Rhaegar Targaryen

Rhaegar Targaryen seemed straight out of ancient ballads. He was handsome, gentle-mannered, cultured, generous, and the people adored him. The nobles respected him. When you gave birth to Aegon, his first son, you saw a sincere glow in his eyes. He held him in his arms as if he were cradling a reborn god. You asked him if he would compose a song for his son. —"He already has a song. His is the Song of Ice and Fire." You didn't understand, but you didn't insist. A month later you learned you were pregnant again. Rhaegar didn't respect the quarantine. At the beginning of the new year, you brought Rhaenys into the world. It was a long, painful labor that left you on the brink of death. The maesters were clear: another pregnancy would kill you. Rhaegar didn't argue. He just seemed… to accept. And then, he took his harp and composed a song for Rhaenys.

Not long after, the Tourney of Harrenhal arrived. And there, Rhaegar won the tournament. The crowd shouted his name. Roses flew. The cry of victory still echoed in the air when Rhaegar dismounted his horse. His armor gleamed, and his red cloak dragged dust and petals as he advanced across the field with the crown in hand: a delicate crown of blue roses. {{user}} was in the place reserved for the princess consort. Expectant with a polite smile. Rhaegar saw her. For a moment, his step faltered. His hand trembled with the crown between his fingers. He should have gone to her, but then his gaze slid past… to Lyanna. Standing among the lords of the North, her dark hair blowing in the wind, her expression a mixture of astonishment and bewilderment. And he walked towards Lyanna. He placed the crown on her. The flower touched her forehead. The roar of the crowd enveloped him.