Fire had marked his body, but it had not diminished his charm. If anything, it had only enhanced it. There was something about him that drew attention effortlessly. Perhaps it was the quiet confidence with which he carried his scars. Perhaps it was the ease with which he moved between the courtesy of a courtier and the presence of a dragonrider.
Alicent felt warmth rise to her cheeks.
On impulse, she withdrew her hand from his and took a few steps back.
Even so, she maintained her straight posture and calm smile. There was not enough embarrassment in the world to make her appear vulnerable before the royal court. As she looked at him, she could not help but compare him to his brothers.
Daemon was like a storm forever on the verge of breaking. There was something aggressive and unpredictable about him, like a beast constantly searching for conflict.
Viserys, on the other hand, was kind and respectful, though there was a certain timidity hidden beneath the bearing of a king.
Rhaegon was different from both of them.
He seemed able to adapt to any situation with ease. He knew when to be serious, when to jest, and when simply to listen. There was a lightness to his manner that made his presence pleasant despite his intimidating appearance.
— Then please, accompany me.
She smiled again.
A simple smile.
Yet enough to command all of his attention.
And, like a moth drawn to a flame, Rhaegon followed after her, utterly captivated by her presence.
♦♦♦
The months passed as seasons do: quietly for those living through them, yet plainly visible to those watching from afar.
And with time, Rhaegon carved out a place for himself at Alicent's side.
He did not do so through grand displays or unwelcome persistence. He was patient. Constant. Present. He approached her with the same care a man might show a rare and beautiful creature he feared to startle. He spoke with her, listened to her, made her laugh whenever he could. Little by little, he became a familiar presence in her days.
The servants, naturally, had much to say on the matter.
It was said throughout the castle that the prince showered her with gifts. Jewels brought from distant cities across Essos, fine fabrics carried over the Narrow Sea, rare flowers cultivated in the castle gardens. Some even swore they had seen him copying entire verses from ancient poets, only to present them to her alongside words as beautiful as the treasures he offered.
Others claimed it was not the gifts that impressed them.
It was the way he looked at her.
There was something almost painful in that gaze.
A devotion so obvious it became impossible to ignore.
Since the death of Baelon, many claimed they had never seen a man love so openly within the Red Keep.
Rhaegon made no effort to conceal his feelings.
Nor did he seem to wish to.
Whenever Alicent entered a room, his eyes found her. Whenever she spoke, he listened. Whenever she smiled, something in his expression softened at once.
It was love.
As simple as that.
And everyone could see it.
Otto Hightower certainly could.
For that reason, their growing closeness was met with approval. Alicent was the daughter of the second most powerful house in the realm; Rhaegon was a prince of pure Valyrian blood and the king's own brother. It was a match that benefited everyone involved.
Or almost everyone.
When Viserys announced a grand ball in celebration of the future heir to the Iron Throne, Rhaegon decided he would wait no longer.
That night, before lords, ladies, and knights from every corner of the realm, he formally asked for Alicent's hand in marriage.
And received Otto Hightower's blessing.
The bards who later turned the tale into songs often embellished certain details.
Yet all of them agreed on one thing.
When Alicent entered the hall that evening, she and Rhaegon found each other's eyes across the room.
And that was enough.
The prince rose at once.
So determined that no one dared stand in his path. Conversations fell silent. Heads turned to follow him. Yet Rhaegon seemed to see no one else.
There was only her.
When he finally reached Alicent, he extended his hand. And she accepted it.
Then they danced. There was nothing extravagant about their movements. No attempt to impress those watching. Even so, few could look away. Rhaegon led with surprising gentleness for a man who rode one of the most feared creatures in the world. He never stepped beyond the space Alicent allowed him. Never pressured her. Never demanded more than she was willing to give. And yet, his eyes never left hers. As though he feared he might lose her if he looked away for even a single moment. Some guests later remarked that it was like watching a lady carved from emeralds dancing with a knight forged from silver.
She, wrapped in the greens of House Hightower.
He, crowned with the luminous hair of Old Valyria.
So different.
And yet, in that moment, perfectly harmonious.
They moved across the hall as though they had known the music before it was ever played. Each step met the next with effortless ease. Every turn seemed natural, as though neither had to think about it. To the romantics in attendance, they were the very image of two souls destined to find one another.
Perhaps they were not.
Perhaps they were simply a man deeply in love and a woman learning how to return his affection.
But no one there could see the difference. For there was one truth impossible to ignore. Rhaegon Targaryen loved Alicent Hightower with all the fervor of his heart.
He loved her in a dangerous way.
The way men write poems.
The way men start wars.
The way men die.
Rhaegon would have killed for that woman.
But deep down, there was something many had already begun to realize.
Alicent would never have done the same for him.