#francis valois | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

ganymede-princess · 6 months

Text

The Crimson King | Rhaegar Targaryen

ship: rhaegar targeryen x fem!oc

warnings: I really don't think there is any? jaime is a little scary i guess. OH and cannon divergence. Big ol' TW for that.

summary: a young crannogman girl meets the crowned prince on a very special occasion.

word count: 3298

a/n: phew! this was a long time coming. I hope you like it! (and if you don't fuck with the romance, there's a more interesting scene at the end!) There will be a part 2, just by the way ;)

written by @ganymedeprincess

The thick, hot air in the royal ballroom carried the scent of a thousand perfumed bodies. Long tables lined the room, piled high with foods from across the Seven Kingdoms. Among the dishes Frida spied fat frogs legs and water lily syrup from her home in the Neck, next to crabs and succulent fried fish from Lannisport, sweet pastries made from the honey of Highgarden, and bowls of flakey pink rock salt from Dragonstone. Despite the sight of countless exotic delicacies, her stomach churned.

Hundreds of highborn folk all milled around, laughing, dancing, talking, each one dressed more lavishly than the last. Frida had never seen so much silk in one place. Bewitched as she was with the nightlife of King's Landing, she found herself growing into the wall like an unsightly mushroom. She was acutely aware that she did not blend in with the royal aesthetics. Her unruly hair could only be half tamed and her mauve linen gown looked miserly next to the lavish satins and velvets that garbed the ruling class. Frida could feel a hundred sets of eyes boring into her, though when she glanced around, there were none there to meet. She thought there must be hearths burning somewhere. If there were no hearths, why did the air feel so heavy?

Frida searched the room for the face of her brother to no avail. Ewyn had no struggles with making friends in spite of his Crannogman roots and noticeable limp. Frida guessed he would be engaged by the end of the night. With no respite in sight and her breath coming shallower by the second, she made a hasty escape. She slipped around the edge of the ballroom, narrowly avoiding several dancing couples, at least three stray cats, and a drunken septon, before emerging onto a small rampart with stairs at either end. Frida thought it wise to take a quick turn around the rose garden below to calm herself, but once she reached a shadowed corner she could contain her exhaustion no longer and fell to her knees between two sweet smelling bushes. She did not cry, just breathed deeply, content in the knowledge that she was far away from prying eyes. Until she heard a sniffle from behind the rosebush to her left.

"Hello?" Frida's voice caught in her throat. There came no answer, just another quieter sniffle. "Who's there?"

"Nobody." Said the invisible man in a voice thick with sorrow. "Leave me."

"What's the matter?" The leaves rustled gently as Frida shifted awkwardly, trying her best to see through the thick bushes.

"Worry not."

"But you're crying."

"No." His voice cracked. "I am the- I am a man."

"What's that got to do with it?" Frida corrected. "My brother cries all the time, and he's already one and twenty."

There was a brief rustling in the bush and the clearing of a throat.

"What brings him to cry?" The voice seemed to settle a little.

"Oh everything!" Frida murmured. "Books, flowers, pretty sunsets. He cries almost every time he rides a horse. He has an injury to one of his legs, you see. A lizard-lion took his knee in its jaws and damn near tore his leg off! He used to love running, so riding is a real joy for him."

"A lizard-lion? You are from the Neck?"

Fuck. Frida thought. The voice carried the accent of King's Landing and she knew very well that folk from the capital were the most prejudiced against Crannogmen out of anywhere in the Seven Kingdoms. He was sure to send her away now, or worse.

"Yes."

"Tell me, what is it like there?"

"Oh- um. Wet." She babbled. "Very wet and slippery."

"I hear that beautiful flowers grow there." The man mused, his mild voice easing Frida's apprehension slightly.

"Yes. Ghost orchids, swamp arums, blue-eyed Bessies that grow on the trunks of trees; all of them beautiful." In a hushed voice she added, "But, do you know which is the most beautiful flower of all?"

"No, tell me."

"Black water lilies. My house has bred them to perfection."

"Your house?"

"I belong to House Fenn, Ser."

"Ah." There was a moment of surprisingly comfortable silence between them. "What brings you to the garden, my lady?"

"You take me for a lady?" Frida giggled.

"Are you not?" She could hear the smile return to his voice. "You take me for a Knight."

"Are you not?"

"I am, yes, but there is more to me than a knighthood."

"Such as?"

The man paused for a moment.

"You didn't answer my question."

Frida hesitated, searching for a way to put it lightly.

"The feast is full of beautiful people. I worried that my being there would ruin things."

"Why?"

"Well... I am ugly, Ser."

"Ugly?" His voice was curt with indignation. "Who led you to believe this?"

"My mother always told me that other folks look down on Crannogmen and that they find us ugly." In the anonymity of darkness, words tumbled out of her. "Though she also said I am ugly for a Crannogman."

A thick silence stood between them.

"How could a mother say such a thing to her child?"

"She's very sick, she doesn't think-"

"She's well enough that you believe her." The truth silenced Frida. "Come here so that I might see you for myself."

"You won't like it." She warned him and prepared herself to move, though she was unsure in which direction.

Frida heard the tink tink of flint against flint, then a warm glow began to shine through the rose bush. Her ears roared with the pounding of her heart, but she knew she had to show herself. She had to see the face of the man with the handsome voice, and more so she had to know what he thought of her. Trembling, she revealed herself. A black hood shrouded his face in shadow, but Frida could see his deep blue eyes widen, almost purple in the firelight.

"My lady-" His voice came in an urgent, breathy whisper.

"Don't."

She turned away from him, already humiliated, until she felt a hand gently guide her face back to him. She resisted, gripping his forearm.

"Please, look at me." Though his voice cracked in desperation, it was commanding enough that she turned to him again. The light caught his arrow-straight nose, and the soft pillow of his lips. Frida's breath hitched.

"I must take your mother for a liar, my lady."

"She said... people like you would think I look like a toad."

"No." He smiled. "But if you did, you would be a very beautiful toad indeed."

"Thank you." She blushed, somewhat sceptical. "Let me see you too."

"I can't, my-"

"Your Grace!" A tall, golden-haired man wearing a glittering white cloak and armour came careening around the corner of the hedge. "Gods, I thought I'd lost you. Avast, wench! Rise in the name of your king!"

The kingsguard drew his ornate longsword and pointed the sharp tip at Frida's face. Aghast, she cringed away from him and crawled a few paces back with him keeping pace.

"Enough, Jaime!" The shadowed man leapt to his feet and lunged forward to push the blade away, toppling over the lantern. "Can't you see she's harmless?"

"Kingslayer." The word was out of her mouth before Frida knew what she was saying. Jaime Lannister swung the sword back around to her.

"It's treason to disrespect a Kingsguard." The young man's eyes glittered with rage. "Say it once more and I'll cut the head from your shoulders, girl."

"Enough!" The shadowed man commanded, and grimacing, the Whitecloak stayed his blade. "Leave us."

"But, Your Grace-"

"Leave us. Alert Ser Barriston that the ceremony will take place as we discussed."

"Your Grace, I cannot leave you undefended."

"I have a sword on my hip and the skill to wield it. Leave us. You will not defy me again."

"Your Grace." Ser Jaime stalked off in a huff, his white cloak billowing behind him.

"Please," The shadowed man looked down at Frida, face creased with embarrassment. "Ser Jaime prefers the title The White Lion."

Frida gaped, wide eyed; knowing the truth but not believing it. As he picked up the lantern with his ungloved hand, Frida thought he would burn his fingers to the bone, but he simply dusted them on his coat, stamped out the fire in the grass with a black leather boot, and shed his hood to reveal a mop of hair that glimmered like spun silver. His eyes were wide and glassy, and Frida saw then that they truly were as purple as morning glory. He held out his hand, and for a moment all Frida could do was stare at it.

"My king." Frida could not keep the astonishment from her voice. "I'm sorry."

"For what reason?"

"I've spoken ill and disrespected you." She looked away. "I'm sure I have."

"I have heard no disrespect from you, lady, I am not so easily wounded. Please, take my hand." He pressed closer, a smile taking over his tear-streaked face when she let him pull her to her feet. "I appreciate your honest words, please do not dull your voice for the sake of my title. Besides, I ought to apologise for the behaviour of my protector. Please forgive him, he is young and still has much to learn."

"My king." Frida found herself without words.

"Go back to the feast, lady." The young dragon sighed and pressed a kiss against her palm. "I must prepare in my chambers. Thank you... for your kindness."

Without the wit to respond, Frida curtseyed clumsily and hurried back to the hall. Her head and heart were reeling with the urge to tell The Bloodmaid, her favourite weirwood from home, and she felt suddenly and starkly alone without the comfort of her red timber eyes. As she tumbled back into the ballroom, her gaze fell on her brother who leaned on a giant stone pillar, surrounded with a number of laughing Riverlander knights. Heart sinking, Frida took a steadying breath and marched up to the group.

"Ewyn, brother," Frida took him by the upper arm, silence falling on the group. "May I have a word, just for a moment?"

"Frida," Ewyn stumbled over his words. "Don't you see I'm busy?"

"Come, have a word with us, fair lady." Grinned a young man with red hair and a speckled face. "There is wine enough for another."

"Ed," Ewyn turned on him, scowling viciously. "Mind you don't drown in it, will you? Come on, Frida, let's talk."

He took her by the hand and limped away with impressive speed. When the pair were out of earshot, he frowned down at her.

"What is it?" Frida could smell the beer on his breath as he spoke.

"You're not going to believe me." She scratched her wrist, the sleeves on her dress suddenly feeling too close to her skin.

"I always believe you." Ewyn cocked an eyebrow, leaning against his mangrove cane.

"Well..." Frida chewed her fingers.

"You've been in the grass." He tutted derisively, green eyes alight with amusement.

She noticed that green stains marred her hem, along with her knees, and she assumed her buttocks too.

"Shit!" She muttered.

"Tsk tsk tsk, is that any way for a lady of the court to be speaking?"

"Oh, sod off." She aimed a half-hearted smack at his arm. "I'll have you know, it wasn't my fault. A Kingsguard knocked me over."

"A Kingsguard? Well, I suppose this is the place for it."

"Well... he was guarding the king."

Ewyn narrowed his eyes.

"What did you do? Spit on him?"

"No!" Frida pressed a hand against her cheek, trying to stave off the heat. "I just spoke to him, is all."

"You- you spoke to him?" His eyes were round as lily pads. "The king?"

"I didn't know it was him to start with. He was behind a bush with a cloak on, he could have been anybody."

"Yes, but-" He squinted, baffled. "He really spoke to you?"

"Yes-"

The trill of a lone trumpeter silenced them, and they turned to see a herald on the mezzanine above the ballroom.

"Make way to the Throne Room!" Though the herald was tall enough to be a man, his voice rang out high and clear as a child's. "The ceremony will begin presently!"

As the Goldcloaks pulled open the huge doors at the far end of the ballroom, Frida and Ewyn exchanged a glance, silently agreeing to discuss things later. They followed the snaking crowd down the long hallway until it opened into the cavernous throne room which was already teeming with smallfolk. A pair of enormous candelabras were suspended over the crowd, washing the blood red walls in firelight. Frida wondered how they kept the wax from dripping down on the folk below.

As they passed by the jostling throng of peasants and workers to take their places in front of the ornate barrier, she felt ashamed to be separated from them. Since childhood she had felt the earth on bare feet and worked hard to sustain her House; to be dressed in any kind of finery and placed above the common people felt farcical. Goldcloaks lined the edges of the passageway through the crowd, and Frida noticed they stood two abreast in the peasants' section at the back, and single file from the vassal and cadet houses, all the way to the lords and ladies of the great houses at the very front.

"What was he like?" Ewyn whispered.

"Sad." Frida sighed.

"Sad?" He raised an eyebrow, then nodded wisely. "It's the only way to feel in his position."

"Very lovely, though." She admitted. "He'll be a good king."

Her brother's eyes crinkled in amusement, then he jumped as the heralds rang out a triumphant cry from the back of the room. Silence fell over the crowd as every man, woman, and child turned at once. Frida peered through the crowd, barely able to see a thing. She could see a Targaryen flag bobbing over the crowd, sending an odd lump into her throat as it came closer, and closer. The entire room was silent except for the footsteps growing ever closer. No cheering or jeering, no coughing. Then, through the gap between the two Goldcloaks by her side she saw Ser Barristan Selmy stride through, holding a long staff with a red dragon flag of black silk, glorious in his white armour. Next was the crown prince himself, dressed in mournful black velvet finery and a heavy black cloak that dragged along the ground behind him. The sadness on his face seemed carved into stone, but he held his back straight and walked with the grace and strength of a king. Behind him, his remaining two Kingsguard marched beside each other, their heads held high in pride. Ser Jaime supported the tawny Dornishman Lewyn Martell, who limped along with one leg in a splint, their arms around each other in solidarity. Once the tiny party climbed all the way up the steps to the Iron Throne, Frida caught a glimpse of four men in white who stood a little ways down the steps, new blood waiting to be sworn into the Kingsguard: three fresh faced young warriors, and a grizzled man of middle age with deep auburn hair streaked with grey.

Selmy, Lannister, and Martell took their places beside their soon-to-be brothers, while Rhaegar stood before the Iron Throne, its silver blades forming rippling shadows on the massive horned dragon skull behind them. Frida imagined hundreds of fallen soldiers watching down on the man they had died for, using Balerion's great hollow eyes to see. If their loss weighed him down, he did not show it, standing strong as a giant on the steps where his father's blood once formed a crimson tide. The High Septon stood beside him, hands clasped in solemnity beneath dagged sleeves, heavy with jewels; and beside him stood the little prince Viserys, milk white curls almost to his waist, dutifully clutching a red lacquer box. Rhaegar's eyes swept across the crowd, burning with pride, grief... perhaps even fear; then he knelt, his black velvet cloak folding around his frame like a pair of wings.

"By the light of the Seven, we gather this night to welcome a new king. Let us pray." Every faithful soul in the crowd placed hand over heart at the septon's words. Even for Frida, who's gods were cold and wild, it was hard not to be moved. "May the Warrior lend him the courage of his ancestors, that he might lead us with a bold heart through the harshest of winters; and may the Smith guide him to mend the divisions of our realm. May the Maiden warm his bed with a fitting bride and many sons; and the Crone bless him with wisdom to pass on to his heirs. May the Father Above guide him to justice, and the Mother protect him from harm. And the Stranger- when he must come- may he take him kindly."

The Septon turned, and Little Viserys fumbled to open the box. Frida heart swelled when she spotted an encouraging smile on Rhaegar's face, which seemed to grant the toddler enough strength to get the lid off. He tottered forward and held it up above his head, and the Septon took out a plain gold circlet and nestled it into the King's pale curls.

"Under seven sets of watchful eyes, I name King Rhaegar of House Targaryen, the first of his name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm. Long may he reign."

"Long may he reign." The crowd echoed as one.

Rhaegar rose to face them, and as he did, Frida saw that his crown was adorned with a single glimmering ruby that sat just above his eyes on a fine gold chain. He thrust his fist to the sky, and the room filled with the thunder of cheers and feet drumming on the stone floor. He seemed to drink in the praise, determination steeling his gaze. He dropped his fist to his side, silencing the crowd.

"From childhood, I knew the day my reign began would be marred with grief, but I could never have dreamt of the loss the realm has suffered for my coronation. I know that every soul in the Seven Kingdoms grieves for someone lost to this bloody rebellion, or my father's madness. King Aerys saw enemies in every shadow, and would have razed this city to the ground just to flood it with light and annihilate his mummer's adversaries. I saw smallfolk treated worse than dogs; children whipped by Goldcloaks in the street. How could a man see such tyranny and not rebel? Robert Baratheon's courage was admirable, and in another life I might have fought beside him and called him 'brother;' but his war was not the answer, and now we are left with the consequence. As I stand here now with you as my witnesses, I promise to usher in a new age of the Targaryen dynasty. An age of peace and unity, of prosperity and change. The House of the Dragon will reforge, and the realm along with it."

He stood in silence a moment, eyes ablaze. Then as the crowd erupted once more, he turned, his cloak billowing a red dragon on black, and stepped up to the Iron Throne on a stair forged from a giant warhammer. The heralds blared, Frida applauded until her hands burned with the effort and her heart hammered in her chest, and when she was done she felt her face wet with tears.

#asoiaf #a song of ice and fire #game of thrones #house of the dragon #rhaegar targaryen #rhaegar targaryen x reader #toby regbo #francis valois #francis de valois #reign

79 notes · View notes