“Maybe Aegon is the Prince that was promised, but he can only fulfill your prophecy if we steer him to greatness.
And we can only do that if we are alive.
In case you weren’t aware, there are tens of thousands of men at Riverrun and thousands more heading there, all aimed at killing every Targaryen that breathes.”
…
Rhaegar was silent even longer, now playing the Bear and the Maiden Fair.
Aelor wanted to take the lute and break it over his brother’s head.
“Are we certain they are still at Riverrun?”
Aelor sat slowly as he nodded, some of his anger dissipating after he lost his temper.
I’m still going to kill him, but I suppose I can wait until the war is over to do it.
“No.
Baratheon is marching that way and he has too far of a lead on Prince Oberyn and his Dornishmen.
Whether the rest of the rebellion is still at Riverrun or marching to meet Baratheon we’re unsure of.”
“How many men do they have?”
“Close to forty thousand.
We’ll have close to the same once Oberyn arrives, probably five thousand or so less.
I sent Mace Tyrell and the Redwyne Fleet to besiege Storm’s End.”
Rhaegar cocked his brow.
“I imagine Robert’s brothers are there, but does it truly matter whether Storm’s End falls?”
Aelor shook his head.
“No, but it keeps Tyrell out of the way.”
Rhaegar smiled, and for the first time that day it wasn’t a sad one.
“Prudent of you, Aelor.
You have made quite a name for yourself in this war.”
The Dragon of Duskendale shrugged.
“The Seven know why.
I’ve only fought a handful of battles, and each of them I’ve either had the element of surprise or superior numbers.
And I still had my flank turned by Selwyn buggering Tarth.
A Dragon outmaneuvered by a man with the nickname ‘Evenstar’.
How pathetic.”
“You’re men love you, and I daresay you’re being thought of as the second coming of Aemon the Dragonknight.”
“I’m good at killing people.
So is every sellsword on either side of the Narrow Sea.”
“But none of those sellswords are Princes of the Iron Throne.
Or Hand of the King.”
Aelor stared at Rhaegar a long moment.
“You’re going to need to clarify that.”
Rhaegar put his lute aside, standing to walk to his brother’s chair.
“Father’s last Hand of the King was apparently some pyromancer, Roassart I believe.
Jaime Lannister killed him before he cut our father’s throat.”
“Why?”
“I couldn’t say, though I fully intend to find out.
I need a Hand of the King, one who can help me finish this war and also rule the Seven Kingdoms in Aegon’s name should something happen to me.
I can think of no one better than you.” The King held his hand out to his shocked brother.
Aelor hit him.
Rhaegar went reeling backwards though he kept his feet.
“No!” He told Ser Barristan when the Kingsguard knight began to start for them, intent on breaking them up.
“Let him rage!”
So Aelor raged.
Though three years younger, Aelor had been bigger and stronger than Rhaegar for most of their lives, and he used it.
His chair went flying back as the Dragon of Duskendale burst out of it, landing another blow to his brother the King’s cheekbone.
Rhaegar fought back though they both knew he was outmatched; it was as if they were young children again, settling their quarrels through the world’s oldest method of negotiation.
Ser Barristan the Bold, grateful for being called off, could only watch with a slight smile on his face as the two Targaryen’s beat the hell out of each other like they were children again.
Barristan would know; he’d watched them many times before.
By the time they were done Aelor’s cut had reopened, fresh blood flowing down the second son’s jaw.
Rhaegar’s hauntingly beautiful face was no longer quite as beautiful, his lip busted and bruises already beginning to form.
Both men were breathing heavily, Aelor hunched over with his hands on his knees and Rhaegar hugging a column to keep himself standing.
“If you think,” Aelor started through gasps for breath, “That a damn pin…is going to make me forget your stupidity…”
“I…know it won’t,” Rhaegar replied, holding that column closer than he ever had his wife.
“But it’s a…serious offer.
We have…a war to win.
You’re the best…man for it.”
Aelor glared daggers at his brother while both caught their breath.
After several long minutes he slowly rose, face still angry and fists, bloody knuckles and all, still clenched.
“I’ll take the damn pin until the war is over.
Then you’ll take it back and find someone else to run your kingdom’s for you, because I sure as hell won’t.”
Rhaegar had gone from hugging the column to simply leaning against it.
“Fair enough.
Though if I die, I want you to be Aegon’s regent.
You’ll care for him, Rhaenys and Elia probably better than I ever could.”
“I already do.”
Rhaegar’s sad smile returned.
Aelor found it easier to stomach when Rhaegar winced at his split lip.
“I know.” He held his brother’s gaze.
“You love her.”
Aelor raised a brow.
“Rhaenys?
Of course.”
“Elia.” Aelor’s face instantly turned shocked.
“You have for years, baby brother.
And she loves you, though I doubt she knows it either.”
Aelor began to viciously protest, but it died in his throat.
He thought of Elia then, all Dornish beauty with a heart of gold.
He had always been fond of her it was true, but he had never considered it something more.
She was his brother’s wife, an unattainable object that Aelor hadn’t even realized he wanted.
But then he remembered that he did have a strange fondness for Dornish women that had begun roughly when Elia had first arrived in the capital.
Annara down at Chataya’s was Dornish, as was Senelle at Allie’s back in Duskendale; both were his favorites.
And then there was Talana Vaith, so recently deceased.
Aelor realized that he thought of Elia when he was with each of them.
Well I’ll be damned.
That’s buggering messed up, even for a Targaryen.
He loved Elia’s company, almost always seeking it out when he had a chance.
He wrote her often and thought of her even more.
Her laugh never failed to make him smile.
I sound like a young girl, all these romanticized thoughts.
Renfred would never let me forget it if he knew.
Rhaegar’s words made a hell of a lot of sense, Aelor had to admit.
So this is love.
Who knew.
Aelor finally looked back at his brother, still leaning against a column.
“This changes nothing, Rhaegar.
You know us both.
We’d never—”
“I’m not worried about that, Aelor.
Elia probably doesn’t know how she feels anyway.
Even if she did, I don’t disapprove.”
Aelor raised an eyebrow in confusion.
“You don’t care at all that your brother loves your wife?”
Rhaegar shrugged, a motion that caused him some pain judging by his wince.
“No, nor do I care that my wife loves my brother.
All I care for right now is ending this war and keeping my children safe; the rest can be worked out later.
I need your help to do so.
Are you with me?” Rhaegar held his hand out again.
This time Aelor took it.
“Aye.
But if you do one more bonehead thing, I promise I’ll kill you myself.”
Rhaegar smiled once more.
“I know, brother.
Believe me, I know.”
…