Chapter Text
The torches flickered along the stone walls of the great hall, their dim light casting restless shadows as Rhaegar paced. His boots echoed against the cold floor, a steady rhythm to match the storm of thoughts in his mind. The weight of his crown bore heavier upon him than the steel of his armor ever had. He had always been melancholic—so many whispered of it—but now, his grief was a living thing, clawing at his chest with every breath.
He had known before he had even set foot in these halls. The raven had come swift, bearing words that should have been joyous but instead carved deep wounds into his soul. Lyanna was dead. His beloved had perished, alone and suffering, as she brought his son into the world. He had not been there to hold her hand, to whisper soft reassurances in her ear. Instead, she had labored in a lonely tower, far from comfort and home. Had she been at Dragonstone, in the Red Keep, anywhere but the forsaken Tower of Joy, would she still live?
He had never questioned the path the prophecy had set him upon—not when he had reached out and taken Lyanna from her betrothal, not when the realm had bled for his decision. But now, standing in the halls of his ancestors, haunted by ghosts of war and loss, doubt gnawed at him. Had he been a fool? Had he led Lyanna to her doom, and with her, the kingdom he had once dreamed of saving?
The great doors groaned as they swung open, pulling him from his spiraling thoughts. Arthur Dayne, Gerold Hightower, and Oswell Whent entered in solemn silence. Their armor, unlike the ones of the others he had been around, did not bear the marks of battles, but their faces were as weary. Behind them, Wylla followed, cradling a bundle wrapped in soft linen. The child within stirred, a tiny movement, but Rhaegar saw it as clearly as if the world had stopped.
The three knights fell to one knee before him.
"Your Grace," Arthur said, his voice heavy with something unspoken. The title felt heavier than usual coming from him.
Rhaegar shook his head, a hand rising in dismissal. "Rise. All of you."
They obeyed, but their gazes did not meet his. He knew the words they wished to say—their apologies, their regrets—but they remained silent. There was no need for them to say anything. He did not blame them. How could he when the burden of this tragedy was his to bear?
His eyes never left the child. He stepped forward, the space between him and Wylla closing in momentarily. "May I?" he asked, his voice quiet and uncertain. He had held Rhaenys and Aegon when they were first placed in his arms, but now his hands felt clumsy, unworthy.
Wylla did not hesitate. "You do not have to ask, Your Grace. He is your son."
Carefully, almost reverently, she placed the babe in his arms. He was small— no more than Rhaenys and Aegon had been- but he felt more fragile to hold. Rhaegar could see Lyanna in him already. Her dark hair, her long face. He had been expecting a girl, but Lyanna had been so certain it would be a boy, and she had always been right.
Rhaegar had been certain the child would be a girl, the third head of the dragon, the missing piece to the prophecy. He had believed Aegon was the Prince That Was Promised, and his sister, a second Visenya, would complete the balance. The babe being a boy—was it proof he had been wrong? Had the bloodshed been for nothing? The thought gripped him like a vice, but he shook it away. He had loved Lyanna, prophecy or not. How could he not? Even if he had once justified their union through fate, he refused to see his child as a mistake.
"What is his name?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.
Wylla hesitated. "She never had the chance to name him."
Rhaegar closed his eyes, grief tightening its hold on his heart. He had been so sure the child would be a Visenya that he had not even considered a name for a son. Viserys was taken, and the other variants he could think of—Visenyon, Visenyor—felt wrong.
Then, he remembered. Lyanna had always loved the tales of King Jaehaerys, the conciliator, Jaeherys the wise. The name formed on his lips before he had even fully decided. "Jaehaerys."
The knights exchanged glances, but no one spoke. He knew what they thought. The name would raise eyebrows. Naming this child after one of the greatest kings in their history would be seen by some as a challenge, as if Rhaegar intended to elevate his bastard son to a status that rivaled his trueborn heir. He knew the court would look for signs, for any hint of preference. The scars of war were fresh, and he had no wish to deepen them. He could not, would not, place his sons in opposition. Yet the name still felt right.
Jaehaerys. His son.
The babe stirred, tiny fingers clenching the fabric of Rhaegar’s tunic. He exhaled, realizing how tightly he had been holding the child. He traced the soft curve of his cheek with a feather-light touch.
The boy’s eyes fluttered open, and Rhaegar froze. They were grey—grey like his mother's. A Stark’s eyes, not a dragon’s. A Song of Ice and Fire—born of dragon and wolf.
Not for the first time, he considered that the babe could be the prince that was promised. Yet Aegon had the comet. He bore the name of conquerors. Was he not the promised one? Was this child, then, something else?
He would be safer in the North, raised among his mother’s kin, away from the treacheries of court, away from the vengeful eyes of those who had suffered in the war. But the thought of sending him away, of losing the last piece of Lyanna he had, tore at his heart. The war had taken everything else. Could he bear to part with his son as well?
No. Not yet. Perhaps not ever.
He held Jaehaerys closer, pressing a kiss to his brow. "I will try to do right by you," he vowed. "For Lyanna."
For now, that was all he could do.
But Rhaegar knew his burdens did not end with his son. The kingdom was fractured, bleeding from the wounds his father had inflicted as a direct consequence of his actions. Aerys now rotted in the dungeon, and though execution seemed the only justice acceptable to those who had suffered under his madness, Rhaegar knew it would only be the first step in mending the realm. There was also the matter of the Martells, who harbored anger over the insult to Elia.
Guilt twisted in his gut as his thoughts turned to Elia, Aegon, and Rhaenys. He had failed them as a husband and father, abandoned them to the mercies of his father’s paranoia. While he had ridden off with Lyanna, lost in prophecy and love, Elia and their children had been left in King’s Landing as bargaining pieces, hostages to secure Dorne’s support. Aerys had kept them under watch as living shields, a threat to ensure the Martells’ loyalty. Elia, frail in health yet unbreakable in spirit, had borne the weight of his choices in silence, left to fend for herself and their children in a court filled with vipers.
He had justified it then—told himself that this was the price of destiny, that he would make things right once the prophecy was fulfilled—but standing here now, with blood staining the kingdom and Lyanna gone, all he could see was his selfishness. He had wounded Elia in a way no blade ever could, had left his son and daughter vulnerable in the heart of a city that had nearly burned. Rhaegar did not yet know how to face them, how to seek forgiveness for a betrayal that could never be undone.
He needed a council to help guide the realm toward peace. There were still rebels to be dealt with, but how harshly should he treat them? They had risen not out of ambition but out of fear and fury, fueled by his father’s cruelty. If he was too lenient, he would seem weak; too harsh, and he would breed further resentment. He had to tread carefully, for the realm’s wounds were deep, and darker days loomed ahead.
For all his dreams of prophecy and destiny, Rhaegar knew that before he could prepare the world for the darkness that was to come, he had to heal the kingdom his father had left in ruin.