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A Golden Path: Foundation 2.13 (ch. 22)
🕑 Added 2025-08-18 15:03:19 +0000 UTCHis room felt like an adequate representation of his life, Rhaegar Targaryen felt as he raised his head from his hands. Everything in his quarters had been destroyed -- the wardrobe, his desk, chairs, candlesticks, pitchers and cups, even his bed. All of it was destroyed in a manic fury that came and left him in fits and bursts. There were even scoring marks on the walls where he beat his sword dull against the stone. He sat upon the floor of his bedroom with his back against the wall, feeling completely undone. Untethered.
He tried to deny it at first -- everything that Paul had said, he tried to deny it all. He tried to reason with the words, poke holes in the seemingly ironclad truths, and remain firm in his convictions. To convince himself that Paul was mistaken. He poured over all the arguments that he could have made in the moment, but they never managed to spill past his lips. All the arguments in the world meant nothing in the face of one undeniable fact.
He was a puppet dancing on the strings of a marionette. His entire life was a lie. A sham. Wasted effort as the Others wouldn't invade in his lifetime, or even the lifetime of his great-grandchildren.
He felt like a fool. That he was the butt of a joke that the whole world was laughing at. Because, as much as he wanted to argue and deny it all, he couldn't. He believed Paul. He didn't want to, but he couldn't. It was as if there was this… thing in his head whispering in his ear that he had been told an undeniable truth, and it was hopeless to deny it.
“What an absolute waste,” Rhaegar muttered, groping for his dream journal. One of many. He flipped to a random page, and he saw the madness scribbled on the parchment. He saw his efforts trying to make sense of the senseless, layering his theories and the fragments of dreams half remembered upon waking. He had taken great care to hide his journals, knowing that any who saw them would think him mad. It was the bitterest revelation that he was something far worse than a madman.
He was a fool.
“Damn it all,” Rhaegar muttered, looking at his mania. The theories he crafted, trying to make sense of his dreams. Dreams that still tried to plague him, his puppet master not at all caring for his newfound awareness. So, to avoid those dreams, he hadn't slept for… a few days now. Two or three.
He felt sluggish when he got up and walked to the hearth of his bedroom, mindful of the shattered glass. Taking a broken leg chair, he used it and a bit of tinder to get a fire going. Sitting before the flames, he looked down at the first page of his journal. Compared to the later pages, the observations were concise. He tried to make things orderly for ease of reference. He…
He ripped out the page and fed it to the flames, feeling hollow as the fire blackened the parchment before being reduced to ash. Another page was fed to the flames, and while he didn't feel better, it did feel good to just… cast off the weight that had been slowly suffocating him since he was a boy.
“I am not the Prince That Was Promised. I am not the mythical hero that'll put an end to the Long Night and the Great Other. I'm just a fool and a madman with delusions of grandeur… I… am my father's son,” Rhaegar muttered, his hand pausing on a page to tear out. Disgust welled up deep from within his chest and with a snarl, he tore out a handful of pages to throw into the fire. That black anger started to claim him again -- he could feel its vile taint darkening every thought. It was a rage so dark it felt like he could destroy the Red Keep with nothing but his hands.
But he couldn't. Shouldn't. Let the lords think he was a sullen boy who didn't want to get married. That was far better than the truth. He contained his rage to this room, and only this room. The Kingsguard had orders to turn away everyone who would approach until he could regain some level of control over himself again. At least, that's what they should be doing.
Rhaegar was about to toss the entire book into the open flame when the door suddenly opened. He half expected Arthur to disobey his order -- he was a loyal knight and a fast friend, but he had great misgivings and fears. Who he would let by him was something of a question. He expected his mother, and when he saw the hem of a skirt from the corner of his eye, he thought it might be her. But, when he looked over, an excuse on his lips, his gaze met the very last person that he wanted to see.
“Your servants have grown quite lax,” Anessa began, her expression indifferent as she closed the door behind her, her gaze surveying the destroyed room before landing heavily on him. “To leave your quarters in such a state. And yourself in a state of undress.”
He didn't want to see her. What Paul said rang in his ears like a bell -- a life that he could have had if Steffon Baratheon hadn't found her. He could have married Elia Martel. He could have strengthened his grip on the Seven Kingdoms by binding one to the Iron Throne with blood.
‘For what?’ A voice in the back of his mind whispered. There was no Long Night to face and prepare for. Only the tedious squabbling of petty nobles, and their problems that seemed so very small in comparison to the death of all the living in the world.
“Why are you here?” He questioned, trying to keep his voice even but his anger leaked into his tone despite himself. A wave of exhaustion threatened to knock him off his feet, and his patience was short. Looking at her -- he felt robbed. Like some thief in the night had stolen a life that could have been his, and left him with… this. Her. A woman he didn't know, didn't trust, and didn't understand. A woman that he should have never met, but now he would be bound to until the end of one of their lives.
“You are my betrothed -- is it truly so strange that I would take an interest in your well-being?” She questioned, raising an eyebrow as if he were the unreasonable one. “Your mother said that you had taken ill. A malady has been sweeping through King's Landing, and I worried that you may be among them.”
Every word that she said felt like a lie, and he hated it. He had no patience for it either, “No. Why are you here,” he continued, his tone as sharp as a dagger. He wanted to grab her by the shoulders and demand answers. He hated the loss of control he felt -- so much of his life was decided by others, and he had taken solace in at least being able to control himself. But even that seemed beyond him.
“What a strange question,” Anessa deflected, eyeing him carefully and with poise. He wondered what she thought when she looked at him -- devilish hair, dark bags under his eyes, wearing but a pair of sleepwear trousers with his knuckles bruised from punching the walls. He must be quite the shock for how he usually comported himself. “I am here to be your wife. Your queen,” she said, as if it were obvious but there was a caution in her tone that he couldn't quite place. Was she afraid of the question or him?
“You know that's not what I meant,” Rhaegar growled, and he saw it. A flash in her eyes that told him the remark struck home. “I'll ask again. Why. Are. You. Here?” With each step, he closed the distance between them until he stood so close that a hand could barely pass between them. She looked up at him with wide eyes, the political mask slipping ever so slightly to reveal her uncertainty. But, she slipped it back into place a second later.
“I would have my own questions answered, if this is to be some… interrogation,” she replied sharply. Everything was a negotiation with her, and Rhaegar was sick of it. All the same, he offered a single curt nod. “What has driven you to such a state? I cannot claim to know you well, but this… is unlike you. Even I can see that.”
He took a step back, a lie sitting heavily upon his tongue. He was a weak man, Rhaegar realized, far too late. A stronger man would have been able to hold out. To have the mental fortitude necessary to endure this… revelation and maintain his dignity. Instead, Rhaegar felt like a frightened child clutching at his mother's skirts as he half sobbed about the monsters under his bed. It was pathetic. Even as the truth began to spill from his lips, he couldn't find any catharsis in the confession.
Rhaegar told the story in fits and bursts, jumping years ahead from the start, only to jump back when he needed to explain something. Anessa listened patiently, even when Rhaegar began to pace across his room. He was ranting. He was raving. He felt every bit as mad as his father as he told her a truth that he had guarded closely for years -- about his dreams, about the White Walkers, and now about how Paul had pulled the rug out from underneath him with a simple conversation.
His throat ached, he was utterly spent, and by the end of his racings, he half collapsed before the open flames -- clutching at his journal as a source of comfort. Even as it tormented him. He half expected for Anessa to run for the hills by the time he was done. Instead, he heard her approach before kneeling next to him… and then she spoke.
“Paul is right about something putting me in your path, my beloved,” Anessa confessed and… Rhaegar had hoped that she would deny it. That she would tell him that it was all a lie. He hoped that she would give him a sliver of proof needed to deny everything that Paul said. “But it was not out of malevolence,” she reassured, reaching out and grasping a hand, running her fingers over his stabbed knuckles. Her hands were soft and gentle and Rhaegar found far too much reassurance in the gesture.
“... Meaning?” He rasped, not even sure if he wanted to know anymore. He craved ignorance desperately. He wished that he could just forget it all and go back to being what he was before.
“My lord, what do you know of R'hllor?” Anessa asked him, and he stilled.
“The God of Light in Essos?” He had researched the god thoroughly, in particular the prophecy of Azor Ahai. “You claim that a god put you here?” Despite it all, he couldn't keep the disbelief out of his voice. Something that Anessa didn't seem to particularly mind, offering a simple smile that told him she expected his disbelief.
“Indirectly, but yes,” she continued, unbothered by the ludicrous notion. “You see… Master Malik is a practitioner of magic, one of the few that still exist in this world and one of the even smaller number that have any talent for the art.” Master Malik. The old man that had accompanied them -- Rhaegar had the man investigated, but he found little of substance. Yet, he had a position of trust with the Valis siblings, it would seem. “Master Malik… made a sacrifice to R'hllor, and he was awarded a vision in the flames. He saw a great disaster coming from beyond the Wall, the Long Night come again.”
Rhaegar nearly laughed. Had he truly been so arrogant in his assumption that it was up to him and him alone to prepare for the Long Night?
Unaware of his thoughts, Anessa continued. “He… entered the service of my family with the intention to fulfill the vision -- when Steffon Baratheon came to Volantis, it was he who reached out. From there, the marriage was arranged, all so that we may face what comes.” She gave his hand and gentle but reassuring squeeze, and Rhaegar swallowed down his denials.
Instead, a long sigh escaped him. “I fear that it's for naught, my lady. The Long Night won't come again in our lifetime.” He was surprised at how bitter the words were. It should be a good thing, Rhaegar knew -- it was a good thing that the world wasn't facing annihilation by an everlasting winter. It's something that he should take comfort in. He should be happy. Yet, he wasn't.
His heart was full of bitterness and he despaired.
“Because one lord in Skagos of all places says so?” Anessa questioned, scoffing derisively. “That is a great deal to take faith from a single arrogant lord, my beloved. He is but a mortal meddling in the affairs of gods.” Rhaegar swallowed a lump in his throat, reflecting on the conversation he had with Lord Atreides once again, for what felt like the hundredth time.
He had believed every word so utterly. So completely. He had doubts, of course, but even those doubts had been worn away. Even when he grasped for proof of Paul’s claims or sought evidence that would disprove them, he already believed them to a degree, at the very least. If he hadn’t, then he wouldn’t have hid away in his room for the past few days, avoiding sleep, and beating his fists bloody against the wall when he wasn’t weeping like a lost child.
“You claim that he’s lying?” Rhaegar questioned sharply, but Anessa simply shook her head.
“Mistaken is far more likely, I fear,” she corrected. “Nor do I believe that he is on the side of the Others. If he were, then he would gain very little by telling you of his… abilities. But, I fear that he is assigning mortal limitations upon the gods themselves. Arrogant, foolish, but not inherently malicious. However, merely because he is not an ally of the Great Other does not mean he is any ally of ours. He could very well have his own base ambitions and desires.”
There was a loud silence between them, and Rhaegar felt himself being pulled in two directions. Wanton desperation for Paul to be wrong, to mistrust him, and everything that he said. The other was a dreadful belief that he had spoken honestly. Anessa was right in that Paul wasn’t necessarily an ally of his, but that didn’t mean he lied about everything.
Anessa sensed his hesitation before speaking once more, “Perhaps you require proof, my love?” Anessa asked, her tone soft as she turned her gaze pointedly towards the fire before them. Apprehension crawled up Rhaegar’s throat as he realized what she meant.
“Sorcery?” He breathed, his lips thinning at the mere thought.
“Magic is like the tide, my love. It ebbs and flows with time -- in the Age of Heroes, magic was as plentiful as air. In this time, it is sparse, and the few who practice it invite fear from those without. Don’t allow the fear of smallfolk and fools rule you. You are a dragon,” she reassured him, her voice soft with a musical quality to it.
She undersold the dangers spectacularly. His family had a long history with magic and its inherent destructiveness. His own birth had been marked with tragedy at Summerhall when his grandsire attempted to reclaim their dragons, and in doing so, he not only got himself killed but many others. He had often heard magic being described as a blade without a hilt -- one could not wield it without being cut by the blade in turn.
Desperation. Desperation made a fool of everyone, and Rhaegar felt like he could be no greater fool than he already was.
A small shaky nod gave his consent, a gnawing need in his chest for answers. Anessa offered a pleased smile, and he thought it might be the first earnest emotion she had displayed since he knew her. A hand drifted to a shard of glass, and she pressed the edge of it to a finger, letting fat drops of blood fall to his ruined journal with a pinch of pain.
“Blood has power, my love. You possess the blood of kings. Of dragons,” Anessa told him as his blood fell, streaming down his finger for a second more before she began to wrap the finger in a strip of cloth. “Dragons are said to be the first children of R'hllor as they are living flames. And the Dragon Lords are said to be kin to them. Which will make your offering all the more valuable, my love. Now, feed your journal into the flames and tell me what you see…”
It felt like a farce, Rhaegar thought to himself, as he did as bid -- distantly aware that this could be a terrible mistake, but one that could be worth whatever consequences might come. He tossed the journal, years of work, into the fire and gazed into the flames as the leather began to curl into itself as it blackened.
And then…
And then he saw.
A strangled breath was caught in the back of his throat as in the flames he saw… something. At first, he wasn’t sure what but with every passing second, it became clearer.
He saw himself landing on a white sandy beach from a gangplank of a ship, arrows falling from the sky like rain, ushering forth a charge of his lords and soldiers.
The vision changed along with the flickerings of flames -- he saw himself pressing a head to a crowd, a cry spilling forth from his lips, ‘Long live the fighters!’
A breath was caught in his throat as he watched it unfold, wonder and apprehension filling him as he watched the future unfold. The Stepstones -- he was watching the battles in the Stepstones unfold. A campaign that his father was setting him up for failure foretold his success.
But then the visions changed.
“No… I… I wouldn't…” Rhaegar heaved, watching as a man with his visage sat upon the Iron Throne, gazing down at… at…
A pyre.
His father was bound at the center, his expression rapturous with eyes shining with excitement. It contrasted so very harshly with the three others that were bound, who were gagged but they still shouted and thrashed. All the more so when torches were tossed upon the pyre filling the throne room with smoke and the scent of burnt hair and cooking meat. Their screams were hellish and filled with anguish for what felt like an eternity…
But when the screams and flames died, from the ashes emerged…
“Dragons,” Rhaegar breathed, watching as three baby dragons crawl forth as he descended down the steps. Distantly, he was aware of Anessa's hand grasping at his when she heard that. He wanted to see more, but the vision faded. It was a struggle to swallow the lump in his throat, and the surge of emotions in his chest. Dragons. The foundation of Targaryen rule over the Seven Kingdoms, a foundation that had been lost to them in the aftermath of the Dance of Dragons.
“Do you see, my love?” Anessa began, cupping his face to make him look at her. “Banish your doubts and hesitations. We work on behalf of the gods themselves,” she said before leaning forward and kissing him.
Her lips were soft and he was a weak man. Far weaker than he thought as he clung to her like a port in the storm, kissing back fiercely. He didn't know if he believed what he saw, but he wanted to. He desperately wanted to believe. Not because it would secure the future of his family, or because it meant that they hadn't lost their greatest weapon to be used on the Others. He hoped because it meant that he was more than a madman and a fool.
He hoped, even as he wondered if he was once more dancing to the tune of his puppet master or if he he found a new marionette to pluck his strings.
Comments
David C.
Rhaegar you fool
