Rhaegar's POV
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The wind whispered through the cliffs, carrying the scent of salt and rain. Below, the sea stretched endlessly, its surface a restless, ever-moving abyss, waves rising and crashing against the jagged rocks in a rhythm as ancient as time itself.
Above, the sky was breaking apart.
The last remnants of the storm were fading, the heavy grey clouds peeling away to reveal slivers of molten gold. It was as if the heavens had cracked open to let the sun bleed through.
And then—there was music.
A single note drifted through the air, soft as a breath, lingering like the hush before dawn.
I stiffened.
My mind resisted.
It fought to dissect the rhythm, to find its form, to tame it into knowledge—to categorize it as a ballad, a hymn, a battle march. But it was none of those.
It did not fit.
The melody slipped through my grasp like mist at dawn, like sand through open fingers—unwritten, unclaimed, defying every structure I had ever known. It could not be measured. It could not be contained.
I clenched my jaw and exhaled slowly, willing myself to unravel its meaning and trace the pattern hidden beneath the sound. But the harder I tried to grasp it, the further it drifted beyond my reach.
I turned my head as if breaking my gaze would sever its hold on me. But the music clung to my ribs, to my breath, to something deeper than thought—something I could not name.
I could not control this.
I could only feel it.
Aemon played, and the notes were more than mere sound—they were something alive. They lingered in the air like the last light of dusk, neither fading nor clinging, simply existing. Soft, then sharp, like the crash of a wave that knows it will rise again.
I had never heard anything like it.
I had never felt anything like it.
It was unbound, untamed—a song without walls. It did not follow the strict forms of the histories I studied, nor did it obey the rigid structures of courtly compositions.
It was not written in any book.
And yet—it spoke to me.
Something within me—something I had never known was missing—ached.
I did not realize when I had leaned forward.
I did not realize when my breath had caught, nor when my fingers had clenched in the fabric of my sleeves.
All I knew was that, for the first time in my life, I did not want to understand.
I simply wanted to listen.
The moment shifted.
The jagged cliffs, the roaring ocean, the vast expanse of the sky—everything seemed to bend toward the sound as if even the earth itself had paused to listen.
The sunlight, pale and hesitant before, stretched further across the waves, as if drawn to the sound.
The sea, once restless, seemed to slow, as though the tide itself had been caught in the pull of the melody. The last droplets of the storm clung to the air, shimmering in the weak sunlight, trembling with every note that drifted into the sky.
A colony of seagulls, circling above, began to settle silently along the cliffs, their usual shrieking calls replaced by a hush.
Even the wind, which had howled relentlessly against the cliffs, did not fade—
It listened.
Not gone, not silenced, but softened. A quiet hum in the background, harmonizing with something far older, something deeper than words.
And Aemon—
He belonged to it all.
Sitting there, bathed in the dying light of the storm, he looked as if he had always been here, as much a part of the sea and sky as the waves and the wind.
His fingers glided over the harp with effortless grace, his body swaying slightly, not playing the song, but carrying it from the air itself, shaping it, breathing it into existence.
Aemon was not bound by the past.
Aemon was here.
Living in this moment.
And for the first time, I envied him.
My world had always been confined to parchment and ink, to names of kings long dead and battles fought centuries before my birth.
I had spent my life looking backwards—learning, absorbing, tracing the paths of those who had come before me, trying to grasp a destiny I had not yet seen.
But Aemon—he did not look back.
He did not need books to understand the world.
He lived in it.
And for the first time, I wanted to ask as well.
I swallowed hard, my gaze flickering to the Kingsguard.
Even the Kingsguard were not immune.
Ser Barristan, ever the immovable knight, had shifted forward as if the melody had placed an unseen hand upon his back. Yet his eyes—so often watchful, so full of duty—betrayed something softer. Something close to reverence.
Ser Jonothor, arms always crossed in rigid discipline, had loosened his stance. His fingers—hardened by years of wielding steel—twitched ever so slightly in time with the rhythm, as if the music had found its way into his bones.
And Ser Oswell Whent—
He had exhaled.
It was the smallest thing, a quiet breath into the open air, but it was the sigh of a man who had momentarily forgotten himself. And then, beyond that—
He was smiling.
A small, subtle thing. Barely there. But undeniably real.
Even they felt it.
Even they understood something I did not.
I turned back to Aemon.
I watched the way his fingers glided over the strings. The way his breath slowed with the rhythm. The way his shoulders, so often squared with purpose, were relaxed, at peace.
He was not burdened.
He was not trapped by duty or prophecy.
He was simply here.
And the realization struck me like a thunderclap.
Everything I had ever done—every word I had read, every lesson I had absorbed—had been in service of something greater.
A future I had not yet seen.
A prophecy I did not yet understand.
I had been waiting, always waiting, for the moment I would become something.
But Aemon—he was not waiting.
He was already living.
And for the first time in my life, I felt the weight of every unread prophecy, every page I had turned, every name I had memorized.
I had spent my life chasing meaning in the past.
And yet—here, now—Aemon had found it in a single breath.
And I wanted it too.
The melody slowed, stretching into a soft, final note, fading into the wind. The world seemed to exhale, as if it, too, had been holding its breath.
The moment ended.
And I…
I wanted to hear it again.
I did not want it to stop.
I did not want to return to the silence of my books, to the hollow pages filled with kings long dead and wars long past.
I wanted this.
Something inside me stirred—a feeling foreign and terrifying.
I had spent my whole life lost in knowledge, in things I could study, master, and understand.
But this?
This was love.
Love.
The histories spoke of it often.
A king's love for his people. A knight's love for his honour. A husband's love, bound in ink and duty.
I had always understood it as a promise, a weapon, a burden—a thing to be wielded, never something to be… simple.
But Aemon's music did not ask to be written down.
It did not demand, nor did it serve a purpose beyond its existence.
And for the first time in my life, love was not something I read about.
It was something I felt.
This was love. Not duty, not prophecy, not a history to be studied. Love, without expectation or purpose. And I had never known it could exist this way.
Aemon turned to me then, a knowing smile curving his lips.
He had seen it all—the way I had leaned in, the way my hands had clenched, the way I had held my breath as if afraid to break the spell.
"Did you feel that?" he asked, his voice softer now. No teasing, no arrogance. Just certainty.
I parted my lips—then hesitated.
A single breath.
A single moment.
Then, I closed my eyes.
And nodded.
Aemon smiled wider. "Good."
He plucked another note.
And I let myself drown in it.
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Aemon POV
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The final note drifted into the wind, swallowed by the endless expanse of sea and sky. The strings of my harp still trembled beneath my fingers, echoing the last remnants of the song, but the moment had already passed.
And yet, no one moved.
No one breathed.
The world stood still.
But Rhaegar was still caught within it.
His breath came slow and uneven as if he had forgotten how to draw air properly. His chest barely rose, each inhale shallow—uncertain. The sea breeze stirred his silver hair, but he did not blink. Did not stir. Did not react.
It was as if he had been untethered from the present, left adrift between the last note and the silence it had left behind.
The quiet stretched between us, vast and unbroken.
And then—the smallest movement.
His fingers curled—then unfurled, like a man trying to hold onto something slipping through his grasp. His throat bobbed, but he did not speak. He could not.
A slow, deliberate blink, heavy with effort, as though forcing himself back into reality. His shoulders tensed, drawing inward, bracing against the emptiness left in the song's wake.
What had he seen?
What had the music shown him?
His hands curled in his lap, fingers clutching his tunic so tightly that his knuckles turned white. A faint tremor ran through him—subtle, almost imperceptible. But I noticed.
He swallowed, his throat working against an emotion he did not yet understand.
His lips parted, but no sound came—like a man waking from a dream he did not wish to leave.
Rhaegar Targaryen did not hesitate.
Rhaegar Targaryen did not falter.
And yet—here he was. Uncertain. Undone.
A boy who had spent his life searching for meaning in ink and prophecy, only to be caught by something far simpler—something that could not be written or foretold.
For the first time, I saw him as he truly was.
Not a prince.
Not an heir.
Just a boy.
A boy drowning in a feeling too vast for words.
The wind whispered through the cliffs, carrying the scent of salt and rain, swirling around us like the breath of something unseen. The sea, once restless, had softened into a steady rhythm, as though even the tide had yielded to the song.
And yet, no one spoke.
The silence stretched, fragile and untouched, as if even a whisper might unravel whatever had just passed between us.
Then—
A sharp exhale.
Ser Oswell Whent, usually composed and unshaken, hesitated. His lips parted, forming words—then closed again. As if speaking too soon might break the spell, might steal away whatever the music had left behind. His breath came slow and measured, like a man waking from a dream he was not ready to leave.
His gloved fingers flexed against the hilt of his sword before falling still at his side.
"…That," he murmured at last, voice rough with something unspoken, "was… breathtaking."
And it was.
Not simply for its beauty, but for the way it lingered—a melody that did not fade, but settled deep within the marrow, refusing to be forgotten.
Ser Jonothor Darry, arms still crossed, released a slow breath through his nose. He was not a man of poetic words, but his silence spoke more than speech ever could. His eyes, sharp and thoughtful, seemed distant—as if he were remembering something long buried. A song heard in childhood. A face lost to time. A moment that could never be reclaimed.
Ser Barristan Selmy, the knight who had seen more of war and death than most men would in ten lifetimes, stood motionless.
He had heard me play before. Many times.
And yet—each time felt like the first.
The melody had been haunting, melancholic. It had held sorrow and longing, but also something else—something Barristan had not felt in many years.
A memory flickered, unbidden.
Not of battle. Not of duty.
But of youth.
A golden field stretching beneath the afternoon sun. The scent of earth and summer wheat. The sound of laughter—light, carefree—before the weight of knighthood, before the burdens of honour and war had shaped him into something else.
A voice had once called his name.
But that voice had long since faded.
For a moment—a single, fleeting moment—he was not Ser Barristan the Bold.
He was simply a man.
A man who had lived long enough to know what it was to lose.
His exhale was slow, controlled, and composed. And yet—the ache remained.
Jonothor finally stirred, shifting his stance as though shaking himself free from whatever thoughts had taken hold of him. His gaze flicked to Barristan, unreadable, before he spoke at last.
"And yet," he said quietly, "for all that depth, it still leaves a man feeling hollow when it ends."
Barristan's voice was steady when he answered, but softer than usual.
"As all great things do."
The wind whispered between us, curling through the cliffs like the ghost of the song, unwilling to let go.
Ser Oswell exhaled once more, shaking his head, his face still unreadable. But his voice—his voice carried something reverent.
"I have heard many songs in my time," he said, voice quieter now. "But that… that was something else entirely."
A pause.
"It felt as though I were listening to the past itself. To all the things men have lost and will never find again."
Something in his voice wavered, just slightly.
And I knew then that my music had touched something old within him—something buried beneath years of duty and steel.
Barristan finally stirred.
He did not speak for a long moment.
Then, in that measured tone of his, he said simply:
"You carry something in your music that men spend lifetimes trying to understand."
He did not elaborate.
He did not need to.
Jonothor, arms still crossed, exhaled through his nose and glanced at Barristan.
"And yet, for all that depth, it still leaves a man feeling hollow when it ends."
Barristan nodded.
"As all great things do."
The final note had long faded, but its echoes lingered—not in the air, but in something deeper, something unseen.
I set the harp down with careful reverence, the polished wood warm beneath my fingertips. The strings trembled from the ghost of my touch, but no new sound came. Only silence.
And still, Rhaegar did not move.
He remained utterly still, save for the slow, unsteady rise and fall of his chest. The sea wind stirred his silver hair, carrying the salt of the ocean and the remnants of rain, but he did not blink. Did not react.
He might have been made of stone.
His fingers twitched again—small, hesitant. A motion is so faint it could have been imagined.
For a moment, they hovered, barely lifted from his lap.
Reaching for something.
Then, just as suddenly, they curled back, tightening into his tunic, as if withdrawing. As if uncertain.
His lips parted—but no words came.
The silence held.
Thick. Stretched taut between us.
And for the first time, I saw hesitation in him.
The boy who dissected history with unwavering precision. Who sought answers in pages and prophecy, always searching for meaning in the world around him—he had no words now.
And perhaps that was what unsettled him the most.
The wind whispered through the cliffs, rustling the dry grass along the rocky path. A lone gull cried somewhere far above, lost in the vastness of sky and sea.
Still, Rhaegar said nothing.
He only looked at me.
Violet eyes were wide, unfocused—like he had left something of himself inside the music and did not know how to return.
His pulse thrummed against the delicate skin of his throat, too quick, too uneven—like a man shaken from a dream he could not grasp.
Another breath. Unsteady.
His breath hitched, barely perceptible, as though he had been caught between waking and memory.
His throat worked, swallowing against whatever warred inside him.
Then—
Barely above a whisper, his voice fragile and raw, he asked:
"…What was that?"
The question was quiet, but it landed like a stone dropped into still water, rippling outward.
His small hands flexed in his lap again, as though they might grasp the answer before I spoke it.
I let the silence stretch just a little longer.
Because in this moment—I knew.
He was no longer simply asking about the song.
He was asking about everything, it had made him feel.
I let the question linger for a moment, staring out over the endless stretch of sea. The horizon burned with the last embers of the storm, golden light spilling through the heavy clouds like something divine as if the sky itself had been listening.
"…A song," I murmured at last, my fingers tracing idly over the strings of the harp.
He swallowed, still watching me, as though the answer had not been enough.
"But where…?" He hesitated.
"Where did it come from?"
I turned my gaze back to him, my expression unreadable. I had always known this question would come. I had sung songs no one had ever heard before and played melodies that belonged to a world that did not exist here. Sooner or later, someone would ask.
And Rhaegar—who questioned everything, who sought meaning in words and prophecy—would not let it go.
I could not tell him the truth.
So instead, I gave him a different truth.
One that belonged to this world.
I exhaled, letting my gaze drift to the sea, watching the light dance on the waves, stretching out into the horizon.
The wind curled between us, cool and patient, as though listening too.
"It is old," I murmured, my voice quieter now. "Very old.
He waited, his gaze never leaving mine.
I plucked a single string, letting the note ring out into the wind.
"It is a melody from Na'ath."
His brows furrowed slightly. "Na'ath?"
I nodded, my fingers still ghosting over the harp's strings. "A small island in the Summer Sea. The people there… they are unlike any others in this world."
His interest sharpened, his scholar's mind latching onto the unfamiliar. "In what way?"
I exhaled, letting my gaze drift back to the sea.
"They worship only one god. They call Him the Lord of Harmony—the one who created all things."
The wind stirred, lifting strands of silver from Rhaegar's forehead as he listened intently.
"To them, all life is sacred. They do not kill. They do not fight. They will not take a life, no matter the reason."
Rhaegar was silent for a long moment.
His gaze drifted—not toward me, but past me, out to the horizon where the sky met the sea in a seamless stretch of gold and grey. The wind stirred the strands of silver that framed his face, but he did not seem to notice.
I could see the weight of the words settling over him, pressing into the foundation of his thoughts, reshaping something inside him that he did not yet understand.
He frowned slightly, his small hands curling into the fabric of his tunic. A crease formed between his brows, subtle but telling.
"The Naathi…" he murmured, more to himself than to me. "They do not fight?"
I inclined my head. "No. Not even to defend themselves."
His fingers twitched. "Then… how do they survive?"
It was not a challenge. Not disbelief.
It was curiosity—sharp and unrelenting, the kind that gnawed at the edges of understanding, demanding answers.
"They do not seek survival through war," I said, watching him carefully. "They endure because they believe the world was not meant to be broken by violence."
A flicker of something passed through his expression—something he did not yet have words for.
His throat bobbed with a slow swallow. "…And yet, men must fight. Mustn't they?"
The question was quiet, but beneath it lay something deeper. A seed of conflict. A thought he would return to, again and again.
I did not answer right away.
Instead, I let the sea speak, let the crash of waves against stone remind us that even the most peaceful waters could wear down mountains over time.
"They do not see it that way," I said at last. "To them, taking a life—any life—is an abomination against the harmony of the world."
He exhaled slowly, as though tasting the weight of those words on his tongue.
Then, in a voice even softer:
"Is that weakness… or is that strength?"
His fingers flexed against his tunic again, knuckles pressing white.
The question was quiet, but beneath it lay something deeper. A seed of conflict.
I did not answer.
Instead, I let the sea speak, let the crash of waves against stone remind us that even the most peaceful waters could wear down mountains over time.
Rhaegar Targaryen was a boy born into a world of kings and conquerors, where swords spoke louder than words and power was carved from blood and fire.
And yet—
Here he sat, struggling to comprehend a people who had never lifted a blade. A people who lived and died by the belief that peace, not war, was the greater force.
A prince raised on tales of conquest, trying to reconcile the idea that a kingdom could be built on something other than power.
I saw the war waging in him now—small, quiet, but present.
It would not leave him.
Not today.
Never.
One day, he would return to this moment.
One day, he would ask himself this question again—not in the safety of the cliffs of Dragonstone, but in the shadow of war, when the weight of prophecy pressed too heavily upon him.
And on that day—
Would he still believe that men must fight?
Rhaegar turned his gaze back to the horizon, his expression unreadable. His fingers tightened slightly in his lap, as though gripping something unseen. A moment of hesitation—brief, but telling.
"A world without war…" he murmured, almost to himself.
But there was no answer—only the endless sea.
"And the song?" he asked, "What does it mean?"
I turned my gaze back to him.
I thought of my old world.
I thought of the meaning that could never be spoken here.
I thought of a name that did not belong to this land.
ჩუბინა.
It did not belong to Naath, nor Westeros, nor to the history he knew.
It was a song of another place. Another time.
But here, at this moment, under this sky, I let it become something else.
"…It is simply a song of peace."
Rhaegar held my gaze for a long moment.
And then, slowly, he nodded.
He did not fully understand.
Not yet.
But I saw it—that flicker, that tiny, imperceptible shift.
Something had changed in him.
Something had begun.
And one day, he would remember this moment.
One day, he would remember this song.
And perhaps, for the first time in his life…
He would stop looking to prophecy for answers.
And start listening to the world instead.
The silence between us stretched, the sea wind carrying the weight of something unspoken.
Rhaegar's fingers flexed once more before stilling, his small hands tightening in his lap. He hesitated—just long enough for doubt to creep in.
For the first time since the song ended, something in his expression cleared—not uncertainty, not hesitation, but something quieter. Something longing. Something decided.
Then, at last—
"…Teach me."
His voice was quiet, and measured, but I caught the undercurrent of something else beneath it. It wasn't just curiosity. It wasn't just interesting.
It was longing.
Rhaegar turned to me fully, his violet eyes no longer distant but focused—fixed—as though he had decided something within himself and would not be swayed.
He wanted this.
I arched a brow, feigning surprise. "Teach you?"
He nodded, straighter now, more resolute. "Music. I want to learn."
I hummed, tilting my head, letting my fingers idly drift over the strings of my harp. "Music is not simply learned, dear Rhaegar." My voice was smooth, and teasing, but there was truth in the words. "It requires dedication, patience, and above all… obedience."
His expression flickered—just for a moment. As if the thought of being obedient to someone, especially me, left a sour taste in his mouth.
Still, he pressed on. "I can be patient."
A slow smirk curled at the edge of my lips. "That remains to be seen."
I let the moment hang, watching him. Then, I leaned forward, resting my elbows on my knees.
"Very well. I will teach you. But—" I raised a finger before he could get too comfortable. "You must agree to my conditions."
Rhaegar's brow furrowed slightly. "…Conditions?"
"Three rules," I declared, holding up three fingers. "Break any of them, and your lessons end immediately."
A flicker of uncertainty crossed his face, but he nodded nonetheless. "What are they?"
I leaned in slightly, my smirk widening.
"One—you will listen to me. No arguments. No actually, Aemon, the proper historical precedent states—" I mimicked his precise tone with a mocking wave of my hand.
Rhaegar's expression turned flat. "I do not sound like that."
"Oh, you do," I said with a grin. "And you'll do well to suppress the urge."
His lips pressed into a thin line, but he said nothing.
"Two— you will practice diligently. No half-hearted attempts, no quitting when you find something difficult."
"I do not quit." His tone was sharp, edged with quiet defiance.
I gave a slow nod, acknowledging his resolve. "We'll see."
Then, I leaned in closer, my voice dropping to a hushed whisper—like I was about to reveal the final condition of some ancient ritual.
"And three—" I paused dramatically, watching as his shoulders stiffened, as though bracing for something deeply profound.
Then, with the most serious expression I could manage—
"You must address me as a beloved and wise elder brother." I grinned.
Rhaegar blinked. Once. Twice. His entire soul left his body.
"No."
I hummed. "We can negotiate. I'll settle for 'Big Brother."
A long silence. Then, a slow, suffering inhale. He was already regretting this.
"…You are insufferable."
I grinned. "And you, little brother, are about to suffer under my tutelage."
He exhaled sharply, tilting his head skyward as if silently begging the gods for patience. Then, finally, he looked back at me, his expression somewhere between reluctant acceptance and deep regret.
"…Fine," he muttered.
I clapped my hands together, utterly pleased with myself. "Good! Then our lessons begin tomorrow at dawn."
Rhaegar blinked, caught off guard. "Dawn?"
"Oh, yes." I stretched, reclining back against the stone. "If you want to learn, you must train both mind and body. And that means early mornings, little brother."
His expression was a complex blend of suffering and betrayal.
Behind us, Ser Jonathon coughed—whether in amusement or sympathy, I couldn't tell.
Ser Barristan merely sighed, shaking his head, already resigned to whatever chaos I would bring next.
Ser Oswell, however, smiled.
Not mockingly. Not in jest.
Just a quiet, knowing smile.
Because he had seen something today.
Something beyond music.
Beyond words.
A moment where two boys—one bound by prophecy, the other by fate—had found something neither of them had expected.
Neither of us understood just yet how deeply this would shape us.
But for now—
I had a student.
And Rhaegar had a brother.