Chapitre 90: Why Singe
'The singe of campfire
A strange, alluring beauty
Against stone of prison.'
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And so, those with the foresight and diligence to arrive on the exact date set by King Viserys found themselves in time for the grand proceedings.
It was a fascinating time.
With Prince Rhaenar's rising influence, his curious adherence to decorum, and the subtle changes he introduced, people gathered around him, eager to hear his ideals.
Everyone felt valued in some way.
It was peculiar.
Regardless of their status or when they arrived, all who came to King Viserys' court were eventually led and accompanied by Prince Rhaenar.
The prince listened to everyone, joined them in drinking wine, sat at the edge of their beds, and tended to the fires for the noble houses staying in the royal apartments. It was a deliberate approach that made King Viserys seem distant yet somehow accessible as well.
His brother, Prince Daemon, was dangerously alluring and unpredictable. He was the dark horse of House Targaryen, so flippant and poised, arrogant, and without qualm against violence.
Princess Rhaenyra… no one could quite say why, but something about her drew every eye wherever she went. She was the highest, purest, most coveted prize—a dragon princess.
Yet doubts lingered in the minds of the young bachelors fortunate enough to see her. How could they get past the King's Guard? How could they summon the courage to approach the princess before all the lords and ladies? Everything was on display.
Prince Rhaenar was tirelessly accommodating, finding time for every house, family, and servant. Yet, in the blink of an eye, he could disappear like a shadow after dusk.
It was evident to all at court, and indeed to all who visited King's Landing and passed through the gates of the Red Keep, that King and Son, in their style, charisma, and way of rule, both opposed and complemented each other.
This dynamic manifested in a father-son relationship of intellect, nobility, and dreaminess. Always in homage to King Jaehaerys. In reverence to the ancient histories. And with respect to goodwill and common decency.
Always in respectful fear. Of dragons, of lineage… And though they never spoke of it openly, Viserys and Rhaenar shared a prophetic connection.
One the dreamer.
The other living the dream~
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She awoke in a fervor. Dawn light gleamed in her violet eyes.
At once, Rhaenyra summoned the servants, who hurriedly set about dressing her.
'Quickly,' she urged in her thoughts, 'Or it will be too late.'
The servant girls did their best, but the grand appearance of a princess could not be rushed. By the time she was bathed, dressed, her hair plaited, and her nose powdered, an hour had passed.
Rhaenyra lifted her skirts as she ran through the halls of the royal apartments. She was breathless by the time she reached her brother's room.
She opened the doors eagerly, but finding the room empty, her spirits sank.
Just as Rhaenyra was about to curse her luck, she spotted a note on the table. A smile crept across her face at the sight of the beautiful handwriting.
'Rhaenyra,
Thought I might rise early, lest you hound me to join today's proceedings. I'm sure you will enjoy the tournament plenty for the both of us.
Keep looking up,
Rhaenar'
The smile faded. Rhaenyra groaned as she crumpled the letter in her fist.
'I must wake earlier next time,' she thought, resting a hand on her delicate chin.
'Though I'd sooner bar the doors…'
Rhaenyra noticed the absence of a Kingsguard outside. That alone should have been proof of her brother's absence. She wrinkled her nose, irritated that she had allowed herself to get her hopes up.
So it is to be young, a maid with a mane of silver~
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As for Rhaenar, his early start had another purpose.
This was a crucial day that required his attention in many ways. With that in mind, a group gathered in the secret corridors of Maegor's Holdfast.
They started a fire and broke their fast on hearty beef stew. The hidden passages were filled with the rich aroma of bubbling red wine, carrots, onions, and garlic.
Once they had eaten, Rhaenar clasped his hands and asked, "Right then. We all understand our tasks?"
Brien stifled a yawn, "Another day of scouring texts."
The prince smirked, amused. "You do our king a great service."
"And if I find nothing?" Brien asked, "How long must I continue this search?"
Prince Rhaenar waved a sympathetic hand. "Rest assured, my friend, you will return to your lore soon enough. I am seeking out medical experts as we speak."
The Prince turned to Theodore, "I trust you are excited."
The mercantile scholar shrugged, "Not as much as he is."
Sari Sicai eagerly sharpened his blade in that bloodthirsty way he often did, "Up yours, ginger."
Theo laughed.
"Good," Rhaenar said, striding into the darkness of the halls, his crimson cloak swaying. Sari took the cue, sheathed his blade, and followed.
Theodore and Brien exchanged a glance and went their separate ways. They both knew their places, far from the chaos that would soon erupt in the city.
Such was the way of the Rhaenari. The scholars wielded their pens. The troops their spears. Sword and shield for the warrior, pot and pan just as grand. All toward a common goal.
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Queen Aemma lay on a couch in her chambers, the air from the open windows streaming in as she fanned herself.
A Kingsguard entered, "Beg your pardon, your grace. Prince Rhaenar is here to see you."
The thought delighted her. "Send him in."
Aemma relaxed further into the couch as he strode in. The sheen of his black breastplate made his eyes glow like pools of pink stardust. His long lashes blinked once. He smiled.
"Hello, Mother," Rhaenar said. "Thought I might find you here."
Aemma laughed, her stomach a great bulge. "Would that I could fly. You just missed your sister. She was looking for you."
"I'm sure," Rhaenar said, kissing his mother's forehead. He ignored the sheen of sweat it left on his lips as he took the seat beside her. "Only the gods know why. Alicent is plenty of company."
The Queen smiled warmly. "You two would always attend tournaments together. Your father loved that."
"I know. I remember."
Her son surveyed the room, casting his glance this way and that, like a hawk scanning for prey, or a mother bear searching for a threat to her cub.
That look pained Aemma, for deep down, she knew it was born of his self-imposed ways as a soldier.
What was he doing? What was he fighting for?
Part of her resented those reminders that Rhaenar was no longer her little man. Even long before Blackfyre hung from his waist, the prince had become a storm, a force too complex to understand or stop.
"You don't wish to be there? Celebrate your brother Balon?" Aemma asked.
Rhaenar shrugged. "We have a week of games, feasts, and other ways to 'celebrate'. Besides, someone has to take care of you."
"Just like your sister," Aemma said.
"I beg your pardon?"
"Hm, nothing," Aemma said. "You and Rhaenyra have grown so much, is all."
"I could say the same about you."
"Oh?" Aemma said, amused.
Aemma froze as she watched Rhaenar accept a cup of tea from a servant girl, the piping mist wafting from the cup. His sun-kissed lips pursed as he took a sip.
He didn't bother with the heat, no blowing the cup cold. He simply swallowed and let out a bellow of relish.
"It's true," Rhaenar said with stern certainty. "I've seen you laugh, cry, and love. I've watched aches turn to pains and aches again.
"I've seen how funeral pyres danced in your sad blue eyes, how time turned that pain numb, and how fire warmed your icy gems anew.
"I watched that beauty blossom — like youth traded away for a treasure of equal worth. I've seen much and remember most of it."
Not the answer she expected. Aemma felt heat rise to her cheeks. "The old queen did say you were a clever one. I didn't realize I was such a topic of fascination."
Rhaenar grimaced. Queen Alysanne had taken so much notice of him that, at times, he wondered if she thought he was reincarnated. Her intuition was that strong.
"Why not? You're my mother, after all," Rhaenar half-lied as his wrist flicked, and he suddenly felt the urge to draw.
Aemma recognized the gesture. Rhaenar had done it since birth. It used to be comical when his arms were rounded with baby fat. Now, his forearms were muscular.
She pretended to ignore it. "I hardly need fathering, Rhaenar."
"Hardly," Rhaenar said, leaning back and crossing his legs. "I never did meet your father. Ser Rodrik, what was he like?"
Queen Aemma hummed as she pondered for a moment. "He could be a harsh man. Stern. You would have liked him."
"Why's that?"
"His strict ideals would have amused you."
Rhaenar raised a brow. Perhaps he did take pleasure in teasing such types. "You know what they say: the tighter the arse, the longer the shit."
"Rhaenar!"
"Sorry, sorry…"
"Honestly," the Queen said, feigning to be aghast. "A prince should never forget his courtesies, even behind closed doors and with his mother."
"Some would argue a prince must have his courtesies at all times. What a bore they must be!"
They shared a laugh. It was always this way—naught but love and the sparring of wits. Jokes about family that were only funny to them because they knew the personalities involved.
They chatted for a while, violet eyes meeting blue.
It surprised them both, the ease at which conversation flowed. How they gave each other their full attention, yet still managed to wander off on tangents.
It wouldn't be far-fetched to say that Queen Aemma and Prince Rhaenar were, by the truest definition, the best of friends.
Time slipped away from them.
Judging by the angle of the sun, Rhaenar guessed it had been 25 minutes.
He had just finished reciting a ballad, "Twofold," laughing at the comedic finale of the woman's verse.
Queen Aemma did not laugh along.
Instead, a sly grin spread across her face, a quiet contentment filling her.
To watch her son thrive so effortlessly. She had her chin resting on her hand, reclining on the couch, gazing at him when she asked,
"Why do you sing, Rhaenar?"
The question slipped out of her mind. Though her motherly eyes saw how Rheanar eased and breathed so smoothly, as if he always expected this question.
L’AVIS DES CRÉATEURS 
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