— Council meeting (267 AD)
Tywin Lannister's point of view:
The small council chamber reeked of wine and, Twyin knew, unspoken lies.
The king, Aerys II, stood at the head of the table, his fingernails digging into the map of Westeros as if he could draw blood from the drawn borders. To his right, Grand Maester Pycelle bent over parchments, his chain jingling softly. To his left, Varys smiled softly, fingers crossed over his round belly. At the door, Ser Gerold Hightower, Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, stood as still as a steel statue.
Rhaegar, present at the meeting, sat on a stool too high for his short legs, tracing invisible dragons in the air with an ink-stained finger.
Tywin watched the boy. Eight years old and he already looks like he knows too much, he thought. Rhaegar paid no attention to the tax reports from White Port, his violet eyes now fixed on the map, following the winding course of the Trident as if reading a musical score or a verse of poetry.
"...and the pirates of the Stepstones are asking for 30% more not to attack ships from Lys," Lord Redwyne concluded, sweating under Aerys's glazed gaze.
The king turned sharply to Rhaegar, making the boy jump:
"What about you, little dragon? What would you do? Send fire or gold?"
Rhaegar stared at the map. His voice was soft, the way he had always seen the boy speak:
"I would send... music."
The room laughed - short, sharp laughs, like sheathed knives. Everyone except Tywin. And Ser Gerold, who stood motionless. He saw the prince's fingers tremble as he touched the region of Dorne on the map, as if he could feel the heat of the sands through the parchment.
"Music!" Aerys laughed, "Unbelievable!" he said louder than he should have, slapping his son's shoulder with a force that made Rhaegar choke. "My heir, a bard! Perhaps you'll sing to the pirates until they drown in tears!"
Tywin interrupted before the laughter turned cruel:
"Your Grace, allow me to instruct the prince in the art of commerce. Even music needs gold to be heard." He couldn't miss the opportunity, a lion never misses. He had never taught anyone before, let alone a child. But he knew. Rhaegar was not ordinary.
Aerys froze. His eyes narrowed, scanning Tywin like a cat sniffing a mouse.
"Instruct? Would you shape my blood as you shaped my ports, Lannister?"
"I want to prepare you to rule," Tywin lied, unblinking. "One day these pirates will be his. And a king who knows only harps is a king who bleeds."
Aerys stared at him for a few seconds, then said:
"Do it, Lannister. But be careful."
.
Varys' point of view:
He found himself lost in thought after the meeting.
"The lion intends to forge a king of dragon blood..." Varys' fingers drummed silently on the windowsill as he watched Tywin Lannister cross the courtyard after the tense council meeting, walking tall like a statue of pride and calculation. "But dragons cannot be forged, especially one whose flames are already painting prophecies on the walls," he thought.
"Tywin knows this. He knows that fire will consume even the most skilled blacksmith. And yet... he risks it."
Varys closed his eyes, letting the wind carry the echo of his thoughts. "Interesting? No. Fascinating. A man who despises magic trying to tame a boy who talks to the abyss. Ah, Tywin, you're not making an ally. You're lighting a wick that will bind your pride to the funeral pyres of Valyria."
And in the back of his mind, where the pawns moved in silence, a truth took hold:
"When the dragon awakens, neither gold nor iron will contain it. And I... will be there to blow the ashes into the right wind."
.
Later in the same day
Tywin Lannister's point of view:
The room was cold, lit only by a candle that cast twisted shadows on the shelves of account books. Tywin adjusted the golden lion on his desk for the third time in minutes, his fingers hesitating as never before. Fear? No. Precaution.
He sat down at the table and lined up the parchments with military precision.
He knew too much. The phrase pounded in his skull. He knew that Rhaegar could decipher Valyrian sonnets at the age of eight that took masters years to translate. He knew that the castle cooks kept crumbs from the burnt cakes the prince insisted on baking as relics. He knew that Rhaella whispered forbidden poems to him in the wee hours of the morning, verses about dragons that swallowed moons.
And he knew what the others ignored: the boy was not afraid. Not of swords, not of thunder, not of him. When Tywin had raised his voice at that council, Rhaegar had looked at his hands, not his eyes - as if he could read the history of Castamere in his veins, in his hand.
The candle crackled. Tywin turned the sand clock, irritated by his own impatience. He will come. A Targaryen never refuses knowledge. But Rhaegar was no ordinary Targaryen. He was a child who smelled of burnt parchment and starless nights.
He remembered a servant's story: weeks before, Rhaegar had stared for hours at a portrait drawing of Daenys the Dreamer until the candles in the room went out of their own accord. When asked what he had seen, he had muttered: "She's still writing. On the walls. On our eyelids."
Tywin clenched his jaw. Madness? Genius? It didn't matter. Westeros needed a king who understood the weight of gold, not a poet who played with fire.
.
Footsteps came lightly down the hall. Tywin straightened, his hands on the table. "Teach him to count. Teach him to rule. And if he insists on dreaming..."
The door opened. Rhaegar entered with a book under his arm, his silver hair lit by the candle. His eyes met Tywin's, and for an instant the Lord of Casterly Rock swore he saw flames dancing in the violet.
"...then you will dream under my rule."
.
To be honest, Twyin had lost track of time. He didn't know how long it had been since his "lesson" had begun.
The candle half melted, Rhaegar pointed to the bead book, his charcoal-stained finger leaving wing marks on the pages.
"These numbers are lies," the prince declared, turning the parchment upside down. "Look, Lord Tywin. The gold of King's Landing flows south like tears. And no one collects it."
Tywin tilted his head, surprised at his own patience.
"They're tribute, not tears. And lies don't pay debts."
Rhaegar picked up a piece of charcoal and drew a dragon swallowing the column of numbers.
"Tribute is promise. And promises..." He blew away the excess dust, revealing the monster with its wings outstretched. "...are but smoke before the fire."
The corner of Tywin's mouth twitched - almost a smile.
"And how would you price that smoke, Prince?"
Rhaegar leaned forward, eyes gleaming.
"It would give them something bigger to fear. A dragon doesn't need gold if it has fear to trade with."
"Fear is a currency that depreciates quickly," he admitted, his finger touching the design of the flames. - "But..." He paused, feeling something like approval - "a well-founded fear... that's gold that doesn't rust."
For the next hour, the conversation turned to debate. Numbers became myths.
Loans were "dragon breath deferred."
Taxes, "scales ripped off painlessly."
Foreign debt, "snake eggs hatched in other people's nests."
Tywin listened, corrected, questioned. And to his own surprise, he laughed - just once, briefly - when Rhaegar likened the pirates of the Stepstones to "fleas on paper ships."
"You see the world upside down," Tywin admitted, looking at the map, which now looked like a tapestry of monsters and metaphors.
Rhaegar rubbed the charcoal in his hands, smearing it on the table.
"Not upside down, Lord Tywin. According to my mother, I see things in an 'unfolded' way, but I didn't really understand what she meant by that. And the truth is, you see what is. I see what can burn."
When the candle went out, Tywin did not relight it. In the dim light, the shadows of Rhaegar's drawings danced on the walls. The charcoal dragon seemed to move, devouring phantom figures.
"This ends the lesson for today. Your next lesson will be about the mines of Casterly Rock," Tywin announced, closing the book with a dry thud.
Rhaegar held up a piece of coal as if it were a feather.
"I'll bring more dragons. They love bright caves."
Before leaving, the prince dropped a small scroll on the table. Tywin unrolled it: it was a poem.
"The lion counts his coins,
The dragon counts his ashes.
One day, in the same heap,
Both will be numbers without tongues."
In the margin, a scrawl: a lion sleeping on a treasure while a dragon's kitten stole a coin.
Tywin kept the note in a locked drawer. He vowed to burn it later. But as night fell, he read it again, searching between the lines for what not even Varys could decipher. He knew there was more to the prince's writing.
.
A few weeks later
Rhaella Targaryen Point of view:
The inner courtyard garden smelled of lemon trees. Rhaella was picking fallen leaves when she heard Pycelle's hurried footsteps. Rhaegar, sitting under the crooked shadow of a statue of Jaehaerys I, looked up from the book of poetry he held open on his lap.
"Your Grace," the Grand Maester bowed, his chain jingling.
"News from the Rock. Lord Tytos Lannister... has passed away."
Rhaella didn't move. She knew what was coming before Pycelle even opened his mouth again.
"His Majesty, King Aerys, has decided to leave for Casterly Rock with part of the court," he continued, avoiding her gaze. "To... honor the new era of House Lannister. Lord Tywin will inherit the title later this week."
A cold breeze lifted the pages of Rhaegar's book. The prince didn't look at Pycelle - he stared at his own hands, where a dry leaf crumbled to dust between his fingers.
"Shall we leave?" asked Rhaella, feigning interest in a wilted flower.
"Yes, Your Grace. In three days' time." Pycelle swallowed dryly. "The King believes... that the royal presence will bring light to the Rock, and to the mines."
Light, thought Rhaella. Aerys only seeks one thing in the mines: Power.
Before she could answer, Rhaegar closed the book with a thud.
"They lie about grief," he declared, raising his eyes to Pycelle. "On the Rock, there is no sadness. There's... relief."
Pycelle recoiled, pale, as if the prince's words were knives.
"Prince, that's-"
"Tell my father the lemon trees on the Rock are sweeter," Rhaegar interrupted, crushing the dry leaf in his palm. "He'll like that."
When Pycelle left, dragging his feet like a beaten dog, Rhaella knelt beside her son.
"Why do you mention lemon trees, my dragon?"
Rhaegar raised his hand, revealing a rotten fruit he had hidden beneath the book.
"Because it's true. They don't let the fruit rot there. They cut it before it falls."
His violet eyes stared into the distance, beyond the walls, as if he saw something climbing the rocks of the Rock.
"But their gold... it doesn't shine like they think. It shines like this."
He crushed the fruit in the palm of his hand. The juice ran between his fingers, staining the pages of the poetry book.
Rhaella wiped her son's hand with the sleeve of her dress, noting that the shadows in the garden seemed too long for the time of day.
"Tywin is not like his father," she whispered, more to herself.
"No," Rhaegar agreed, seriously. "But he still believes gold heals wounds. He won't know the truth until he bleeds from them."
That night, as she tucked her son into bed, Rhaella swore she heard laughter coming from the empty hallways - loud, hoarse laughter that sounded like Tytos Lannister on his worst days.
And in the garden, the lemon trees lost all their leaves at once.
.
1.5 months later
Cersei Lannister's Point of View:
The wind blew salty, carrying the smell of the sea and a tension that made the Lannister banners flutter like nervous claws.
Cersei adjusted the lion brooch on her dress - a gift from Joanna for her seventh name - and watched her mother beside her, still as a marble statue. Joanna Lannister did not smile. She never needed to, Cersei thought. Her cold beauty and regal bearing were weapons enough.
Jaime, to his mother's right, swung the foil on his belt in boredom, his green eyes following the birds circling the towers.
The royal entourage appeared like a procession of shadows under the unrelenting sun. First Aerys, descending from the carriage with not-so-steady steps, his crown hanging over dull purple eyes. Then Rhaella, pale as a ghost in gray silk robes, but with the translucent beauty that only Targaryen women possess.
And then him.
Rhaegar Targaryen emerged like a drawn blade. His silver hair didn't glow - it devoured the light, making the world around him more opaque. He carried a book under his arm, its black leather cover stylized with dragons. His violet eyes swept down the row of nobles like a harpist plucking strings until they landed on her.
Cersei felt the air leave her lungs for the first time.
His violet eyes were so intense that they seemed capable of nailing a man's soul to the wall, and for a moment that stretched beyond time, the world was reduced to silence. The sea stopped roaring. The banners froze. Even the smell of salt vanished.
They stared at each other for what seemed like an eternity.
Then Rhaegar looked away, scanning the crowd again as if searching for something lost between the lines.
"Welcome to Casterly Rock," Tywin greeted, his voice as polished as the rock's walls. Joanna tilted her head in a precise motion, a perfect bow, her golden robes not even whispering with the gesture.
Aerys greeted Tywin with a laugh.
"Your castel looks smaller than I remember, Lannister! Or is it my crown that's grown?"
Rhaella approached Joanna, the two women measuring each other in silence. "Your daughter has inherited your eyes," Rhaella said, turning slightly toward Cersei and touching the brooch with almost translucent fingers. "But not your smile."
"Smiles are for celebrations," Joanna replied, lifting her chin. "And we've been at war since the cradle, haven't we?"
Cersei barely heard. Rhaegar was standing before her now, and the world was moving again - too fast.
"Princess Cersei," he said, bowing perfectly. "I have brought you a gift from the High Garden," he held out his hand, palm up, like someone offering water to a wounded bird. On it rested a rose. Blue. So blue it seemed stolen from the winter sky, its petals interspersed with silver veins that pulsed in the sunlight.
"High Garden calls it 'Dream Breeze,'" he said again. His voice was so soft that Cersei had to lean in to hear it. "They say it blooms only for those who carry fire under their skin."
Cersei kept her face impassive, as Joanna had taught her, but her eyes betrayed her, a gleam of curiosity.
"Flowers are for gardeners," she replied, crossing her arms. "Lions hunt bigger things."
Rhaegar ignored the comment and, with a small smile, moved closer until the flower almost touched her dress.
"This is no ordinary flower. They say it whispers secrets at night," he whispered as if sharing a conspiracy. "I picked it myself...well, almost."
Jaime nudged her sister and laughed. "He thinks you like nanny stories!"
Rhaegar corrected, serious, his violet eyes fixed on her as if reading invisible letters on her face:
"I don't think so. A lioness does not hunt flowers... but she does not ignore their thorns."
He twirled the blue rose between his slender fingers, showing the barbs hidden in the stem. "You came here yesterday, didn't you? When everyone was asleep. You were staring at the stone lion in the gallery. Did it tell you anything?"
His voice was soft, but the question pierced Cersei like a dagger. How did he know?
Cersei squeezed the brooch until the skin on her chest throbbed, but her voice was firm:
"Stones don't talk. Nor should princes lie!"
The silence that followed was as piercing as the sea wind. Cersei felt the weight of her mistake before Joanna even moved - speaking up was a mistake, speaking up to a prince was a complete defeat.
Standing before Rhaella, Joanna said quickly, the polite smile still on her face:
"Our illustrious guests must be exhausted after their long journey," she said, lifting her chin slightly as if to offer a compliment and a judgment at the same time. - The Solar Halls of Lann await them. Silk sheets from Lys, pillows stuffed with swan feathers from the Riverlands... - Her green eyes landed on Rhaegar, who was watching her now. - And books. A lot of books."
As Joanna spoke, Cersei allowed herself a single furtive glance in Rhaegar's direction again. He was already watching her, his violet eyes fixed not on her face but on the lion brooch that sparkled in the ruddy light of the setting sun. For a moment, something passed between them - not curiosity, not fear, but the silent recognition of two beasts assessing each other's territory. She accepted the challenge.
.
As they walked back into the castle, Cersei found herself lost in thought. Her fingers unconsciously clutched the lion brooch - the same one Rhaegar had stared at hours before - as she relived the scene:
The silver-haired prince, the blue rose, the eyes that seemed to read her like the pages of an open book.
Anger throbbed in her temples - anger at herself for trembling, anger at him for making her feel that way. But there was something else, a worm gnawing at her insides: curiosity. The same thing that had made her follow Joanna a few months ago, eavesdropping on forbidden conversations...
Flashback:
The light of a flickering candle leaked under the door of Tywin's study. Cersei, barefoot and invisible as only children can be, stuck her ear to the wood:
"The young prince is causing a stir among the great houses," said Joanna, her voice as sweet as poison in honey. - "Whispers echo from Dragonstone to Vilavelha: the genius Targaryen, a precocious poet, who seems to talk to the walls while drawing dragons and verses in High Valyrian. People are curious," said Joanna Lannister, raising a glass of red wine, the liquid reflecting fake rubies in her greenish eyes.
Tywin turned a page of the tax report with a precise gesture, the ring of the Hand of the King sparkling in the candlelight.
"Curiosity is a vice of weak minds. - The ebony pen in his hand scratched out a number with force, furrowing the parchment. "But economics... - He raised his eyes to Joanna. "He devours my teachings like a hungry dragon. He corrected the calculations for the Silver mines - a mistake we've been carrying around for longer than I'd like."
Joanna glided up to the table, her golden dress hissing against the marble like a serpent about to strike. Her sapphire-ringed fingers pressed down on the tax report, leaving ghostly marks in the still-fresh ink.
"A prince who draws dragons by day and deciphers gold by night is a beast who doesn't know if it's a dream or an axe," she warned, her green eyes fixed on her husband. - Be careful, my love. Even the sharpest knives turn on the hand that wields them.
Tywin lifted the seal of the King's Hand, the candlelight causing the red dragon at the top to spit long shadows across the wall. The metal slammed against the table with a clatter that echoed like thunder and made even the candle flames tremble.
"Dragons are fire, Joanna. And fire... - ... can be channeled." He pointed to Rhaegar's calculations, "His mind is an underground river. Dark. Powerful. And rivers can be diverted to water fields... or drown enemies."
Cersei, hidden in the darkness of the corridor, felt the lion's brooch dig into her palm. Blood dripped between her fingers and mingled with the shadows creeping across the floor.
In that moment, she vowed that one day her name would burn brighter than Rhaegar's - even if it meant setting the world on fire.
Cersei backed away from the door, her heart pounding. The lion brooch had left circular marks on her palm, but the pain was overshadowed by the fire in her chest. A thought flashed through her mind. "Why didn't he ever say something like that about her?"
Present:
Since then, curiosity had burned within her like a fever. Rhaegar Targaryen - the prodigy born in the ashes of Summerhall - occupied her thoughts more than she cared to admit.
She knew, of course, that the Targaryens had silver hair and violet eyes. But in the darkness of her daydreams, he was just a faded silhouette: hair like strands of moonlight, eyes like gems stolen from Jaehaerys' crown. Nothing to prepare her for him.
The reality had been sharper.
When she had seen him emerge from the royal carriage hours before, Cersei had felt out of breath. His hair was silver, but a silver that seemed to absorb light rather than reflect it. His eyes were such an intense violet that she could stare into them for a long time if it weren't for the occasion. And when he handed him the blue rose, the silver veins of the flower seemed to pulsate.
Back in her chambers, Cersei stared at her reflection in the misty mirror. The lion brooch in her hand.
Cersei whispered to her reflection:
"Dragons channel fire. Lions eat fire. And I... I will prove that gold is worth more than verses."
On the table, a parchment stolen from Tywin's library: Economic Strategies of the Free Cities by Lyman Lannister. On the first page, she crossed out Rhaegar's name in red ink and wrote her own in gold letters.
As the moon bathed the rock in warm silver, Cersei Lannister vowed that one day all the whispers about the "poet prince" would be drowned out by a single name - hers.