Rhaenar's heart was a flame.
A flame where love and hatred coiled with great intensity. A cloud of contradiction seemed to emanate from him, casting an air of discomfort.
I first noticed it during our initial lesson together, when he had just celebrated his first name day. There was a weathered intelligence in his eyes, as if his spirit carried the weight of past experiences.
Our lesson progressed swiftly, focusing on the art of calligraphy. However, with each stroke of the quill, the ink seemed to bear a strange and otherworldly disdain.
He was driven by something, whether it was dissatisfaction with the world, resentment towards the royal family, animosity towards myself or the scholarly process, or battling his inner demons.
Nevertheless, I observed a sense of purpose in Rhaenar that enabled him to absorb knowledge exceptionally well, especially when it was presented as information that aligned with the fiery desires of his heart.
Indeed, Rhaenar possessed a free-spirited nature, refusing to be confined. Yet, he was not oblivious to the irony of his predicament. To attain the sought-after freedom, he had no qualms about leveraging his social status, playing the role of the caged bird.
I was dumbfounded by this enigmatic child who appreciated the artistic beauty in everything, from the smallest grain of sand to the vast expanse of the cosmos, while harboring a subtle undercurrent of hatred in his gaze. Finally, I mustered the courage to ask.
"Rhaenar," I spoke, recalling the time around 98 AC when the three-year-old prince was engrossed in the scrolls from Dragonstone. I hesitated for a moment, then continued, "Who are you? I mean, what is it that you truly desire?"
Rhaenar peered at me as if the answer was obvious, raising an eyebrow before replying, "Does a seed require a reason to grow?"
"Most seeds grow simply for the sake of growth," I responded. "But yours seems to possess a distinct reluctance."
My words seemed to momentarily catch Rhaenar off guard. It was as if I could see each letter I uttered spiraling around his head. He waved dismissively, as if swatting away invisible letters like bothersome flies.
"I fought and lost," Rhaenar revealed, closing his eyes momentarily as if to block out a distant memory. Then, with a defiant gaze, he declared,
"And that's the way it is.
What do I want, you ask?
Everything. Nothing. All of the above.
The whole nine yards and everything in between~
If I feel like taking it, I will take it.
And when I feel generous, the same holds true.
But mark my words, Brien Flowers, whether I win or lose, sink or swim,
This time, if I go down, I won't go down without a fight.
I'll drag all you fuckers down with me."
Chills ran down my spine as Rhaenar's words resonated within me. It felt as though he was speaking not just to me, but to a grand audience that existed within my very eyes. I understood his meaning and the intended recipients of his bold proclamation.
From that day forward, Theodore and I ceased our regular correspondence with the Citadel, no longer providing detailed reports on Rhaenar's development.
Instead, we fabricated mundane stories of his childhood—accidents, childish antics, and the playful clashing of wooden swords.
Whatever we shared, we carefully avoided any indication of a child prodigy burdened with a tormented artistic soul.
In the weeks that followed, freed from the constraints of the scholarly institution, Theodore and I flourished in our newfound freedom.
The mood of Archmaester Mellos soured as the Citadel exerted pressure on him to be more diligent after receiving my verbose and ambiguous reports.
Whispers of suspicion began to circulate, echoing through the castle walls. In every court and corner of the continent, maesters feared the unfathomable.
To them, it appeared as though Brien and Theodore had turned their backs on the institution. Were we no longer serving the Citadel and the realm? How could we selfishly exploit the Prince to pursue our own research?
At the time, I dismissed it all as useless speculation. I was too engrossed in the joy of my work and the acquisition of knowledge to care about such opinions, even if they came from my esteemed colleagues.
Such was the profound impact of Rhaenar Targaryen on people, as if he were the catalyst that ignited the fire of progress, disrupting the restrictive socio-political hierarchy of the world.
Prince Rhaenar operated on a different wavelength, governed by a unique set of principles. The best way to describe it is in terms of frequencies.
I came to this realization after Rhaenar's sixth nameday. We sat on the wall, our legs dangling, with the shadow of the Red Keep behind us and the sprawling city of King's Landing below.
For an hour, he played "The Bear and the Maiden Fair" while I kept him company, engrossed in my scrolls. However, each time he played it, it never sounded the same.
Once, it was upbeat, causing my feet to involuntarily dance along. Another time, it carried a deep blue melancholy that resonated within me, evoking memories of childhood—failures and triumphs, love gained and lost—eliciting a multitude of emotions.
"It astounds me," I remarked, "how the same song can evoke such different emotions depending on how it is sung."
Rhaenar smiled at my observation. "It's like anything else," he replied. "You can take a song about a bride's joyous wedding day, filled with sunny lyrics about her happiness... But if you sing it with a yearning in your heart, it takes on a whole new meaning."
Rhaenar gazed out at the city below, and his smile faded. "Sometimes, I feel like a sad song. A melody performed with cheer, yet no one stops to contemplate the lyrics."
Then he turned to me, his customary princely smile returning. "Remember, Brien, when you see people putting on bright faces and speaking bright words...
Ask yourself: 'Am I truly listening?'"
Inspired by his words, I resolved to truly listen—at least for a while. However, it only took a few fortnights for my passionate newfound resolution to dissipate amidst the demands of daily life.
Like a mature noble lady concerned about her health, swearing off cakes and red meat after her 50th name day only to indulge once more after a few moons.
Yet, in my heart, I held onto Rhaenar's words, which aided me in understanding his actions better than most.
That is why, in the ensuing months following the arrival of Phoenix the Unsullied and Sari Sicai of the Fighting Pits, I was not surprised by Rhaenar's intense dedication to his training.
It reminded me of his lessons with Theodore and me.
Every time Theodore bested him in their playful board games, and with each ancient tale I recounted as if it occurred in the present, Rhaenar's defiance grew.
This reached new heights during Rhaenar's comprehensive combat training, where his determination knew no bounds.
-Brien Flowers