The sun was bleeding out over Blackwater Bay, the light turning the sky to streaks of peach and gold. The air was thick with the scent of salt and smoke, and somewhere far below, the Red Keep murmured with life — the bustle of courtiers, the shouts of guards, the clatter of servants, and the persistent, inescapable stench of the city.
But here, tucked in a nearly secluded terrace in the keep overlooking the sea, all was quiet.
Rhaegar Targaryen sat cross-legged on the ledge, his back against a warm stone wall, a half-empty goblet of wine balanced between his palms. His cheeks were flushed. His boots had been kicked off some time ago. And he had been watching the sun die for what felt like an hour.
At ten years old, he had come to discover that wine was surprisingly easy to come by in the castle, especially for someone with a knack for slipping past inattentive servants.
If his grandmother found him here, like this, he'd be sentenced to a full day of silent reflection in the blasted Sept… again.
But as he took another sip...
Worthit. He cackled to himself.
He sat there, the gentle breeze tousling his hair, his legs dangling slightly off the ledge as he gazed at the shimmering waters. He took another sip, enjoying the warmth that spread through his chest.
"Enjoying the view, my Prince?" came a sudden voice from behind.
Rhaegar choked on a sip of wine, startled while simultaneously trying to save the goblet slipping from his hands by the abrupt intrusion.
"For the love of this wine, Rhaenys, do you have to make me startle every time you see me?" he asked.
She did not grace the question with an answer.
"Of all the gods-forsaken ledges in all the cursed corners of this keep," she said, almost judging, "I find you here. Drinking."
Rhaegar just sighed and took another sip.
"And here I thought this spot was a secret."
Rhaenys Targaryen dropped down beside him a moment later with the grace of someone who had probably climbed too many trees in her life. Her dark hair was swept back in a messy braid, strands escaping to kiss her cheeks from the wind. She looked winded, amused, and far too pleased with herself.
Rhaegar glanced sideways at her and held out the goblet. "Wine?"
She took it without a word, drank deeply, and passed it back.
"By the gods, that's awful," she said, squinting from the bitterness.
"It gets better after the third sip."
Rhaenys narrowed her eyes. "How many sips in are you?"
"Five, six, or maybe it was seven. I have no idea."
She nodded. "You'll be a poet in no time, then."
"Yes, I'm thinking of dying young and beautiful," he said solemnly, "and being remembered for verses no one understands."
"Mhm," she went along with his drunken drivel.
After they sat in silence for a moment, watching the last sliver of sun vanish beyond the horizon.
"You look like a bird," she said suddenly.
Rhaegar blinked. "Excuse me?"
"Perched here. All tragic and barefoot. You need a sad little harp, perhaps."
The last comment annoyed him.
"I'm pondering."
"You're sulking."
He huffed. "There's a difference."
"Only to sulkers."
He rubbed his eyes. "Why are you here?"
"To drag you into something unwise."
"Ah." He refilled his goblet. "Do tell."
Rhaenys leaned back against the wall, stretching her legs beside his. She was taller than him now — four years older, and she loved lording it over him whenever she could.
"I need your help," she said after a pause. "And I need it tonight."
"Why do I feel like this is going to end with someone getting yelled at?"
"It probably will not," she said with confidence that Rhaegar knew was bogus.
"Haa," he sighed. "I'll need more wine."
"You'll get it once you agree."
Rhaegar gave her a long look, violet eyes narrowing. "What is it this time? Skulking through the kitchens? Replacing Lord Boremund's soap with tallow again?"
"That was one time. And he deserved it. Not to mention, he is not even in the castle currently."
Rhaegar said nothing. He recalled the several accounts he had heard of Lord Boremund slipping across the polished stone floor of the bathhouse while apparently screaming profanities. It still lived in vivid detail in his mind. He considered it a formative moment in his childhood. Well, this childhood at least.
"No," Rhaenys said finally. "This is… better."
"Define 'better'."
She tilted her head, the mischief in her eyes cooling slightly to something more serious. "I want to go to the Dragonpit."
Rhaegar blinked.
Then blinked again.
"...What?"
"You heard me."
"Yes, I heard you. I just didn't think you'd say something that stupid."
Rhaenys rolled her eyes. "It's not stupid."
Rhaegar squinted at her. "You know, you could just go to the Dragonpit yourself, right? Ask nicely. They'd let you in."
"Yes," Rhaenys said slowly, "with a full escort of guards, two dragonkeepers breathing down my neck, and someone probably reading off every brick's history."
He sipped again. "So… the usual royal privileges? What a pity."
She made a face. "It's not the same."
He sighed again.
"So you want to sneak into the Dragonpit."
"Yes."
"Unnoticed."
"Yes."
"Alone."
"Preferably."
"And you thought of me. You do know I am ten name days old."
"Of course. But who else roams around the Keep like some barefoot prince with a taste for stolen wine and melancholic vistas and also happens to be my cousin?"
Rhaegar opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.
"Rhaenys—"
"I'm serious, Rhaegar."
"That's what terrifies me."
"I want to feel what it's like to walk through those corridors and not be watched like I'm about to fall down a ravine or steal an egg."
"I mean, given your history..."
"Once. I tried to pet a hatchling once."
"It bit you."
"And I learned."
"You screamed for a full minute."
"I learned loudly."
"I still do not believe this is a wise idea," he said as he hiccuped. The wine was getting to him.
Rhaenys looked at him for a moment and broke into a small smile, leaning back. "You know, if grandmother finds out you've been drinking—" she waited for her words to sink in.
"She'll have you chained to a sept and praying until your hair turns white."
"It's already white," he replied.
"Then until it falls out."
He clutched his hair subconsciously.
"So you are blackmailing me now?" he asked.
"How dare you? I would never do such a thing. Not to my beloved cousin," she said in mock offense.
"Uh huh," he replied deadpan.
She was playing him. And he could not think of anything to do about it. And despite his earlier bravado regarding his grandmother, he would still very much prefer not to be chained in a sept.
Also, maybe this was his chance to explore the pit completely. Look at some dragons. From afar, of course. He still needed to claim one in the future, as much as the thought of standing before one of those creatures by his lonesome scared him.
He hesitated.
He really should say no.
He was drunk, which probably wasn't helping.
"Fine," he muttered.
Her face lit up. "Really?"
"I'll find a way."
"No guards?"
"No guards."
"No maesters?"
"Gods, no."
"No witness of us entering?"
"Just me. You. And a lot of very disappointed ancestors if we die."
She beamed, triumphant. "You're the most wonderful and delightful cousin ever."
"I want that in writing."
"You'll get a poem if you get us in."
He snorted. "That sounds like a punishment."
She stood, offering him a hand. "Come on. We need to be subtle."
"You're the least subtle person I know apart from Daemon."
"And yet," she said, pulling him up, "I'm getting into the Dragonpit tonight."
"Tomorrow night," he corrected. "You said tonight, but there's no way I'm sober enough to sneak anywhere tonight."
"Fair," she said. "But you'd better not back out."
"I never do."
"Good. Because you'll be my shield," she thumped his chest.
"I'm ten," he replied, rubbing the thumped area.
"You've got a sword, don't you?"
"And what do you expect my wooden sword to do against a dragon?"
She grinned. "You can think of that."
Rhaegar groaned as he followed her back down the winding stairs toward the inner keep. His wine cup was empty, his judgment was suspect, and his future almost certainly held a high volume scolding from a very red-faced Baelon.
But as the two of them vanished into the shadows, giggling and arguing in whispers about which route would get them caught faster, there was no denying it—
This was going to be trouble.