A Golden Path: Framework 4.1 (ch. 47) (Patreon)

Rhaegar foresaw the summons coming long in advance. He expected it when they took Lys, announcing what would later be called the ‘Exalted March’ to the world. It had been a summons Rhaegar intended to ignore. At least until there were enough successes that his father couldn't earnestly punish him. Not without looking weak before the lords of the Seven Kingdoms. 

When that summons didn't arrive then, Rhaegar knew it would come either after their first defeat or when winter arrived in earnest, thus making the Narrow Sea almost impassable. It was the latter case when Rhaegar found himself standing on board a ship with some of the various lords of the Seven Kingdoms: Brandon and Eddard Stark, Mace Tyrell, Robert Baratheon, and Paul Atreides were mentioned by name in the summons, but there were others who joined them on the voyage. 

Most, however, were left behind to hold the Stepstones and the Free Cities. They would steward them over winter. Hopefully a short one, but Rhaegar could only guess what the gods intended there. A long winter would be as advantageous as it would be disastrous for the same exact reasons -- it would give them time to secure their grip, but at the same time, would allow Essos to prepare. 

Rhaegar didn't expect any issues to arrise in Essos during winter. No, they were sailing towards the issues in King's Landing. 

“This campaign was a disaster.” He made the admission under his breath as King's Landing came into view, the Red Keep jutting up like a sore thumb. His wounds had mended, but his pride and expectations were left to fester in inadequacy. By all accounts, the campaign was a success that would see them go down in history. Prince Daemon had managed to take the Stepstones before the Dance of Dragons, but he never dreamed to take the Free Cities. 

The campaign was a disaster for him and him alone. 

He didn't prove himself as he should have. As the flames promised him. He listened intently to the songs and stories being told aboard the ship, and in Myr during their brief stay. As far as anyone seemed to be concerned, it was the Stark brothers who had won the day. The glory and reputation was theirs alone. 

Eddard Stark, the Quiet Wolf. 

Brandon Stark, the Gate-Breaker. 

Whereas he had to be rescued from the Stepstones. Taking Lys was a start, only he immediately fumbled the momentum by leading his men into a trap, where he had to be saved again by his cousin Robert. He had achieved no great deeds. Nothing anyone could rally around and point to when the Long Night came and the world needed a leader in its darkest hour. 

He had begun the Exalted March, but he hadn't led it. The victories weren't achieved by his hand. That put him in a dangerous position. His father couldn't lash out at him without reprisal, but his foundations weren't as steady as he hoped they would be. 

“I haven't missed that stench,” Robert spoke up from behind, loud lumbering steps announcing his approach. “Crazy how a city twice as big doesn't smell half as bad.” 

“The sewers,” Rhaegar replied with a thin smile, grateful for the distraction. “The sewer system was designed with a population of a hundred thousand in mind. King's Landing grew faster than anyone was prepared for. It was expanded once by King Jaeherys, but that was centuries ago.” 

“Why not expand it again?” Robert asked, a heavy set frown on his face. Then he grunted. “Coin, eh?” He ventured, answering his own question. 

Perhaps the most puzzling development of the campaign was Robert's budding interest in architecture. It hadn't been uncommon for him to walk the streets of Myr with a small guard, simply looking at buildings and talking to construction laborers or war smiths. It was a good thing, Rhaegar knew. Still, it couldn't be denied his cousin would be easier to handle when all he cared for was a good laugh, a better party, and that the alcohol flowed. 

“That, and time,” Rhaegar admitted. “All of Fleabottom will need to be undone, which means the people need to be moved for an extended period of time. A year, at least.” 

Robert grunted. “Gave it a bit of thought for when you become king?” He asked with an easy grin on his face. One that Rhaegar attempted to return but it came off more as a grimace. 

“If I become king,” he corrected quietly. Robert didn't have anything to say to that, understanding the situation was more grave than he realized. 

Whatever awaited him in the Red Keep aside, the common folk of King's Landing greeted them as conquering heroes. They screamed and cheered as they road past, each of them on top of a horse so all could see them. Rhaegar affixed a kind smile upon his face, schooling his features into a mask that hid his thoughts and feelings, and simply waved at the small folk. When a child approached, slipping between the legs of a guardsman to present him with a flower. A common weed, really. 

All the same, he plucked it from her fingers and placed it in his hair. “My thanks,” he told the girl, who smiled brightly even as she was escorted away. The girl would cherish the memory forever, Rhaegar knew. 

A king who didn't have the love and respect of his people was no true king. When the time came for the Long Night, he would need that support. The people needed to see that he had their best interests at heart. That he wasn't some distant authority that ruled them but they never saw. 

They were also his shield. Should he be imprisoned, disinherited, or anything of that nature… there would be riots. And while that may not be enough to ensure his freedom and status, he had friends amongst the nobility. He needed to have a foot in both worlds. 

The cheers followed him as they made the long rounds to the Red Keep. A knot of tension tightened in his chest every step closer they took until it felt like something within him was going to snap. It almost seemed like torture that they weren't escorted right to the great hall so he could get whatever was coming out of the way. Instead, they were escorted to their quarters for the duration of their stay, where a bath was prepared for them. 

It was when Rhaegar was chin-deep in the tub that the door opened, and he stilled when he saw it was Aenessa. His wife. “I hope you do not mind if I wash you and not a servant, my husband,” she said, not waiting for an answer before she approached. “After all, it has been so long since I've seen you. And you've accomplished so much.” 

Betrayal. It caught Rhaegar off guard when the feeling of it welled in his chest at the sight of her. Enough so that he wasn't even sure why he felt so betrayed at first. But he found his answer as she knelt by the tub with oils and cloth. 

“The flames lied to me,” Rhaegar uttered, making Aenessa pause for the briefest of moments. “They promised me glory. Success. Instead, I ride the Stark's coattails.” 

“Not the Starks,” Aenessa corrected gently, dabbing the cloth over his shoulders. “Atreides.” 

That seemed a bit much for a lone man to achieve, but he didn’t know the limits of a greenseer. But why would Paul withdraw his support from Rhaegar's own cause, if he was somehow responsible for the sharp change in fortunes for the North. His doubts must have shown because Aenessa clicked her tongue, the cloth dipping to his chest. 

“A mutual enemy does not make natural allies, dear husband. Lord Atreides plays his own game, convinced that he alone has put an end to the Others for this generation. “He said it himself, did he not? You are not a man he can see so easily with his Sight. And a man capable of knowing the future? Well, I imagine variables aren't welcome.” 

The words made sense to him, but they felt poised. Crafted so he would redirect his ire to Paul. “Then why has nothing come to pass what I saw?” He saw dragons. Triumph. Instead, he returned, all but defeated. 

“Perhaps some of it was averted by his actions. Perhaps you misinterpreted what you saw… or, perhaps, it has simply yet come to pass?” Aenessa whispered into his ear, and the knot of tension around his heart tightened ever so slightly. 

“It matters little. My father won't let this challenge to his authority go unanswered.” That was what he feared. He prepared himself for it, but he still feared it. If he had any luck at all, his father would die and soon. He would become king. If his father disinherited him- 

“You fear your brother Viserys,” Aenessa cut through the tension. “He is but a boy, Rhaegar. One not yet ten years old.” 

“My father favors him because he can control him. Because a child isn't a threat,” Rhaegar muttered bitterly under his breath. There was no depth to his father's madness. He would burn Rhaegar before all the lords at court and name Viserys his heir before his ashes had even cooled. He would do it without hesitation or thought to the consequences. 

“And you are?” Aenessa questioned, her tone as light as a feather. His eyes met hers… 

He couldn't trust this woman at all.

“It doesn’t matter if I am or not,” Rhaegar uttered, looking away from her. Something boiled in his stomach that felt like resentment. “He will see me as a threat. He will shame me. And I…”

He felt his strength leave him. How could he defeat the Great Other if he couldn’t even best his father? When he had no one whom he could trust? When all of those around him sought to disgrace him for the sake of currying favor with his bastard father? Doubts swirled in his mind- about himself, about what he saw in the flames, and everything that drove him to this point. 

If he was the Prince That Was Promised, shouldn’t he be a damn better leader than this? Shouldn’t he be stronger? Smarter?

“Rest easy, my husband,” Aenessa said, embracing him from behind, uncaring as her sleeves were soaked. “After all, light shines brighter in the dark.”

…

Brandon found himself stepping into the throne room under the watchful eye of assembled lords, long-dead dragons, and the King Scab himself. Aerys looked as he did in Brandon’s memory, more or less. Like someone had found a feral dog, groomed it, and called it a lapdog. There was something in his purple eyes that made a shiver race down Brandon’s spine when his gaze lingered on him. 

He walked alongside Ned, who walked in arm with Ashara. The two were disgustingly in love. It almost hurt to look at, honestly. It contrasted with Brandon’s own relief when Catelyn was still in the North, likely snowed in around Winterfell. However, Robert and Rhaegar both walked with their wives by their side. Only he, Prince Oberyn, and Mace were without. 

Music played as they approached the jagged half-melted lump that was the Iron Throne and the madman who sat upon it. Rhaegar parted ways with Aenessa, smoothly dropping to a knee while the crowd of gathered lords cheered for the crowned prince. The rest of them knelt a half step behind Rhaegar, and Brandon bowed his head to avoid Aerys’ gaze. 

Aerys raised a hand, quieting the applause before he spoke. His voice had a raspy quality to it, like he spent every second of every day screaming until he was hoarse. “My lords. My ladies. Gaze upon our heroes. Heroes who have brought civilization to the barbaric east at the point of the sword. Who have broken the chains of slaves and turned them upon their masters.”

The applause began anew, and Brandon saw Rhaegar’s shoulders drop ever so slightly. Before he could ponder if it was out of disappointment or relief, the king continued. 

“Word has reached us of your victories against such terrible odds. Armies as vast as the horizon. Fleets of ships more numerous than grains of sand on the beach. The masters of the east, who have long plagued our shores with slave raids, have found themselves receiving the King’s Justice.”

Brandon didn’t know who wrote the speech the King was parroting, but they knew what they were doing. Briefly, he glanced up to glance at Steffon Baratheon, who only seemed to have eyes for his son. There were other members of the Small Council on display, seated at lower elevations with the Kingsguard arranged before them like a wall of flesh. Their faces didn’t matter much to him, beyond one of them having the softness of a women but dressed as a man- Aenessa’s brother. Whatever his name was. 

“Such victories deserve adequate rewards,” Aerys continued, drawing Brandon’s attention back to him. There was a wicked gleam in his eye as he looked down at them all. Something that made his stomach clench. “But, as king, I am forced to weigh the merits of deeds. I, with wise council, are to judge the greatest of contributors to the successes in Essos. Something not lightly done and for no small deeds.”

The sense of unease grew. Brandon recognized the theater. It was a staple for any king or high lord. Grand gestures, flowery speeches -- all of it written in advance, with the lines memorized to ensure the act went off without a hitch. Brandon had done it. Rickard did it. Everyone did. 

However, Brandon hadn’t received any lines to say. He wasn’t informed of what his part would be in this piece of theater. 

“The North has distinguished itself in the Exalted March, more than any other,” Aerys continued, his smile doing nothing to reassure Brandon of his intent. “Where my son faltered, it was the Quiet Wolf who brought him salvation.” Ah. 

The king absolutely despised his son. Enough so that it genuinely caught Brandon off guard. It felt like Rickard hated him at times, but never at his worst would he have shamed Brandon like that. Before the court containing the highest lords of the realm, along with the heirs of kingdoms. He couldn’t quite stop himself from shifting uneasily at that, giving Ned a sideways glance to see that his lips had thinned while he dipped his head low to cover the action. 

“It was the North that conquered two of the Free Cities. Laid low armies in the field. As king, I can say without doubt, it is the North who deserve the most recognition. Their deeds the greatest.” Brandon had thought when this moment came- when the king uttered such words, he would feel a sense of pride. A wicked satisfaction as the other lords of the Seven Kingdoms would have no choice but to acknowledge the North and their deeds. 

Yet, Brandon only felt a sense of foreboding. As if something terrible was about to happen, but he couldn’t tell what. 

“The Quiet Wolf. The Gate-Breaker. Rickard Stark has sired two praiseworthy scions. As king, it lightens the burden upon my shoulders to see that one of my kingdoms shall be in such capable hands for another generation.” Aerys smiled, but it had a mocking edge to it. Brandon was unsure if it was directed to them or his own son. 

“And that raises a question, does it not? The Disputed Lands are no longer disputed. The Free Cities have been brought to heel. The Stepstones have, at long last, have been cleansed of pirate and slaver filth and returned to the Iron Throne.” He couldn’t…

Brandon’s mind leaped to a conclusion, and it took everything he had to swallow down a protest. It was too early to be certain, but it sounded like Aerys intended to keep the newly acquired territories for himself. 

“What could such a thing be called but a new kingdom? After all, King Daemon, my ancestor, once claimed the Stepstones and bequeathed them to the Iron Throne.” This mad bastard was really going to take them for himself. Brandon never even considered the possibility. The sheer amount of naked greed such a decision would take was unthinkable. It was the kind of overreach that led to rebellions. 

“And how could I adequately reward the act of bringing a new kingdom into the fold?” Aerys continued, drawing things out with delight. “My little birds flew far and wide, meticulously learning every detail of the battles and successes the Exalted March achieved. And to my surprise, I learned there was another unsung hero amongst the greats: The Stormlord. The Quiet Wolf. The Gate-Breaker… but stories exalted the quiet and diligent efforts of Paul Atreides.”

Every thought came to a halt. Brandon couldn’t even find it in himself to breathe. 

“Step forward, Lord Atreides,” Aerys commanded and Paul did as bid. “It was you and your men who opened the gates of Lys and Myr. It was through your efforts the Dothraki were defeated. That the Myrish army- an army a hundred thousand strong were brought low with daring night raids. And yet, the bards do not sing of your deeds. Instead, I learn that you exalt the actions of your lords. Why?”

This couldn’t be happening. Brandon almost wished that Aerys would take the islands himself. That would be vastly preferable. Immeasurably so.

“It is as you say, Your Grace. I am sworn to the Starks. I have only done what is befitting of a loyal vassal. No more and no less,” Paul replied, once more kneeling with his head raised respectfully. Brandon did the same, and for it, he saw a wide smile on the king’s face. It chilled his blood to see it. 

“So you have,” Aerys acknowledged with a dip of his head. “Diligent and silent service. The picture of a loyal vassal. It is for this very reason I can find no better man to name Lord Paramount of the Triarchy and Warden of the Narrow Sea?”

The very breath was stolen from Brandon’s lungs, and he reeled from the announcement. That was a possibility he never dreamed of in his worst nightmares. Paul… he wasn’t a fool. Paul had been pivotal in the war. His agents were invaluable. Brandon could admit freely that if it wasn’t for Paul, the war in Essos would have had the impact of a wet fart. 

He would be rewarded for his efforts. Respect and admiration given. However, Paul was a vassal. A dangerously capable vassal beholden to the North. 

Now… Now he was a peer. 

And that changed everything.