Seated beneath one of Storm's End's lower battlements, sheltered from the rain by an overhanging vault of stone, Rhaegar watched the sea.
The waves crashed endlessly against the fortress below. White foam exploded against black rocks before being swallowed once more by the raging waters, only for another wave to follow and continue the assault. The sea hurled itself against the cliffs with relentless fury, as though attempting to tear down the fortress stone by stone. Wind howled through the openings in the walls, carrying the scent of salt and rain, while dark clouds rolled across the horizon in vast, shifting masses.
For thousands of years the castle had stood against the fury of nature, refusing to yield. The Sea God and the Goddess of the Winds still sought vengeance against Durran Godsgrief for stealing their daughter away, yet Storm's End still endured, uncaring for their rage.
It suited his mood.
Overtaken by sorrow, the prince rested his forearms upon the damp parapet and stared outward. In truth, he saw little of the sea before him, for his thoughts were elsewhere.
For days now he had found himself surrounded by figures from legends, heroes and kings of power that would deserve worship in many places, valiant champions who seemed as though they had stepped directly from the Dawn Age to help the prince with his heavy duty.
And yet somehow, despite all his efforts, Rhaegar found himself standing at the edge of their world, an observer instead of participant.
Steffon Baratheon, only half the dragon the prince was, had somehow accomplished effortlessly what Rhaegar had failed to achieve despite endless attempts.
The Lord of Storm's End laughed with Hadwyn Caria as though they had known one another for years, not merely acquaintances but true friends, the sort of comradery that was forged through mutual respect and genuine affection.
Hadwyn sought Steffon's company and enjoyed his presence, the ease between them impossible to miss. Sometimes, watching them together, Rhaegar found himself thinking of Aegon the Conqueror and Orys One-Hand, brothers in all but blood.
A bond that Rhaegar himself desired yet had been denied so far.
Then there was Robert, the boy who possessed all the subtlety of a charging warhorse, perhaps less.
The young Baratheon threw himself at every Inbetweener he encountered with reckless enthusiasm, demanding stories, training and attention. He interrupted conversations and asked absurd questions, ignoring etiquette that interactions with those valiant champions demanded and pestering them constantly without showing a proper respect.
And somehow it worked.
The warriors adored him to the extent Rhaegar could scarcely understand. Lady Devonia, a warrior who supposedly carried blessings of nature itself and had served as the mightiest of champions for time uncountable, had taken personal interest in the boy, spending hours training Robert after apparently finding something in him worthy of nurturing.
The realization that she had found no such thing in Rhaegar stung more than he cared to admit.
Even young Stannis, who scarcely seemed interested in the magical visitors at all, had somehow found a place among them. Rhaegar had learned that the boy somehow held an odd comradery with Lady Ranni, the goddess apparently spending hours reading in Storm’s End’s library with Stannis as a silent company.
Even Arthur had received something. His old friend and most trusted companion had crossed blades with Hadwyn, learning from the Elden Lord and being granted insight into the true nature of Dawn and its ‘gravitational’ power.
Since then, Rhaegar rarely saw him idle. Whenever duty allowed, Arthur trained with the Inbetweener warriors present and sought to harness the Dawn’s power, pursuing whatever revelation Hadwyn had given him with relentless determination.
Everyone seemed to receive something from the Inbetweeners…everyone except Rhaegar.
The prince lowered his gaze toward the sea, the realization filling his soul with sorrow and pain as he could not understand why. Was he not the one burdened with destiny? Was he not the one haunted by visions? The one who had spent years studying prophecies and preparing for the calamity while others enjoyed the simple pleasures of life?
He had sacrificed his youth, his peace and his certainty, all in pursuit of understanding the threat he knew awaited beyond the horizon and finding a way to stop it from destroying his beloved realm.
The Song of Ice and Fire.
The darkness he had seen in dreams, the cold death, the endless winter, he carried those burdens willingly because someone had to. Because if he did not prepare, who would?
Surely it should matter.
And yet the people who seemed most capable of understanding such things appeared utterly uninterested. The ones who had fought against gods and had challenged fate itself, the ones who possessed knowledge beyond anything preserved in Westeros…they gave their attention to those less gifted, those less aware about what was coming.
The unfairness of it gnawed at him.
He had tried. He had spoken with Hadwyn, with Ser Ansbach, with various members of the foreign retinue. He had listened carefully, asked thoughtful questions and shown genuine interest, yet every conversation seemed to drift away from him, the answers he sought remaining elusive and the connections he tried to forge remaining shallow.
Then there was the issue of Lady Florissax.
Rhaegar grimaced as the memory resurfaced, as of all his encounters with the Inbetweeners, that one lingered the longest. The dragon woman had not merely dismissed him— she treated him like a blight to be corrected, the prince’s family’s legacy declared tainted and wrong.
The prince had approached her seeking understanding and kinship, but in her eyes, his blood was little more than a stain. The Dragoness had spoken of House Targaryen's dragons as though they were vermin, creatures deserving only extermination. She had spoken casually of Hadwyn's hunts, of drakes slain by the dozens, beasts struck from the skies and butchered without ceremony. To Lady Florissax, the dragons that had forged the Targaryen dynasty were not magnificent creatures worthy of reverence, but descendants of a traitor that deserved nothing but scorn.
The realization had wounded Rhaegar deeply, because dragons were not merely animals to House Targaryen. They were everything— without dragons, there would have been no Aegon's Conquest, no Iron Throne and no Seven Kingdoms.
Perhaps sensing how troubled the encounter had left him, Ser Ansbach had approached him later, seeking to explain Lady Florissax’s demeanour.
He had spoken of Ancient Dragons and drakes, explaining to Rhaegar the distinction he had never known existed. The dragons of Westeros, the creatures that had built House Targaryen's kingdom, were apparently not true dragons at all by the standards of Florissax's people.
They were drakes, lowborn kin descended from Bayle the Dread, creatures with two legs and two wings, lesser and diminished compared to the Ancient Dragons of Farum Azula, who possessed four legs and four wings and who were the original rulers of the skies, the true dragon lords.
And apparently, the descendants of Bayle inherited his guilt just as they inherited his blood.
Rhaegar stared into the crashing waves below, the idea unsettling him deeply. Because if the blood of their dragons was tainted...what exactly did that mean for House Targaryen? For himself?
The prince slowly closed his eyes.
For centuries the Targaryens had viewed dragons as proof of divine favor and proof of superiority. The blood of the dragon had justified their right to rule and separation from other men, it excused their traditions and pride. Yet now he had encountered beings who viewed those same dragons as creatures worthy of condemnation rather than reverence, who possessed the strength to act upon that belief.
Had his ancestors known? Had the Dragonlords of Valyria understood the origins of the creatures they rode, understood that Balerion the Valyrian God of Death, was most likely just a mangled name of Bayle, the father of dragons? Had they made a deal with Bayle for power, unknowing and uncaring that it would prove itself disastrous long after they were all gone, depriving Rhaegar of the trust he should have received from the magical visitors?
Perhaps the ability to command dragons had outweighed whatever sins lurked in the distant past.
Rhaegar watched the foam scatter. A part of him wanted to dismiss Lady Florissax entirely, a part that insisted that Targaryen dragons remained magnificent regardless of what some ancient creature thought. Yet another part could not, because the Dragoness had spoken as though she remembered, as though these events were not ancient history but living memory and as though Bayle himself remained real enough to hate with passion.
Was that why the Inbetweeners kept him at arm's length? Was that why Hadwyn never seemed particularly interested in him and Lady Florissax regarded him with contempt? Why none of them seemed eager to discuss his destiny despite possessing knowledge beyond anything Westeros could offer?
Did they look at him and see only another descendant of a mistake made thousands of years ago?
The wind howled through the battlements and far below, another wave shattered against the rock as Rhaegar closed his eyes, overwhelmed by sorrow and unsure what he was he supposed to do with such knowledge.
For perhaps the first time in many years, he found himself genuinely uncertain of what path lay ahead.
“What are you doing here, Rhaegar?” The voice cut through his thoughts, interrupting the spiral of doubts before it could descend any further.
Earlier, he had dismissed most of his guards, wishing for solitude, but the lower walls of Storm's End connected numerous paths throughout the fortress. Sooner or later, someone had been bound to interrupt his contemplations.
Knowing there were only a handful of people within Storm's End permitted to address him without honorifics, Rhaegar turned toward the source.
Robert Baratheon stood a short distance away, the younger boy impossible to mistake. There was a restless energy about him, as though remaining in one place for longer than a minute required active effort. He was wearing a simple tunic of Baratheon yellow embroidered with the crowned stag of his house and now regarded Rhaegar with that direct, unflinching gaze that somehow managed to be both earnest and challenging at the same time.
He looked thoroughly battered. Bruises darkened his forearms and neck, a scrape crossed one cheek while another marked his chin, while his dark hair looked as though someone had made a honest effort to groom it before conceding defeat.
The injuries should have made him miserable, yet Robert looked delighted, the boy practically radiating satisfaction. There was a brightness in his eyes and an ease in his posture that made him appear happier than most men could ever be.
“Ah, Robert...” Rhaegar greeted softly. He was not particularly eager to speak with one who unwittingly stole what should have been his, but the boy himself did nothing, gaining something the Targaryen had sought simply by being himself. The prince knew it was irrational to resent him for that and yet some small, ugly part of him could not help but feel jealous. “Nothing, really. I merely came here wishing to...contemplate recent events.”
“I see...” Robert responded. The boy, trained in etiquette as befitted his status as the heir, clearly tried to remain respectful, but the answer carried all the enthusiasm of one informed someone else spent his free time counting stones.
Rhaegar found himself almost smiling despite everything. There was truly something enviable about Robert, the boy unburdened by the weight of the realm, a child allowed to be a child even as he himself was forced to grow too quickly due to the dreams and expectations on his shoulders.
“And you, Robert?” he asked quietly. “What brings you here?”
The answer would undoubtedly involve the Inbetweeners. Yet despite knowing it would likely deepen his melancholy, Rhaegar found himself wanting to hear it anyway, as he so desperately wanted to understand.
Steffon Baratheon he could at least comprehend. His lordly cousin possessed natural charisma, considerable renown and political acumen— Hadwyn and Steffon were remarkably alike in many respects.
But Robert? Robert was a loud and energetic boy who seemed to approach every problem as though it could be solved by hitting it with sufficient force, and yet somehow the mighty champions of another realm adored him.
Perhaps there was something the Inbetweeners saw within the young stag that he himself could not. Something hidden beneath the rough edges that they recognized instinctively and which Rhaegar himself lacked.
Robert brightened at the question.
“Oh!” The boy exclaimed, pointing enthusiastically toward the distant harbor. “I am heading to the shore.”
“The shore?” Rhaegar asked, genuinely confused.
From where they stood, the harbor was visible beyond Storm's End's walls, a cluster of piers and fishing vessels dwarfed by the endless fury of Shipbreaker Bay. He could not imagine what would draw the heir of Storm's End there on a day like this.
“Yes.” Robert's grin widened. “Lady Devonia said that we're going swimming as part of my next training session.”
Rhaegar blinked. Slowly, he turned his gaze back toward the sea.
The waters below Storm's End were anything but calm. Dark clouds had gathered steadily throughout the afternoon, rolling across the horizon in great masses of grey and black, not a storm but approaching one. The wind had strengthened with every passing hour, while white foam churned across the waves as they crashed high against the cliffs.
Then he looked back at Robert.
“Swimming?” Rhaegar repeated carefully.
“Yes.”
The answer came with such certainty that for a moment the prince wondered whether Robert had misunderstood the question entirely.
“But...isn't that dangerous?” He could not help asking.
He genuinely could not understand it. Robert Baratheon was heir to one of the Great Houses of Westeros and carried Targaryen blood through Aunt Rhaelle. He was beloved by his parents, precious to his house and realm, and now, somehow, valuable to the Inbetweeners as well.
Why would anyone risk so much for something so trivial?
Robert, meanwhile, looked honestly perplexed by the question, as if Rhaegar was the odd on for asking.
“Lady Devonia says if something is safe, then it isn't proper training.” The boy declared, shrugging. “She says danger is important, as it teaches important lessons. Then Robert scratched his head. “She also said that facing the wrath of the Stormlands' gods head-on would allow me to prove myself worthy of the aspect of the stag, but I didn’t really understand much of that.”
The prince opened his mouth and closed it again, unsure how to respond. Robert, meanwhile, continued speaking with complete sincerity.
“Though she did have to promise she'd drag me back to shore if I started drowning.” Robert admitted, his expression souring visibly. “Mother made her do that, even though I assured her it wouldn’t happen with all the training I had.”
For several moments silence settled between them, the two of them listening to the wind howling through the battlements.
Rhaegar found himself studying the younger boy. Robert was not especially scholarly or particularly thoughtful. He rarely seemed interested in music, politics, philosophy, history or any of the subjects Rhaegar considered important. And yet...the Inbetweeners liked him.
A question pressed against his lips. He tried to stop himself and yet found himself speaking anyway. Perhaps because Robert was young and wouldn’t care, or perhaps because Rhaegar had spent so long carrying these thoughts alone.
“Tell me, Robert.” Rhaegar asked quietly. “How did you do it?”
The younger boy blinked.
“What?” He replied. “Do what?”
“How did you earn their regard?” The question came out more quietly than Rhaegar intended. “Lord Hadwyn likes your father. Lady Ranni favors your brother. Lady Devonia seems fond of you.”
Hearing that, Robert turned embarrassed, a faint flush touching his cheeks.
“…I don't know about fond.” The Baratheon replied sheepishly, scratching his head.
“And I...” Rhaegar hesitated, finding the next word tasting bitter. “…I cannot seem to reach them.”
Robert's expression slowly shifted. The enthusiasm faded from his face and for perhaps the first time since Rhaegar had met him, the younger boy looked genuinely uncertain how to respond.
“How did you grasp the hearts of those so much greater than ourselves?” Rhaegar asked again, his voice even quieter now. “How did you earn their notice? I carry the same burdens, the same duty, the same destiny they do. Yet I cannot seem to reach them.”
Robert stared at him.
The awkwardness on the boy's face deepened as his eyes darted away and back to Rhaegar for a while, the boy clearly having trouble responding to the prince’s inquiry. Eventually, he rubbed the back of his neck, clearly uncomfortable.
“I…I think you should ask Father that.” The boy replied hesitantly, clearly not wishing to say anything. As his eyes met Rhaegar’s, he grimaced. “I’m…I’m certain Father would know how to explain it better…” His expression became increasingly pained. “And he and Mother would both be very angry if I said anything offensive to the prince of the realm.”
Rhaegar felt a flicker of hope.
So there was a secret, then. Some insight Steffon possessed that he lacked that allowed the Baratheons to succeed where he continued to fail. But why would Steffon hide it from Rhaegar despite the prince’s benevolent intentions and Steffon’s friendship with his father?
“Robert.” Rhaegar asked, desperate. “Please.”
Robert groaned and dragged both hands down his face, apparently giving up.
“Fine. Fine!” The boy shouted, then pointed a finger directly at Rhaegar. “But if anyone asks, this conversation never happened.”
“You have my word.” Rhaegar promised, ready to obtain the secret he was searching for.
Robert sighed heavily then looked at him. Really looked at him, the intensity of his gaze almost unbearable.
“You're really strange!” Robert declared, clearly frustrated with the entire conversation.
“…What?” Rhaegar blinked. Of all things he had expected to hear, that…was not one of them.
“You are!” The younger boy threw his hands into the air. “You talk about strange things all the time, play the harp for no reason and keep asking the Inbetweeners all these queer questions that spoil everyone's mood!”
Rhaegar stared.
“They possess knowledge beyond—” He tried to explain himself, but was stopped as Robert continued talking.
“They're just folk that want to see Westeros and enjoy themselves!” Robert interrupted immediately. “You keep acting like they're some sort of heroes from a story who are here for some grand adventure!”
“I am trying to understand them—”
“You just called them ‘so much greater than ourselves’!” Robert pointed accusingly at him. “Lady Devonia likes fighting and I like fighting, so I asked her to fight me and now we fight! Hadwyn likes stories and drinking and so does Father, so they tell stories and drink! Lady Ranni likes reading and Stannis likes reading, so they read! That’s all!”
Rhaegar stared at the boy in shock, unable to say anything.
“Why do you try to make everything so weird?” Robert continued mercilessly, the boy looking utterly exasperated. “If you want something from them, just ask!”
The prince opened his mouth and closed it, as he had no response to that, finding himself in mute shock. On the other hand, Robert looked downright relieved to finally say what had been bothering him for days, breathing heavily after all the shouting he had just done.
For a moment neither spoke, but then Robert sighed.
“Regardless, I have training, so I shall be taking my leave.” The boy declared to Rhaegar, who could only nod absently in response. Robert began walking away, then stopped. “Oh. And just as we discussed. Don't tell anyone I said all that. Mother says I'm supposed to show members of the royal family proper respect…though Grandmother says most of them deserve none.”
And then he left.
Rhaegar watched him disappear down the battlements, the sound of footsteps slowly fading until only howling of the wind remained. Rhaegar stood alone once more, his eyes drifting toward the sea as the conversation replayed itself within his thoughts again and again.
He smiled sadly.
If only it were that simple for him to ask the Inbetweeners for the boon. Though he doubted his and Robert’s desires were worlds apart, he found himself wishing he could look upon the world as Robert did. The Baratheon boy moved through life with a certainty born from simplicity, seeing the world as a truly uncomplicated place.
But Rhaegar could not, for he was a Targaryen, a prince and a dreamer. The burden of knowledge rested upon his shoulders, as he knew things Robert did not. He knew that darkness waited beyond the Wall, that the Song of Ice and Fire was real and that the Inbetweeners had not arrived by accident.
It could not be a coincidence, as their timing alone proved it. There was purpose here, but he was the only one capable of seeing it.
In truth, after everything that had transpired in the last few weeks, he found himself more akin to Daenys the Dreamer than to Aegon the Conqueror.
Daenys had been the one who saw the Doom approaching. She was the one burdened with knowledge others lacked, a woman who foresaw calamity long before it arrived and ensured her family survived when the world changed.
By comparison, Robert seemed almost absurdly favored by fate.
His spirit burned with a fire that impressed even the Inbetweeners. He carried the blood of both Storm and Dragon. Men and women alike gravitated toward him naturally, while champions from another realm seemed drawn to him without effort. He remained blissfully ignorant of the burdens Rhaegar carried, laughing and living is life, with a loving family and a Stark for a foster brother. And if the rumors were true, Robert was someday to be betrothed to the infant Lyanna Stark...adding Wolf blood to the blood of Storm and Dragon…
Rhaegar froze, his eyes widening.
…Surely it could not be that simple?