[Contains GoT spoilers! This series follows Seasons 2 through 8 of Game of Thrones.] Rhaena Velaryon is the daughter of the late Lord of the Tides, Trysten Velaryon, and of the former Princess of House Targaryen, Visaerya Velaryon. Living on the isl...
[Coincides slightly with 'The Children' with the funeral part.]
"They came to us from White Harbor and Barrowton, from Fair Market and King's Landing. From North and South, East and West. They died protecting men, women and children who will never know their names. It is us who will remember them, as our brothers. We shall never see their like again." Maester Aemon grips the railing firmly in front of him for balance as the others surround the dry funeral pyre and listen. Jon, Sam and Rhaena echo with their brothers as Maester Aemon finishes: And now their watch is ended. "And now their watch is ended." The old maester repeats. He is then helped down the stairs and given a torch. Aemon lights a small portion of the pyre, then hands the torch idly to the next person. Sam lights his, followed by Jon, and Rhaena, and everyone gathered. All of them watch grimly and mournfully as the flames consume their dead. Though, Jon thought he saw a glimmer of intrigue in Rhaena beside him. He gazes through the flames, becoming immediately uncomfortable upon seeing the woman who arrived with Stannis staring at him through the flames.
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
Her hair is as red as the robes she wears, as are her eyes. Jon heard Stannis call her Melisandre, the priestess of a god known as R'hllor. A completely foreign god to Jon entirely. He has no earthly idea why she stares at him with her deep crimson eyes. He feels naked, like she is looking directly through to his very soul. Melisandre moves her gaze curiously to Rhaena, a smirk spreading across her face. Jon glances next to him at his love lost in the dancing fire, instinctively and subtly giving the red woman a protective glare. Her eyes move back to his one final time, a wicked smirk resting on her face, before finally backing away. Jon blinks, trying to push the strange encounter to the back of his mind.
The bodies burn down to nothing but ash in the wind and a blackened mark on the courtyard's grounds. Orders are given to return to their posts, but Jon feels his are different. He looks up to Stannis Baratheon who is watching the courtyard as he had been the entire funeral. Jon feels torn. Rhaena's most dear friend was killed during battle with Stannis, but Eddard Stark died proclaiming he was the rightful heir. Lord Stark was always honorable and believed in the right things. Rhaena is his heart and Jon must listen to her. One of the only things in this world he wants now is to make her as happy as she can be. He feels the only way he can truly know what to do is to speak to Stannis himself, even if Rhaena would forbid him. He sets his task of visiting Tormund aside for the moment and ascends the stairs to speak with the King.
Stannis doesn't look at him. He continues to look out over the courtyard, though his Hand, Davos, turns to him and nods in greeting. "Your Grace." Jon greets Stannis formally.
"What is it?" He asks in a flat voice. His face is hard and stern. They say he never smiles or even laughs. Jon shudders. Across the yard on the adjacent platform, a woman and her child watch them. He assumes it to be Stannis' wife and daughter.
"I was hoping to speak to you about something." Jon says. "It might be out of nowhere, and I apologize for that."
"Speak." Stannis tilts his head to finally look at Jon with steel blue eyes.
"One of our own, Rhaena is her name, she's told me stories of how-," Jon recalls quickly Rain's words of her dear friend. "Of how her father died at the Battle for Blackwater Bay." Stannis then cuts him off unexpectedly.
"And she blames me, is that it?" What looks to be his version of a smirk appears on his face.
"Yes, your grace."
"It was war. Good men on both sides died fighting. I lost good men that day, as well. If it gives her any peace of mind you can tell her I did not slay him personally. I'd remember if I cut down a man with Targaryen hair. My brother Robert may have hated them with a passion, yet I don't share all of his hates and desires."
Jon feels the need to correct him. "Velaryon, your grace."
"All the same. They bred enough that she may as well be Targaryen." Stannis turns his head back to look out over the courtyard again, giving Jon the notion their conversation has ended. He begins to find his way towards Rain, trying to piece together what he can say. He knows her and knows she will not truly forgive Stannis, but Jon can atleast try to ease the tension between the two. He gives her a soft smile when he finds her in the courtyard and her eyes light up.
"Snow." She greets him.
"You won't like it, but I spoke to Stannis on your behalf." He tells her, to which her expression quickly turns to horror.
"You didn't. Please, you didn't."
"I had to. He told me he never killed Torlin."
"And how would he ever know that? He doesn't even know what he looks like."
Jon struggles to find an explanation. "I trust him. Just believe me. He had nothing to do with his death."
Rain glares at him, thinking to herself. Her expression softens and she sighs. "Fine. But Torlin died fighting his men. He may have not had a personal hand in his death, but I can never forget how he died." She sighs again. "Perhaps it's not all on him. The Queen was the one who sent for him. If she never did..." She trails off and Jon sees pain returning to her face, like he saw their first night together when she confided in him. "Can we speak later?"
"Of course." Jon nods. She smiles at him and leaves to go do what she can with Hobb in the kitchens. The Queen is to blame for so much, he thinks as he makes his way to where they are keeping Tormund. He thinks that perhaps she had a hand in killing his father. He believes he will never meet her to ask her otherwise and pushes the thought away. For him, it's in the past, just as their sins are, never to be thought of again until the moment arises.
