RHAEGAR
Crown Prince Rhaegar Targaryen sat alone in the royal library, surrounded by ancient tomes and scrolls. At twelve years old, he already cut an impressive figure—tall for his age, with the classic Targaryen features of silver-gold hair and deep violet eyes that seemed to hold a perpetual melancholy. A silver harp rested against his chair, never far from his reach.
The silence of the library normally brought him comfort, a refuge from the increasingly tense atmosphere of the Red Keep. But today, his concentration kept slipping, his thoughts turning repeatedly to the scene he had witnessed earlier that morning.
He had risen before dawn, unable to sleep after a troubling dream about ice and darkness. Hoping music might soothe his mind, he had taken his harp to the battlements to play as the sun rose. It was there, gazing out over Blackwater Bay, that he had seen them—his five-year-old brother Thalor and the dragon Nightfury, soaring over the water in perfect harmony.
Even from a distance, Rhaegar had been struck by the sight. The dragon, sleek and midnight-black against the dawn sky, moved with a grace and precision that seemed impossible for a creature of its size. And Thalor—little Thalor with his strange green eyes—sat confidently on its back, directing its movements with subtle shifts of his body that bespoke years of practice, not months.
They hadn't seen him watching. When they landed on a secluded beach below the castle, Rhaegar had remained still, observing as his brother removed what appeared to be a custom-made saddle from the dragon's back, stowing it carefully in a sack before making their way back toward the castle.
The sight had left Rhaegar with a disquiet he couldn't easily define. Pride in his brother's accomplishment, certainly. Amazement at the bond between boy and dragon. But beneath those positive emotions lurked something darker, something he was reluctant to acknowledge even to himself.
Envy.
Rhaegar sighed, closing the ancient text he'd been attempting to study—a fragmentary account of the Long Night and the Last Hero. He ran his fingers along the worn leather cover, tracing the faded embossing.
"Your Grace?" Ser Barristan Selmy's voice came from the library entrance. The knight stood at attention, his white armor gleaming even in the dim light. "The king requests your presence in the Small Council chamber."
Rhaegar nodded, rising from his chair and leaving his books scattered across the table. "Did my father say what the matter concerns?"
"No, Your Grace." Ser Barristan's expression gave nothing away, but there was a tension in his bearing that Rhaegar had learned to recognize—the subtle signs that the king was in one of his more volatile moods.
As they walked through the corridors of the Red Keep, Rhaegar steeled himself for whatever awaited. His father's behavior had grown increasingly erratic over the past year. Where once Aerys had merely been eccentric, prone to grandiose ideas and shifting enthusiasms, now he displayed flashes of paranoia and cruelty that concerned even his most loyal supporters.
And always, always, his obsession with Thalor and Nightfury grew.
"Is my brother also summoned?" Rhaegar asked as they approached the council chamber.
"Prince Thalor is already with the king," Ser Barristan replied. Something in his tone caused Rhaegar to glance sharply at the knight, but his weathered face remained carefully impassive.
When they entered the Small Council chamber, Rhaegar immediately sensed the tension in the air. His father sat at the head of the table, fingers drumming an erratic pattern on the polished wood. To his right sat Thalor, looking unusually small in the large council chair, Nightfury curled at his feet like an oversized hound. The rest of the Small Council members were conspicuously absent.
"Ah, Rhaegar, there you are." Aerys looked up, his violet eyes feverishly bright. "Come, join us. We were just discussing a most interesting development."
Rhaegar took his place at the table, nodding respectfully to his father and offering a small smile to Thalor, who returned it cautiously.
"What development is that, Father?" he asked.
"Tell him, Thalor," Aerys commanded, gesturing impatiently. "Tell your brother what Nightfury can do."
Thalor hesitated, glancing down at his dragon. "It's nothing extraordinary, really," he said, his high child's voice at odds with his careful diction. "Nightfury is simply... intelligent. He understands complex commands. And he can communicate, in his way."
"Show him," Aerys insisted.
With a barely perceptible sigh, Thalor turned to Nightfury. "Draw the map," he instructed quietly.
The dragon uncurled from his resting position and moved to an open area of the chamber floor where sand had been scattered. With deliberate movements of his foreclaw, Nightfury began to trace lines in the sand, his green eyes focused intently on his work.
Rhaegar watched in growing astonishment as a recognizable map of Westeros took shape—not a crude approximation, but a detailed rendering showing major landmarks, rivers, and mountain ranges. When Nightfury had finished, he looked up at Thalor, who nodded in approval.
"Now show us where the recent wildling incursions have been reported," Thalor said.
Without hesitation, the dragon marked several spots along the northern edge of the map, precisely where Rhaegar knew there had indeed been unusual wildling activity reported in recent moons.
"How does he know this?" Rhaegar asked, unable to keep the wonder from his voice.
"He listens," Thalor said simply. "When the Small Council discusses such matters, when the ravens bring reports. He understands."
Aerys laughed, a sharp sound that held more triumph than humor. "Not just a dragon, but a dragon with a mind nearly human! The maesters can barely believe it, though Grand Maester Pycelle has documented it extensively." He fixed Rhaegar with an intense stare. "Can you imagine the advantage this gives us? A dragon that can comprehend strategy, that can be sent not just to burn, but to observe, to remember, to report back?"
"It's extraordinary," Rhaegar agreed, studying Nightfury with new appreciation. The dragon met his gaze unwaveringly, those intelligent green eyes—so like Thalor's—seeming to evaluate him in return.
"And that's not all," Aerys continued, practically vibrating with excitement. "Tell him about the flying, Thalor."
Thalor seemed increasingly uncomfortable with this display. "Nightfury and I have been practicing flight maneuvers," he said carefully. "He's very agile, very precise in the air."
"You've been flying for months," Aerys corrected. "Ser Willem reported it all to me—the saddle you designed, the dawn training sessions, the aerial acrobatics that no Targaryen dragon has ever been recorded performing." He turned back to Rhaegar. "Your brother flies rings around the Red Keep while the city sleeps, performing feats that would make the dragonlords of old Valyria weep with envy."
Rhaegar looked at Thalor with new eyes. "You've been doing this in secret? Why?"
Thalor met his gaze steadily. "I didn't want to draw attention. Nightfury and I... we needed time to learn together, to develop our bond without scrutiny."
"And such a bond it is," Aerys interjected. "The Grand Maester says it's unprecedented—deeper than any rider-dragon connection in our recorded history." He leaned forward, lowering his voice as if sharing a great secret. "I believe it's because Thalor is special. Twice-born, as I've always said. The blood remembers, even across death."
Rhaegar suppressed a sigh. His father's conviction that Thalor had somehow been reborn—that he had lived before and returned with ancient knowledge—was a familiar refrain, one that most at court attributed to Aerys's growing instability.
And yet, looking at his five-year-old brother now—at the unchildlike composure with which he sat, at the dragon that drew maps with near-human precision—Rhaegar couldn't entirely dismiss the notion that there was something unusual about Thalor. Something that went beyond mere precocity or the legendary Targaryen affinity for dragons.
"The question now," Aerys continued, "is how best to utilize this gift. The realm must see that the dragons have truly returned—not just as beasts, but as the intelligent partners they were in the days of Old Valyria." He turned back to Thalor. "I'm thinking of a demonstration at the next court session. Nothing too elaborate—perhaps just a display of Nightfury's cartographic abilities, his comprehension of language."
Thalor tensed visibly. "Father, I'm not sure that's wise. Nightfury is still young, still growing. Too much attention might—"
"Nonsense!" Aerys cut him off with a wave of his hand. "The court has seen the dragon, yes, but they haven't truly understood what makes him—and you—special. It's time they did."
Rhaegar recognized the stubborn set of his father's jaw and decided to intervene. "Perhaps a more controlled setting would be appropriate for the first demonstration," he suggested smoothly. "A smaller audience of trusted nobles, rather than the full court. This would allow Prince Thalor and Nightfury to become accustomed to performing for an audience while limiting potential... complications."
Aerys considered this, his mercurial mood shifting toward thoughtfulness. "A reasonable compromise," he admitted after a moment. "Yes, a select audience first. The full splendor can come later, perhaps at the tourney planned for your name day."
Relief flickered across Thalor's face, quickly masked. "As you wish, Father," he said with careful deference.
"Good, good." Aerys rose suddenly, his attention already drifting to other matters. "I have petitioners to see. You boys may go. Rhaegar, see that your brother continues his training. I want Nightfury's skills honed to perfection by the time of the demonstration."
As the king swept from the chamber, the tension seemed to leave with him. Rhaegar and Thalor remained seated, an awkward silence falling between them until Ser Barristan and the other Kingsguard followed Aerys out, leaving the brothers alone save for Nightfury.
"Thank you," Thalor said quietly. "For suggesting the smaller audience."
Rhaegar studied his brother, trying to reconcile the child before him with the skilled dragon rider he had witnessed that morning. "Why keep your abilities secret, even from family?"
Thalor sighed, suddenly looking very much his five years. "Because once people know what Nightfury can do, they'll want to use him. Use us. And I'm not... we're not ready for that yet."
"You sound like a seasoned courtier, not a child," Rhaegar observed.
"Do I?" A flicker of something—wariness, perhaps—crossed Thalor's features. "I don't mean to."
"It's not a criticism," Rhaegar assured him. "Just an observation. You've always been... different. Thoughtful beyond your years." He glanced at Nightfury, who was watching their exchange with evident understanding. "And your bond with your dragon exceeds anything described in the histories I've studied."
Thalor absently reached down to stroke Nightfury's head, a gesture that seemed automatic, intimate. "We understand each other," he said simply.
"So it seems." Rhaegar hesitated, then asked the question that had been troubling him since witnessing their flight. "Do you ever wonder if Father might be right? About you being... special in some way?"
Thalor's green eyes—so unlike the Targaryen violet—met Rhaegar's directly. For a moment, something ancient seemed to look out from those eyes, something that sent a chill down Rhaegar's spine.
"We're all special in our own ways," Thalor said finally. "You with your music and prophecies, me with Nightfury. Different paths, but perhaps leading to the same destination."
"And what destination is that?"
"The future of House Targaryen. Of Westeros itself." Thalor looked down at the map Nightfyre had drawn, his expression troubled. "Winter is coming, Rhaegar. Not just the season, but something worse. Something cold and ancient, waking in the North."
The words struck Rhaegar like a physical blow. They echoed his dream from the previous night—ice and darkness spreading across the land, a terrible cold that no fire could warm.
"How do you know of such things?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.
Thalor seemed to realize he had said too much. "Just stories," he said, visibly retreating behind a child's demeanor. "Old Nan tells scary tales about the Others when she thinks Mother isn't listening."
But Rhaegar wasn't fooled by the sudden shift. He had seen something in his brother's eyes—a knowledge, a certainty that went beyond childish fancy or servants' tales.
"Thalor," he said carefully, "if you know something, something important about what's coming, you can tell me. We're brothers. Whatever comes, we should face it together."
For a moment, it seemed Thalor might confide in him. But then Nightfury made a soft noise, almost like a warning, and the boy shook his head.
"It's just stories," he repeated. "Nothing to worry about now." He stood, suddenly every inch the five-year-old prince again. "I should go. Mother will be looking for me. It's time for my lessons with Maester Gyldayn."
As Thalor left, Nightfury padding silently at his heels, Rhaegar remained seated, troubled by the exchange. There was more to his brother than met the eye—far more. And while part of him was proud of Thalor's remarkable abilities, another part—a part he was not entirely proud of—felt a growing unease.
All his life, Rhaegar had been the special one—the beloved crown prince, the musician, the scholar, the one prophesied to accomplish great things. His path had seemed clear, his destiny assured.
But now there was Thalor, with his dragon that drew maps and understood strategy, with his eyes that sometimes held the wisdom of an old soul, with his cryptic references to a coming winter that matched Rhaegar's own prophetic dreams.
What did it mean for the future of House Targaryen? For the prophecy of the prince that was promised? For Rhaegar's own place in the saga that was unfolding?
He had no answers, only questions that multiplied with each strange new revelation about his brother.
With a sigh, Rhaegar rose and left the council chamber, intending to return to the library and his research. Perhaps in those ancient texts he would find some clue, some precedent that would help him understand what was happening.
As he walked, his mind kept returning to the sight of Thalor and Nightfury flying over the bay, moving as one being, completely in harmony. It had been beautiful, awe-inspiring—and somehow deeply unsettling.
Because in that moment, watching his five-year-old brother command the skies on dragonback, Rhaegar had felt the first whispers of a terrible suspicion: that perhaps the prince who was promised, the one destined to save them all from darkness, was not himself after all.
Perhaps it was Thalor.
---
The royal gardens were quiet in the afternoon light, offering a rare moment of solitude that Rhaegar treasured. He sat beneath an ancient weirwood tree, one of the few remaining in the south, its carved face seeming to watch him with knowing eyes as his fingers moved across the strings of his silver harp.
The melody that emerged was his own composition—haunting, melancholy, filled with a sense of foreboding that reflected his troubled thoughts. He had sought refuge in music since childhood, finding in it an outlet for emotions he could rarely express otherwise.
Today, those emotions were particularly complex. The morning's revelations about Thalor and Nightfury had been followed by a tense council meeting where his father had once again displayed concerning behavior, berating Lord Tywin Lannister over some perceived slight and making veiled accusations of treachery against several lesser lords.
Rhaegar had watched it all with a growing sense of dread, noting the careful masks worn by the council members as they endured the king's outbursts. Only in Lord Tywin's green-gold eyes had Rhaegar seen a flash of something dangerous—a cold calculation that made him wonder how long the proud Lion of Casterly Rock would tolerate such treatment.
The song beneath his fingers shifted, taking on a more martial tone as he contemplated the precarious state of the realm. House Targaryen's position was not as secure as his father believed. The Great Houses watched and waited, their loyalty contingent on stable, reasonable rule. If Aerys continued his descent into paranoia and cruelty...
"That's beautiful," a young voice interrupted his thoughts. "Sad, but beautiful."
Rhaegar looked up to find Thalor standing nearby, Nightfury as always at his side. The dragon had grown noticeably in recent months, now standing nearly as tall as Thalor himself, his midnight scales gleaming in the dappled sunlight.
"Thank you," Rhaegar replied, setting his harp aside. "I didn't hear you approach."
"Nightfury moves quietly," Thalor said with a small smile. "And I've learned to do the same." He hesitated, then asked, "May we join you? Or would you prefer to be alone?"
The formal courtesy from one so young might have seemed affected from another child, but from Thalor, it felt natural—even necessary, given the strange dynamic that had developed between them.
"Please," Rhaegar gestured to the space beside him. "I would welcome the company."
Thalor settled cross-legged on the grass, Nightfury curling around him protectively. For a few moments, they sat in companionable silence, watching the patterns of light and shadow cast by the weirwood's leaves.
"Father was in rare form at the council meeting," Thalor finally said, his tone carefully neutral.
Rhaegar glanced at his brother, surprised by the observation. "You noticed."
"It's hard not to." Thalor's green eyes held a wisdom far beyond his years. "He's getting worse, isn't he?"
The question was so direct, so adult, that Rhaegar found himself responding with equal candor. "Yes. The episodes are more frequent, more severe. And his fixations are becoming... problematic."
"Especially his fixation on me and Nightfury," Thalor said softly.
"Yes."
Another silence fell between them, heavier this time.
"I'm sorry," Thalor said eventually. "I never meant to become a source of... complication."
"It's hardly your fault," Rhaegar assured him. "You didn't ask for the dragon egg to be placed in your cradle, or for it to hatch during that storm."
Thalor's expression was unreadable. "No, I suppose not." He ran his fingers absently along Nightfury's scales. "But I could perhaps be less... conspicuous in my activities."
"Is that why you train at dawn? Why you fly when the city sleeps?" Rhaegar asked. "To avoid drawing attention?"
"Partly," Thalor admitted. "Though it's also practical. Fewer people to startle, fewer questions to answer."
Rhaegar nodded thoughtfully. "A wise approach. Though it seems secrecy is no longer an option, given Father's plans for a demonstration."
"No, not entirely." Thalor sighed, sounding far older than his five years. "I'll have to be careful about what I show, what Nightfury does publicly. Some abilities are better kept private."
The statement piqued Rhaegar's curiosity. "What abilities are those?"
Thalor hesitated, exchanging a glance with Nightfury that once again gave Rhaegar the uncanny impression of communication passing between them.
"His fire, for one," Thalor finally said. "It's different from the dragons in the histories. More controlled, more... condensed. And there are other things, little things that might seem strange to those who aren't familiar with dragons."
"Such as?" Rhaegar pressed gently.
Again, that hesitation, that silent exchange with Nightfury.
"He dreams," Thalor said at last. "Not just random images like a dog might dream, but coherent visions. Sometimes of the past, sometimes of..." He trailed off.
"Of the future?" Rhaegar supplied, his interest sharpening.
"Perhaps." Thalor looked up at the weirwood's carved face. "Or of things happening far away, beyond our sight. The North, especially. He dreams of the North."
Rhaegar felt a chill that had nothing to do with the pleasant afternoon air. "What does he see there?"
"Ice," Thalor said simply. "Living ice that walks and kills. An army of the dead. A long night falling."
The words matched Rhaegar's own dreams so precisely that he couldn't suppress a sharp intake of breath. "And you believe these dreams are more than just... dreams?"
"Don't you?" Thalor countered, his green eyes suddenly intent on Rhaegar's face. "Don't you dream them too?"
The direct question caught Rhaegar off guard. He had spoken to no one about his prophetic dreams, not even his closest confidants. Yet here was his five-year-old brother, somehow knowing.
"Yes," he admitted quietly. "I do."
Thalor nodded, as if he had expected nothing less. "Then you understand why Nightfury and I train as we do. Why we push ourselves to be faster, stronger, more precise. It's not for glory or for Father's approval. It's because someday, those dreams will become reality. And someone will have to stand against the darkness."
There was such conviction in the boy's voice, such absolute certainty, that Rhaegar felt a shiver run down his spine. This was not childish imagination or play-acting. This was knowledge—the same certain knowledge that had driven Rhaegar's own obsessive research into ancient prophecies.
"The prince that was promised," he murmured.
"Perhaps," Thalor said, his expression grave. "Or perhaps just people doing what needs to be done, when the time comes."
Rhaegar studied his brother's face, searching for some sign of the child he should be—for uncertainty, for fear, for the natural limitations of a five-year-old mind grappling with concepts beyond its understanding.
He found none. Only a steady resolve that reminded him forcefully of their Targaryen ancestors, of Aegon the Conqueror and his sister-wives, who had united the Seven Kingdoms through unwavering conviction and dragonfire.
"You're not what you seem, are you?" Rhaegar asked softly. "There's more to you than just a precocious child with a dragon."
Thalor's expression didn't change, but Nightfury stirred, lifting his head to watch Rhaegar with those intelligent green eyes.
"What makes you say that?" Thalor asked carefully.
"A thousand little things. The way you speak—not just the vocabulary, which could be attributed to extensive reading, but the cadence, the thought patterns. The way you move—economical, precise, like a warrior conserving energy. The knowledge you possess that you shouldn't have access to." Rhaegar leaned forward slightly. "And most of all, the way you look at the world—not with a child's wonder, but with the assessment of someone who has seen much, learned much. Perhaps even... lived much."
For a long moment, Thalor said nothing, his face giving away nothing. Then, slowly, a small smile formed on his lips—not a child's smile, but something older, wearier.
"You're very observant, brother," he said finally. "More so than I gave you credit for."
"Then I'm right?" Rhaegar pressed. "Father's mad ravings about you being 'twice-born'—there's some truth to them?"
Thalor glanced around the garden, ensuring they were truly alone, before answering. "What if I told you that I remember things I shouldn't possibly remember? A life before this one, in a place unlike any in the known world? What if I told you that Nightfury remembers too, that we knew each other before, in different forms but with the same souls?"
Rhaegar sat very still, absorbing these extraordinary claims. In another context, from another source, he might have dismissed them as fantasy or delusion. But coupled with everything he had observed about Thalor and Nightfury, with the prophetic dreams they shared, with the ancient texts he had studied that spoke of reincarnation and the cyclical nature of time...
"I would believe you," he said simply.
Relief flickered across Thalor's features—a child's expression, genuine and unguarded. For a moment, Rhaegar glimpsed the vulnerability beneath the composed exterior, the uncertainty that Thalor must feel navigating a world and a body that weren't truly his own.
"Thank you," Thalor said quietly. "It's... difficult, carrying this alone. Nightfury understands, of course. But he can't speak, can't counsel me on human matters."
"You don't have to carry it alone," Rhaegar said, making a sudden decision. "Whatever this means, whatever role you—we—are meant to play in what's coming, we can face it together. As brothers."
The offer seemed to surprise Thalor. "You're not... concerned? About what this might mean for the succession, for your position as heir?"
So the boy had recognized the potential political complications as well. Of course he had.
"I would be lying if I said the thought hadn't crossed my mind," Rhaegar admitted. "A Targaryen with a dragon, especially one as extraordinary as Nightfury, has certain... advantages in matters of succession. But I don't believe that's your intent."
"It isn't," Thalor confirmed quickly. "I have no desire to rule, to sit the Iron Throne. My purpose here is different."
"To fight the coming darkness," Rhaegar guessed. "To prevent the long night you and Nightfury dream of."
"Yes." Thalor's expression was solemn. "I believe that's why we were sent here, to this time and place. To help prepare, to stand against what's coming."
Rhaegar found himself believing it as well. The pieces fit together too perfectly to be coincidence—his own prophetic dreams, the ancient texts speaking of a prince that was promised who would be born amidst salt and smoke to wake dragons from stone, and now his brother, literally reborn (if his claims were true) and bonded to a dragon of unprecedented intelligence.
"Then we will prepare together," he declared. "I through study and statecraft, you through your bond with Nightfury and whatever knowledge you bring from your... previous existence."
Thalor seemed to weigh this offer carefully before nodding. "An alliance, then. But a secret one, for now. Father must not know the full extent of what we suspect, of what we're preparing for."
"Agreed," Rhaegar said grimly. "His fixations are unpredictable, dangerous. If he became obsessed with these prophecies, with the threat from the North..."
"It would only add fuel to his instability," Thalor finished. "And the realm needs stability now more than ever."
They sat in companionable silence for a time, each lost in thought. Rhaegar found himself studying his brother with new eyes—seeing beyond the child's form to the old soul within, the experienced mind navigating a young body.
"Will you tell me?" he asked eventually. "About your previous life? It might help me understand better what we're facing."
Thalor considered this, absently stroking Nightfury's scales. "Some of it," he agreed finally. "The parts that might be relevant. The rest... it's best left in the past. A different world, a different time."
"I understand," Rhaegar said, though his scholar's curiosity burned to know more. "Whatever you're comfortable sharing."
And so, as afternoon faded into evening, Thalor spoke—haltingly at first, then with growing confidence. He told Rhaegar of a place called Berk, of people who rode dragons as partners rather than beasts of war. He spoke of inventions, innovations, ways of thinking about flight and combat that had never occurred to the dragonlords of Valyria.
Most of all, he spoke of his bond with Nightfury—or Toothless, as he had once been called—a relationship built on mutual respect and understanding rather than dominance and obedience.
"That's why he's different from the dragons in our histories," Thalor explained. "He's not just a mount or a weapon. He's a partner, an equal."
Rhaegar listened, fascinated and humbled by the glimpse into a world so different from their own, yet with lessons that might prove crucial in the coming conflict.
As darkness fell and servants began lighting torches in the garden, signaling an end to their private conversation, Rhaegar made a decision.
"Tomorrow," he said, "take me flying with you. I want to see what Nightfury can do, what you can do together. If we're to prepare properly, I need to understand the resources we have available."
Thalor looked surprised, then pleased. "Flying might be difficult—Nightfury isn't large enough yet to carry us both comfortably. But you could watch our training session with Ser Willem. It's comprehensive."
"Ser Willem knows?" Rhaegar asked, surprised.
"Not everything," Thalor clarified. "But enough to help us train effectively. He's a good man, pragmatic. He sees the value in preparation, even if he doesn't fully understand what we're preparing for."
Rhaegar nodded, impressed by his brother's judgment of character. "Very well. I'll meet you at dawn tomorrow."
As they rose to return to the keep, Rhaegar felt a curious lightening of his spirit. The burden of prophecy, of preparation for a conflict few believed was coming, had weighed heavily on him for years. Now, unexpectedly, he had found an ally in his strange, reborn brother.
Whatever was coming—ice and darkness, death and winter—they would face it together. The dragon had three heads, the prophecies said, and now two of those heads were united in purpose.
It might be enough. It had to be enough.
As Thalor and Nightfury walked ahead of him toward the torchlit path, Rhaegar watched their synchronized movements, the easy communication between them that required no words. For the first time in years, he felt something close to hope.
The prince that was promised would come from their line, the prophecies said. Perhaps it didn't matter which of them fulfilled that role, so long as the darkness was defeated in the end.
With that thought to comfort him, Crown Prince Rhaegar Targaryen followed his twice-born brother back to the Red Keep, his mind already turning to the preparations that would begin at dawn.