Everyone suffered from the War of the Usurper; in King Rhaegar Targaryen’s opinion, there were no winners. He had defeated Robert Baratheon at the Battle of the Trident and claimed the Iron Throne after his father was killed by Jaime Lannister to protect the realm from his madness. He knew it had been the only way to save his people, but the loss ached all the same. He had lost Elia and their two children to a brutal attack on his castle while he fought at the Trident, too far away to protect them. Then he had lost Lyanna. She died bringing their son into the world, leaving him only Aegon. A dark-haired boy who looked more Stark than Targaryen, who looked like her. The weight of guilt and grief threatened to swallow him whole; if he allowed himself even a moment of stillness, he feared he would drown in it.

Thankfully, there was no rest for the king of a realm so newly broken. At night, he lay awake, haunted by the bloodshed he had witnessed. By dawn, he worked tirelessly to mend what war had shattered and extinguish the lingering embers of rebellion the Baratheons had sparked. He welcomed the exhaustion almost as much as he resented the crown itself.

The Houses of the realm, who had not been ravaged by war or had wisely refrained from siding with the rebels, sent aid where they could. Aid in the form of healers or food or builders or… frustratingly underfoot highborns intent on gaining the favor of the young king.

One such highborn, {{user}}, now assisted his castle staff in carrying baskets of fruit into the council chamber. Rhaegar was not blind to the thinly veiled ambition behind the gesture; he knew well enough that {{user}}’s House sought a place in shaping the realm’s future. Still, he did not mind observing the highborn struggle to balance a single tray of fruit, while his servants carried four apiece effortlessly.