Chapter Text
Rhaegar Targaryen realized the extent of his misjudgment as Robert Baratheon's war hammer swung at full force toward his unguarded chest. Then his courser stumbled, dropped down, and Robert's hammer struck against his shoulder instead.
The blow hurled Rhaegar from his saddle; his mouth opened in an involuntary scream of pain.
The chill waters of the Trident rushed in, flooding his open mouth. His lungs spasmed, more water pouring in as he flailed desperately.
He felt himself being hauled upward; his lungs pulling in a draft of life-giving air. Blessed Moth-
The first blow snapped Rhaegar's head to the side. More followed, accompanied by a roaring bellow, then he was once more plunged beneath the surface of the river, water filling his nose and mouth.
Again he felt himself hauled upward, this time by multiple hands. He screamed again as unbearable agony speared from his shoulder. Blackness flooded his mind, and he knew no more.
Rhaegar woke, his eyes blinking open, Instead of the linens and silks of his own pavilion, he saw coarse gray woolen cloth. Hodden cloth. He drew in a sharp breath. Only one kingdom-
"Good morrow, Your Grace."
Rhaegar turned his head. Dark brown hair and stone-gray eyes set in a long face made the snarling direwolf on the younger man's surcoat almost superfluous. "Stark," he rasped.
The Lord of Winterfell dipped his head in acknowledgment. "Now, Your Grace, where is my sister?"