[44] Drifting High, A Chase and Run

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She sat on a carved wooden seat, just a step below her son’s Iron Throne’s looming height. Flickers of torchlight caught the metal blades fused into the throne behind her, casting uneasy shadows that flashed across her face like ghosts. She smelled the sweat and sensed fear lingered in the Great Hall as so many city guards knelt before her son.

Joffrey’s barking voice carried from across the chamber, but she paid it no mind. The commotion in the hall was merely an afterthought in her mind.

Rhaegar Targaryen. The name rattled her more than any riot. Her mind screamed that name for her, and she’d have trembled if she was alone.

She remembered her younger self, head filled with dreams—dreams with a silver-haired prince at their center. She once believed she’d marry him and come very close to that. He almost became her fiance, if only King Aerys II wasn’t a senile old fucker who’d grown increasingly paranoid of Tywin, believing that his Hand was becoming too powerful. He refused the marriage proposal as a way to humiliate Tywin and keep him in check.

Then again, was he truly senile when all his actions were mostly right?

She sighed and pushed that thought aside. She didn’t care about an old dead geezer. She cared about his handsome dead son… She’s always wished to be with Rhaegar, and yet cold reality offered only Robert Baratheon’s drunken fists and stinking breath. Jaime’s closeness had dulled that ache but never erased it. She’d never tell her brother that she used him as a replacement for Rhaegar; he was a second choice.

Despite all that, why were there rumors of Rhaegar returning suddenly? As a “ghost,” no less. Just a doppelganger? Or… Magic? A small part of her flinched at the idea, but she knew the world was full of dark wonders. She herself had lived by a prophecy’s shadow for too long to dismiss it.

She frowned. What was the point of wondering about things she couldn’t confirm? From the corner of her eye, she caught Joffrey waving off the City Guards, hurling curses at them to find “that bastard Targaryen” but failing to give proper instructions.

He ranted on, voice shrill with wounded pride. Cersei exhaled slowly, forcing her nerves back into calm.

If the rumors were true and Rhaegar—or something like him—walked the city, she had to see it with her own eyes. Her chest fluttered at the thought, half fear, half longing. It was idiocracy, she knew, but… she was infatuated to this day.

“What in the seven hells do you mean you didn’t find anything, you heathens! You waste of food!” Finally, Joffrey grew louder, making the entire hall fall silent. He was only making a muddle of the guards’ orders. Her lips parted in a faint, disdainful smile.

How had her son skipped the Lannister intelligence?

He was just like Jamie.

He couldn’t expect to quell the city’s chaos like this. It wouldn’t work. Thankfully, he had him by her side. Restraint snapped in her chest, and her voice cut clean.

“Enough.” The single word rippled through the hall. Joffrey fell silent, shocked at the interruption. He scowled and opened his mouth to shout, but Cersei shot him a sharp look. “I’ll do the talking.”

She couldn’t understand where the bravery came from, even though he’d threatened her before, but she moved anyway. She rose an inch from her seat, gazing over the uneasy guards. “He’s clearly not a normal person. He can fly. But nobody saw him leave the walls of the city. So he’s still here. Keep searching for him. I’m certain it should be difficult… but not impossible. You will scour every corner of King’s Landing,” she declared. “Find this dragon-winged pretender calling himself Rhaegar.”

She watched their expressions and clenched her jaw. “I don’t care if the rumor sounds absurd or if you fear it. Drag him here, dead or alive.” Preferably alive, but she couldn’t say that here.

“Alive!” Joffrey suddenly slammed his fist on the throne’s armrest. “I want to kill him myself!”

Cersei looked at her son and then smiled. Oh, her lovely baby was helping her so much, even without intending to. Must be the spiritual connection of a mother and son.

Despite the smile on her lips, she hadn’t realized her hands had clenched into fists until she forced them open. If this ghost is the true him, she told herself, I’ll discover what he wants—and if it’s a lookalike… Her heart squeezed at the possibility. I’d get myself a Rhaegar Pet Targaryen.

“All of you,” she snapped to the guards, “go. Now!” \

They scrambled away into the gloom, leaving only her and Joffrey. She hardly glanced at her son’s affronted face. One way or another, I will meet you, Ghost of Targaryen.

****

My knife carved through an apple’s crisp flesh with a soft crunch, and the slices fell into my palm. The night was quiet except for the rustle of the wind against the shutters. I sat at a small table in the dimly lit living room, the only illumination source a single lantern swaying gently from the low ceiling.

A light knock fell on the door, making me look up. “It’s me,” a feminine voice said.

“Come in,” I permitted, and the door creaked open. Ros stepped inside, her posture easing as she closed the door. Thick auburn curls framed her face, and a thin layer of wariness shone in her eyes as she walked toward me.

“...Your Grace,” she greeted, dipping her head. The others in the room looked at her from the corner of their eyes. We were all here except for Sansa, who must be resting.

I slid a piece of apple past my lips and munched, offering her a small smile. “You’re finally here, Ros. I’ve been waiting. You must have come with news?”

She inclined her head, stepping closer to my table. As she closed up, I noticed how her face showed less emotion than when we first met. “Yes, and some of it isn’t pleasant. The City Watch is already combing the streets for this so-called ‘Ghost of Targaryen.’ I know it’s you, right? Unless we have got a real ghost to worry about?”

“We don’t.”

“They’ve locked down half the districts near Flea Bottom and the Gate of the Gods. There’s talk of forming nightly patrols—heavier than before. There’s a lot of guards patrolling already.”

I hummed. “I expected as much. Whatever, let them chase shadows,” I said, and my eyes flicked toward Kinvara, who stood near the window, half-hidden by the moon’s glow. She sipped from a cup. It was probably some strong tea or mild wine, I never quite knew; she always loved drinking weird stuff. A moment later, Kinvara cast me a knowing look over the rim.

“It’s nearly midnight,” I said to her. “Is it a good time to leave?”

Kinvara shrugged her slender shoulders, a faint smile ghosting her lips. “Since when did you start asking for my opinion, my King? You’re the one who moves mountains with a thought. All I offer is a flicker of voice.”

A soft laugh bubbled from my chest. “True enough. But I am not a prophet. If I’m to roam this city again, there’s a chance I might get exposed. So I need your magic visions to stay three steps ahead of every fool with a sword. Will I get caught if I leave now?”

She turned her gaze to the window, the corners of her eyes crinkling with subdued amusement. “Very wise of you, Your Grace. I thought your recent growth would cloud your mind, as it happens with many rulers. So yes, you can leave now. It’ll be unwise to delay any longer. But… let me be clear: my words aren’t absolute, only glimpses. You still have to be careful.”

“Fair enough,” I said.

Nymeria Sand and her sisters hovered near the doorway, exchanging pointed glances. One of them cleared her throat. “Is it really wise to head north? Robb Stark’s father ended your father’s reign. Seems more than a little risky.”

The other sister, Obara Sand, nodded. “Also, will the people not find it suspicious, Your Grace? You’ve been gone for a month, and when you return, the ‘Ghost of Rhaegar’ suddenly appears in King’s Landing. Right when the ghost vanishes, you also seem nowhere to be found. That is bound to raise questions.”

“Not really. How many people come and go every day? Plus…” I looked to the side at Ros.

She blinked and nodded with the faintest flicker of a smile. “I can handle the rumor mill, my ladies. My information network can guide suspicion away from us. Petyr Baelish and Lord Varys may be formidable but not infallible. It only takes a few sparks of gossip in the right corners.”

The Sand sisters didn’t look wholly convinced, eyebrows raised, but they didn’t press further.

“But…” Ros hesitated as she looked at me. A flicker of the old Ros who fell in love showed on her face. “You’re leaving for the North? With… Sansa Stark, I’m assuming? But that sounds dangerous…” She said, and a second later, she quickly bowed. “Forgive me, I’m overstepping my b-boundaries.”

“Oh, come on, Ros. Don’t be like that with me. Are we that distant?” I sighed, shaking my head. “And yes, you’ve hit the mark. Don’t worry, I’ll be back as I always have.”

She just kept her head low, falling silent. Before I could talk to her again, footsteps echoed from the stairs above.

Sansa was coming down, wrapped in a black blanket. She paused upon seeing Ros, recognition flashing in her eyes—likely recalling that Ros worked in Littlefinger’s brothel, once brought to Joffrey’s bedchamber alongside another girl.

Sansa’s posture stiffened, uncertainty twisting her features.

I moved to stand, setting the apple knife aside. “It’s alright,” I said, drawing Sansa’s wary gaze to me. “Ros is trustworthy. She’s on our side—on my side.”

She exhaled shakily and nodded, seemingly not fully convinced but too exhausted to argue. I popped one last bite of apple into my mouth, then rose fully from the table. Approaching her, I offered my hand as she navigated the bottom step. “Are you ready?” I asked softly.

She hesitated. “How… how will we escape the city? I heard earlier… that every guard and watchman is looking for us. Plus, if we fly out from here, they will realize this is where you live…”

I smiled. “Leave that to me.”

****

An hour later, the city’s emptiest streets came alive with furious shouting. A half-dozen guards, brandishing torches and swords, tore after two fleeing figures. One was a tall, armor-clad man with silver-blond hair peeking from beneath his helm, and the other was a girl wrapped in dark cloth. The guards cursed, their footfalls pounding against slick cobblestones as they rushed through back alleys and crooked lanes.

“Stop!” one roared, voice echoing between narrow walls. But the pair only sprinted faster, twisting around an abandoned corner strewn with toppled crates.

The guards gave chase until they cornered them near a dead-end alley blocked by a collapsed pile of debris. The men slowed, panting, their torches bobbing in the gloom. “We’ve got you now,” the lead guard sneered, lifting his blade. “No way out!”

The armored man slowly faced them, his breath stirring the chill air. The guards thought the situation was dealt with. But then… his lips curved in a thin smile. A flicker rippled along his back—two membranous wings unfurled, catching the torchlight with an eerie sheen.

“Seven Hells,” someone choked, stepping back. “I thought it was a stupid rumor since he was running!”

The girl clung to the man’s arm, her face hidden under her hood. In a smooth motion, the man wrapped both arms around her waist, making her gasp, and gave a powerful flap, soaring upward. The guards gasped, one stumbling and nearly dropping his torch as he craned his neck to watch the impossible sight.

They vanished into King’s Landing night sky, leaving the guards seething uselessly. Curses echoed up the alley, but only the fading silhouette of ‘Rhaegar’ Targaryen and Sansa Stark remained, drifting higher until they melted into the clouds.

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