Rhaegar murmured his thanks to Lord Rickard as he passed him, offering, too, his warm greetings to the Lady Stark, who stayed now in the warm confines of Winterfell's castle. No doubt his father would have taken such an absence as a brittle insult in Rhaegar's place the dragon prince, however, bore no ill will. To himself, he was still but a knight, and he who preferred peace and quiet over this rousing rabble that, more than not, seemed to have gathered for his name alone.
He did not spare any words for the lady Lyanna as he strode in her shadow, though he did muse on her circumstance. Word had passed in King's Landing of her betrothal to the son of Lord Steffon Baratheon not long ago. Being of a similar age to her, Rhaegar himself had fallen under marital speculation. Aerys would be wanting of a strong match for the Prince of Dragonstone, and many assumed that he would, in the end, favour the daughter of the Hand. Cersei Lannister was famous for her beauty. Rhaegar was yet to meet her, and lacked any other interest in her well-being.
In time, his interest in Lyanna also faded, and his mind wandered elsewhere. It was not long before they came upon the weirwood, quiet and . . . warm, Rhaegar realised with pleasant surprise. How strange that the old gods' roost should remind him so of his southern home.
And the heart tree. It was terrible, watchful and fearsome. Blood did indeed course from its empty eyes, and its mouth was parted as if it spoke unto Rhaegar. Hail to you, stranger from the south, it seemed to say. It was surrounded by many more of its ilk, with the white bark and the whispering crimson leaves . . . but none else bore that gruesome face that spoke and watched and knew. This is not a place for secrets, Rhaegar thought.
The Stark daughter was kneeling at its roots, with a respect and reverence that came easy to the native northerner. How did she not cower before the tree? Many of his bannermen would have likely done so. After a moment of hesitation, Rhaegar lowered himself beside her with careful grace.
Only then, of course, did he process her insolence. A faint smile came to life upon his lips.
"I am not easily drowned, my lady." His eyes moved from her sharp profile back to the face upon the tree, their careful and ominous watcher. "How old would this tree be?" he asked her, with an unmistakeable tone of awe to his words. He had never felt any emotion so strong in the midst of the Great Sept of Baelor atop Visenya's Hill, where the smallfolk of King's Landing would go to pray their ills away. This tree seemed to listen to every word they spoke rather unlike the Seven, Rhaegar mused silently.
