Chapter Text
Malora Hightower stared at the figure before her. His back was hunched, as dead eyes skimmed through Septon Barth’s Unnatural History. There was not a man there, but a mummer performing a farce—and not even a good farce, but one so worn and routine. It was wrong. It was not right. Malora knew that to be the truth. For those purple eyes should have been glowing with boyish glee, as they always did, whenever the Ki—Rheagar—found himself in the Private Archives of the Hightower.
Only the Private Archives of the Hightower could claim a complete and unabridged copy—the only one of its kind in the Seven Kingdoms, if not the world entire—of a work such as Septon Barth’s Dragons, Wyrms and Wyverns: Their Unnatural History. A work that had been purged, at the height of the Faith’s reach, in the time of the Blessed King Baelon. True, the Hightowers were long and staunch allies of the Faith, of the Seven. But there were times when even a Defender of the Faith needed to know a foe—to know an enemy more even than said enemy knew himself.
For that purpose, the Private Archives of the Hightower existed. A secret library that had contained within it, the forbidden and heretical mysteries. It was therefore no surprise that a Dragon Dreamer, a man marked (if not plagued) by magic-ridden prophecy—King Rhaegar, First of His Name—would be so drawn to such a place. Only the Private Archives could have tomes that could shed even the slightest light on the omens that the Melancholic King was often blessed and cursed to receive.
Rhaegar loved and hated the higher mysteries, that which was often dubbed magic—but nevertheless adored in childish glee every bit of knowledge about such ineffable mysteries all the same, drawn to such always as if a fly to honey. Just as Rhaegar, Malora loved magic—was drawn to magic—from her childhood. How could one not be in awe, before the workings of such miracles? But it was only with Rhaegar, that Malora understood the price that one often paid for the higher mysteries.
For the gods were always painfully exact about such things.
Yet, those purple eyes nonetheless were always usually filled with joy whenver they were in the Private Archives. For the Kin—Rhaegar—had the spirit of a maester in him, a yearning to learn that found himself perfectly at home in her (theirs, a treasonous voice whispered) refuge, this library that had countless priceless tomes sitting on centuries-old shelves of aged oak—every story and myth, every theory and hypothesis, from long-dead maesters and septons, all attempting to explain what was by nature unexplainable.
“Your Grace—“
“Malora,” Her name, on his lips. A sound to commit to memory. “Remember what I had said, nay commanded earlier!” There was no reproach, only the boyish glee of a man that all thought too sullen. “When in the presence of such fine company…” A pause. His right arm and hand were pointed at her. Ki—Rhaegar always had a flair for the dramatic, when in a joyous mood. Such fine company? She could pretend. “…as Galendro and Septon Barth, through their fine masterpieces..” A jape. She glanced behind. There was Galendro’s The Fires of the Freehold. Another pause. “…lovers…” Yet another pause. Her fingers trembling. “…lovers of knowledge should treat each other as equals.”
And there, at that moment, a pair of amethyst orbs glistened with rapturous—yet innocent—joy. Rhaegar had barely the time to be a boy. Even when King Aerys was not mad, he was harsh and cruel. Especially on a quiet boy that preferred books and harps to swords and bows. And there were the nightmares, that had the curse of being destined-to-be-true—the burden of prophecy, of knowing that what shall come will be dark and unhappy.
But there was still joy in Rhaegar. A joy in weaving new song. A joy in learning new knowledge.
And that joy was in those amethyst orbs of his, those widened eyes of regal purple. Malora wondered if anybody else had seen the man they called “The Melancholic King” smile so widely, as if a madman on the happy-leafs of crannogmen; white teeth gleaming, lips upturned so freely. Perhaps, the Queen Lyanna….
“…so Malora, I am no King here. Just Rhaegar.”
Not a single passage in any book—not in the hundreds, thousands, that she had read—could explain the feeling that enveloped her whole body. A sensation of gentle warmth, as if a sun-struck petal floating on the summer breeze. He looked at her, as if she wasn’t her. As if she was something more. A gift, a grace, beautiful—not an ugly burden.
How those amethyst orbs have dimmed, the fire in them gone. There was Rhaegar—no. There was that shadow who called himself Rhaegar, who did as Rhaegar usually did in this place, but was not him. A ghost of a man, a broken man—engaged in routine, as if that were a sacred ritual to make things the way they were once.
Malora’s fists clenched, helpless. She was at a loss. What to say? What to do? The Maid of Oldtown was at a loss—and she hated it. If only! If only Malora Hightower were a proper lady! A proper lady would know how to comfort a grieving lord, how to speak words that could comfort and please—rather than be cruelly blunt even if such was not her intent, how to read and understand the mood and gesture of every person from smallfolk to highborn—all inexplicable to her as the higher mysteries were to most men!
But Malora Hightower was not a proper lady, but a burden. The Maid of Oldtown. Born an ugly maiden, who would die an ugly maiden. Gods had enough gracious spirit to bless Malora with kin that would tolerate her, that would let her be with her books until the rest of her days. Kin that would endure the burden that was her, a useless woman who could not even be wed to the lowliest vassal or the most desperate merchant. For they all knew who she was—the Maid of Oldtown. An ugly she-beast whose messy brown hair resembled that of a woodwitch, whose figure was uncomely thin, breasts barely there, a “highborn” that had not even the grace of the lady-bastards that often served as courtesans in King’s Landing.
A helpless fool, unable to do anything for her Rhaegar. For Her King.
I wish I could make you smile. I wish I knew how!
A mop of silver hair jerked upwards. Malora’s eyes widened. She stepped back, as the hunched figure rushed towards her. Before she could even think a coherent thought in response, broad hands cupped her wet cheeks. She could feel those calloused fingers, a harpist’s fingers, tenderly wipe her tears. Her thoughts had been heard, for she was speaking them aloud. Like a fool. A crying fool. Stupid! Stupid! Stupid! Her Rhaegar had lost a son, the last piece of his true love, and yet! It was the Maid who was in tears, pitying her ugly self—forcing a King to comfort his foolish subject who was unable to control herself or act appropriately, even if he himself was broken and lost. I am a fool, a damned fool.
“Daor. Iksā daor mittys.”
No. You are no fool.
Malora remembered, of all things, Septon Barth’s Unnatural History. Dragonsbreath, wrote the Septon, was a warm thing—warm enough to ward away any and all chills; even up in the North, Aegon the Conquerer was even quoted as observing that dragonsbreath made him feel as if he “had not left Summer.” Targaryens, they said, had the blood of the dragon running through their veins.
This, Malora thought, as Rhaegar’s warm breath came to her. So close. So intimately close.
“Why,” There was a curious gleam to those purple eyes, now. A faint glow, that however was not enough to shake off the melancholy. But that was still better than dead eyes, eyes that had no light at all. No fire. Now, at least, there was a spark. A glimmer. “Why would you consider yourself a fool?” Rhaegar says this, as if unbelieving of the absurd notion that the Maid of Oldtown was indeed a fool.
Malora closed her eyes, unable to believe what she saw before her—what she saw in his eyes.
“I don’t know how to comfort you. I don’t know how to help you. All I know are books. All that I have are books. I am no proper lady, able to say the right things or move my body with grace. I do not know how to read the moods of people. So I often say the wrong things, too bluntly or too honestly. So I move awkwardly. So I offend all that meet. Or they pity me, if they do not. I was born a maid surrounded by books, and will die a maid surrounded by same dusty tomes. Unable to even secure my good house a marriage of minor benefit. That is all I know, Your Grace. All I am—“
“Malora—“ His voice is that of a King. But she cannot stop.
“I am frightened,” She cannot stop herself. “Now that you can see that I am plainly a fool, that you will leave. I am sorry, Your Grace. For all that you have done for me…” For merely enjoying the company of this unworthy lady—the company of the Maid of Oldtown. A higher mystery, if there was one. “…I cannot and do not know how to help Your Grace. And now, I force Your Grace to comfort this foolish maid. When it is I that should be comforting you. I…” She does not know what else to say.
“And what have I ever done for you, my Malora.” I cannot open my eyes. I cannot.
“You have kept me company.” No, that wasn’t all. “You have kept the company of a poor maid who only has books.” His fingers lace with mine, and I cannot put a stop to it. I cannot think the logical conclusion given the premises given, for such it is ineffable, inexplicable. A higher mystery beyond me, that would curse me as reckless blood magic would—should I pierce the veil. So I leave it be. And my eyes remain closed. “You…” I have always been blunt, honest. Excessively so. I am have always prided myself on my commitment to the truth. To the point of offence. And yet, I cannot continue. Words stuck at my throat, unable to escape my lips.
His fingers strength their hold, tighten. The Maid of Oldtown opens her eyes. Before her is a man. Who is somehow smiling, the melancholy there still—but subdued. Trampled underneath a gentle joy, the sort of joy that comes with the promise of a promise. Yearning. Expecting. Premise. Rhaegar is looking at her, as he did those years ago. As if she was something more than just her. Premise. His hands are tightly woven with hers. Premise. Rhaegar is smiling, as if the clouds had lifted and the sun was clear once more in the skies. Conclusion. She does not know. For as those who preach about the Maiden say—the heart is a fickle thing, and is truly unable to be known fully.
Love is the higher mystery that all know, and yet do not.
Two maxims came to Malora’s mind at that moment. From Maester Eddard’s Sayings of Great Men. “An acceptable chance is worth running towards.” Lann the Clever. Paraphrased: An acceptable risk must be pursued. “A dragon that cannot fly shall not win.” Visenya. Paraphrased: Victory necessitates risk. Conclusion. Malora must risk it all, bare what she feels for the man who looks at her as if she were more than just a maid—who looks at her, and sees her.
“…You have done so much for me, by looking at me—looking at me as if I am worth something…” She whispers the next words, unable to fully grasp them even now—unable to believe the possibility that they could have even the smallest chance of truth. “…as if I were…as if I were beautiful, as if I were a lady…a real lady…”
Before the Maid of Oldtown could speak further, Rhaegar’s lips met the Maid’s. It was not, by any measure, a passionate kiss. But it was neither a friendly one, one between kin or friends. Not a harmless kiss on the cheek, but a soft kiss on the lips. I never thought that before I would pass to afterlife, that I would ever be kissed by a man who was not my father or my brother. And yet, I have been kissed on the lips. And yet, a King has just kissed me.
“I apologize,” Of course, it was a mistake. Of course, the King hadn't meant to kiss the Maid of Oldtown on the lips. But Rhaegar took Malora’s right hand, and on those fingers landed another kiss. “Before you go on thinking the worst—and do not deny that you are for I know you are thinking the worse. You are, after all, in the company of the finest brooder in all the Seven Kingdoms,” There was not a smile, but a grin. A wicked, boyish grin that Malora—who had many brothers—knew too well. Mischief was afoot. He was teasing her. A small smile of hers met his, to let him know that she knew he was japing. “My lady,” Lady. Rhaegar had just called her a lady—and meant it. Her mouth went agape. A fly could go in, such was her shock. “My kiss was no mistake, but a suitor should not be so forward. One does not rush courting a lady so hastily.”
Oh. My.