'You want to know the day he changed? That's like asking when summer snows have vanished. What do I know?
We don't see the sun beat down, but we know it melts away, bit by bit. Yet why bother?
Perhaps that's how it's meant to be — how we all are.
Pots of water. No one watches as we boil.'
— From the lost writings of Brien Flowers, though their authenticity remains contested.
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"I sing for a number of reasons."
"Thank you for that profound insight." Aemma's voice dripped with sarcasm, laced with a warmth that softened its sting. So warm.
It wasn't mocking, just the playful banter of someone who saw through his façade, calling him out without malice, like an old friend who knew better.
'By the gods,' Rhaenar mused, realizing that even his thoughts had begun to adopt the language of this world.
A world he knew, deep down, he had been reborn into.
This woman is something else.
How could she not be? She was the vessel that brought him here.
It struck him then, how different his mother might have been if she'd been born in another time — somewhere more progressive, a world that understood the complexities she carried.
A place like the one he had come from. Sort off…
In another life, she would have been a force of nature. Unstoppable. Free to be herself in a world that welcomed her differences, rather than one that stifled them.
Sort off…
Rhaenar could relate. He understood the confinement of living in a world that allowed so little room for freedom.
But he would never speak of it. Not to anyone. Not even to his mother, the one person he trusted most besides his sister.
'Rhaenyra…'
His loins fluttered. Why had he felt so quivered around her of late? There was something foggy he couldn't make out.
Rhaenar had the calm and poise that made the Targaryen clan accept him as leader, or at the very least the one who they trusted to ensure they would endure.
Now was not the time to get muddled in obscure emotions. Now was not the time to falter.
'Never is the time to falter…'
"Well?" Aemma's voice broke through Rhaenar's haze, pulling him back from the edges of his wandering thoughts.
He fought to hold back the heat rising to his cheeks, unaware that his mother was long used to these lapses into his own private world.
"I sing," Rhaenar said, regaining his composure, "because I can."
"Can you now?" Aemma mused, her lips curving into a small smile. "You do have a lovely voice."
Rhaenar waved off the compliment.
"Thank you, but that's not what I meant. My voice is better than most, yes, but only because it's practiced. I sing more than others, so I sound better than others. But that's not why I sing."
He could see how Aemma shifted in her seat, clearly not in the mood for deep philosophical musings, but she remained patient, engaging with him in her gentle way, unbothered by the introspection.
"You sing because you can," she echoed, then added, "Tell me more. I know when you're holding back."
'You know nothing, Mother…'
The words stuck in his throat like bread he couldn't swallow. But he had to admit, she knew him better than anyone else in this world.
What could he say? That he came from a place called Planet Earth? That he'd been a teenager crammed into a prison cell in Thailand, surrounded by heat, filth, and constant suffering?
It haunted him, all of it. His mind drifted again, this time to that past life, and his gaze fell on Aemma.
She was as angelic as ever — golden hair, soft features, her chin raised in quiet strength.
She rubbed her swollen belly, the heat making her uncomfortable, but she still waited patiently for his answer.
Why did he sing? He had never really thought about it until the fourth week of his imprisonment.
By then, Nissan, the small, bald, tattooed Thai man who had taken him under his wing, was translating the conversations swirling around the prison, in that old life where Rhaenar had been called Kiwi.
'Why so tired, Kiwi boy?' Nissan had asked one afternoon.
They had been sitting on the edge of the exercise yard, convicts running laps and lifting makeshift weights —buckets of water — behind them.
Ahead, a mesh fence offered a hazy, distorted view of the tropical jungle beyond.
Even if you could somehow escape the guards, the dogs, the barbed wire, who knew how far you'd have to go through the dense green before finding safety? They had made sure to blindfold him on the way to the prison, ensuring he'd never know.
'I'm not tired,' Kiwi had said.
'Sour puss for no reason, then?'
Kiwi had stretched out on the grass, hands clasped behind his neck, eyes fixed on the sky. He tried to appear indifferent, but even from that laid-back position, the prison walls were ever-present in his peripheral vision.
Nissan knew that Kiwi's mood could have had any number of causes—or none at all. It didn't matter. He was just pushing, coaxing him to speak.
'They're dead men,' Kiwi had finally said, bitterly, his eyes clouded with sadness. 'They've got no fight left in them.'
Nissan had smiled. As always he was full of mischief.
'Who, you?'
.
..
…
..
.
"What?" Rhaenar muttered, snapping back to reality as he realized he'd spoken aloud.
Aemma watched him patiently.
"Oh," he stammered, "Right."
He paused, figuring out how to tell his story, rearranging the details to fit the Westerosi context.
"When I was a child, I explored every corner of this castle," Rhaenar began.
It was half-true, but his training with the mummers had taught him how to sell it.
"I drew everything: the cooks in the kitchen, scallions darting about with chopped vegetables. The guards up on the towers, scowling at distance. Alicent, sewing up my torn shirts after training. Not even the rats escaped my sketches. You remember how much I hated them."
Aemma's eyes softened as she recalled those days. "Yes. You'd argue, 'Why pay the rat catchers when we could just get cats?' You were so serious about it."
She laughed. "Why didn't you ever follow through?"
Rhaenar chuckled. As a child, he'd been brimming with ideas, confident in his convictions. It was strange to think fear had stopped him.
"Do you remember Old Anne?" Rhaenar asked. "She used to lead the serving girls."
"How could I forget?" Aemma replied. "You loved her stories about King's Landing."
"She was a great storyteller," Rhaenar said. He looked almost boyish as he reminisced.
"When she got sick, I made sure she was comfortable until the end. That was right around the time I wanted to present my cat idea to the council. But Old Anne was allergic to cats.
Then he said in a raspy voice, "'The fur makes me sneeze, it does!'"
"After she passed, I got busy with other things, and the idea was forgotten. But, alas, we're straying far from the point — why I sing. My explorations eventually took me to the dungeons."
Aemma winced slightly, her motherly instincts still sharp.
"I know," Rhaenar said with a calming tone. "It was dangerous, but I couldn't resist. The men awaiting execution — there was something in their faces. It made for a striking portrait. The way they just sat there, their faces slack, their eyes dull, resigned to their fate."
Aemma frowned, the imagery vivid in her mind.
She could see it: the dark, damp dungeon, the stale air, the flickering light from the torches. And Rhaenar, younger and more naive, sketching away, lost in the scene.
'It's cold,' she thought.
Sensing her unease, Rhaenar hurried on.
"Don't get me wrong," he added quickly. "It wasn't all grim. There were happier expressions, too — some even inspiring. And a few… odd ones. The dungeon wasn't as dark as you'd think."
He paused, recalling a particular night.
"One evening, the moon was bright. No clouds.
"It gave me this feeling. I went to the dungeons, and the light poured through the tiny windows.
"An eerie blue glowed everywhere. It was like a bruise — everything looked darker, yet somehow more vivid. Pain.
"The shadows on the prisoners' faces… like they weren't there anymore. Just shells of former selves. Possessed by darkness."
"Just as I felt the weight of that possession — a chill creeping up my spine — a voice began to sing.
"The words didn't matter; they were ramblings in a language I couldn't recognize. I checked with scholars later — none could identify it.
"But it wasn't the words — it was the voice. Each note flowed as the music spiraled like flower petals.
"I was transported in my mind's eye. I saw a small boat drifting on the Blackwater, under a moon as bright as the one above the dungeons that night.
"It was just me and someone else. Then, suddenly, he fell into the water. Panic gripped me. I knew that I, whoever I was in this vision, could not swim.
"I screamed as I watched the water bubble where he sank, desperately wanting to save him. It felt like he was my brother. I screamed and screamed until the bubbles stopped.
"And when they did, so did my voice cease. It was as if my soul had been silenced, forever lost in those depths. Then the song stopped, and I was back in the dungeon.
"I couldn't believe it. I stood quickly, not caring as my sketches scattered across the stone floor. I marched toward the end of the dungeon where the song had come from.
"I found just one man in a cell. He was slumped in the corner, his eyes blank, his mind long gone. He was too far gone. His body survived, but what was inside… it was lost."
A guard had approached then, shaking his head.
"'Don't mind him, my Prince,' he said. 'He doesn't talk. Only time we hear him is on nights like this. Full moons. Then he howls all night. A terrible thing. But he's committed no crime—other than being, well, himself.'
"That prisoner," Rhaenar continued, "opened my eyes. I don't exactly know how. All I can do is chase that feeling. Singing was the only thing left of him, the only expression he had left. He gave me something that night, something that needed to be passed on, to continue"
Rhaenar grimaced. "Not that I could ever reach his mastery. But still… it's the most I can do."
He looked at his mother. "There you have it. What do you think?"
"Wow," Aemma tilted her head, baffled. "I… wish you had told me sooner."
Rhaenar raised a finger to his lips.
"Hush. I've never told that story to anyone."
His tone had a firmness that made Aemma picture him in his warcamps, barking orders to his troops. Then the amusement crept back into his voice.
"Just don't tell Rhaenyra. She'll get jealous."
Aemma chuckled softly. "Of her mother?"
"You don't know her like I do," Rhaenar said, shaking his head. "Any secret I keep from her is like a knife to the heart. I think she takes our twin bond too seriously. It's not like I need to know everything about her…"
Aemma waved a hand dismissively, in a mirror of Rhaenar earlier, though more gentle.
"Oh, Rhaenar," she sighed. "Your sister loves you. She's been attached to you since she could walk. Would it hurt to share a little more with her now and then? Your father and I won't be around forever. Family is important—"
She cut herself off. Rhaenar's face was composed, ever the diplomat.
He seemed to listen earnestly, yet Aemma could tell he was placating her.
"Listen to me," Aemma said, "rambling on."
Rhaenar shrugged, "I don't mind. Morbid thoughts are common enough."
She hated that. Hated how he spoke as if he had come to terms with death.
There was a wisdom in his words she couldn't agree with — a wisdom rooted in a perception of the world that unnerved her.
Whatever Rhaenar had seen, whatever he had experienced, it had shaped him in ways that frightened her.
He spoke as if he had the world figured out, as if nothing surprised him anymore.
But what could she have done? If she could go back, would she have tried to shield him more, kept him closer?
No. That would have only made him restless, stripped him of his freedom. Such thinking was folly.
Aemma changed the subject. "Enough of that," she said. "Tell me, are you courting anyone?"
Rhaenar flushed.
"Mother!"
They both laughed, and their conversation drifted into lighter topics. Talk of the weather, court gossip, old memories.
Aemma cherished moments like these. She felt a special bond with her family, but it was different with Rhaenar. He was like her best friend.
Yet, as the conversation wore on, she noticed Rhaenar's restlessness.
His leg bobbed up and down, eyes darting now and then toward the door. He had the look of someone who had been confined too long — a dragon rider itching to be set free.
'No, she thought, 'the dragon itself!'
Aemma sighed, smiling softly.
"Alright, go on. The tournament should have started by now. I know how much you love them."
Rhaenar hesitated, trying to hide his excitement. "I told myself I'd spend the day with you."
"Nonsense," Aemma said, touched by his thoughtfulness. "Go enjoy yourself. We can talk more at supper."
Rhaenar rose, trying to play it cool.
"If my Queen commands."
"She does," Aemma said, "But your mother requests."
"Double the reason to obey, then," he said, bowing with a flourish, mocking the decorum of the court.
He had always had a rebellious streak, never directed at her, but at the world around him, at some unseen force that only he seemed to grapple with.
Just as he turned to leave, Aemma caught a glimpse of something.
Something!... the way his expression dropped for just a moment.
His lips sagged, the light in his eyes dimmed, and his face went pale.
Then, as he walked toward the door, she noticed a slump in his shoulders, as if the weight of the world bore down on him.
And it all came flooding back to her. How, throughout his life, Rhaenar had always worn a mask of strength, rarely letting anyone see beneath it.
But in fleeting moments like this, she could see his burden. What was he going through? Why did he seem so strong yet so weighed down?
Aemma instinctively reached out, her hand grasping at the air as if grabbing at the mist.
"Rhaenar," she called, her voice trembling.
He turned. The mask was back in place — his face calm, his posture poised.
He looked at her with such empathy as if he understood her completely.
"Yes?" he asked, brow raised.
"I…" Aemma stopped herself.
Then, she straightened, regaining her composure. She smiled softly, regal. proud, adamant.
"Go, my son," she said,
"Sing a song for me."
Her words seemed to breathe life back into him. Rhaenar's back straightened, a glimmer of mischief returning to his eyes.
Fire. Fire against it all.
An answer. His answer.
Aemma no longer felt the cold.
Rhaenar nodded.
"Your Grace."
And with that, he was gone.