RHAEGAR
Rhaegar stared at his sword. The blade lay on his desk, looking incredibly dull, as if the ancient steel absorbed any light that dared to touch it, even in the darkness of his chambers.
He felt tired. Not the physical exhaustion from lack of sleep, though there was that too, but a deeper exhaustion, one that seeped into his bones. There was also confusion, and beneath that, a cold anger churned. His grip on the hilt trembled slightly with restrained emotion. He clenched his jaw, so hard he felt his teeth might break.
Standing in the darkness of his room, Rhaegar closed his eyes. The image of his father, foolish and reckless, flashed in his mind. He wanted to curse the man. He wanted to scream in his face for causing the entire kingdom to panic, for letting the situation get to this point, and worst of all, for letting his mother worry herself to death.
His mother had barely slept lately. Rhaegar often saw her at the highest window of her chamber, just standing, staring towards the heavens as if she could will Aerys back with the sheer force of her gaze. And Viserys... his infant brother was quiet in his mother's arms, as if the babe instinctively sensed that something terrible was happening and decided not to be a further burden. A tragic maturity for an infant.
With a suppressed growl, Rhaegar sheathed his sword in one slow movement. He placed it back on the table, right near the window where the first gray sliver of morning light was beginning to enter. He would leave it there and take it when he departed for Duskendale. It would be his reminder for the next four days—no longer the harp, but steel—that he must be ready to use it if things turned chaotic.
And he desperately hoped they wouldn't. Every part of his soul rejected violence, yet every inch of his dragon blood told him it was inevitable.
Turning from his weapon, Rhaegar opened his chamber door. The air in the corridor outside felt richer, fuller with the scents of the waking castle, baking bread, old dust, and the remnants of last night's torch smoke. It filled his lungs, calming him slightly.
He would have breakfast. Breakfast would give him energy, and with energy, he could think more clearly. He had to think for everyone now.
He walked down the quiet corridor. The guard named Orick, standing watch at his door, nodded silently, his eyes beneath the helm full of unspoken worry. Rhaegar nodded briefly in return.
He arrived at his mother and father's chambers. A Kingsguard stood watch here, Ser Jonothor Darry. He saluted. "Prince."
Rhaegar just knocked softly on the thick wooden door. After hearing a quiet answer from within, he entered.
The room was bright. The morning sun flooded the chamber through the large open windows. And there, in the light, stood his mother, Queen Rhaella. Her back was to him, holding Viserys wrapped in a blanket. The scene was so peaceful and serene, a fragile bubble of tranquility in the midst of the storm. As if their troubles beyond these walls never existed.
"Mother?" Rhaegar called softly.
"Hmmm?" His mother didn't turn. Her voice sounded distant, light as the wind. "What is it, Rhaegar? Look. Viserys is enjoying the view outside. There are so many birds flying out there, gracing the sky. You can come closer to see, too. It's very beautiful."
Rhaegar's throat tightened. He swallowed what felt like coarse sand. He moved forward slowly, his footsteps nearly silent on the carpet, until he was beside his mother.
He looked where his mother was staring. There, in the bright morning sky, there were indeed hundreds of birds, crows, perhaps, or sparrows, flying to and fro in large flocks. They flew beautifully, orderly, and strong. They wheeled and turned as one, never colliding, as if they all knew what the others were thinking.
'If only men could be like that,' Rhaegar thought bitterly. 'If only Father could...'
"Where are they going?" Rhaegar whispered, more to himself.
"To someplace that makes them comfortable," his mother replied just as softly. "A place that is warm, and safe."
There was a longing in her voice that made Rhaegar's heart ache. He nodded, then gently changed the subject. "Mother. It's time for breakfast."
"I know," his mother said, still staring outside. "You go ahead and eat, Rhaegar. I'll follow. Viserys and I still want to watch the birds."
Frowning, Rhaegar shook his head. There was no way he would eat breakfast alone in that quiet, silent hall, accompanied only by the stares of frightened servants. Especially when he knew his mother was running on fumes. She had barely eaten anything yesterday.
"Don't jest, Mother," he said, more firmly than he intended. "Are you still thinking about Father?"
It was the wrong thing to say. Rhaella's eyes dimmed instantly, her faint smile vanishing. The light in them died. When he mentioned Aerys, Rhaegar knew it was a painful subject, a constant exhaustion, even when his father was still here, in this castle, terrorizing her at night.
"Aerys?" Rhaella whispered, her voice returning to earth. "Of course I'm thinking of him. Everyone in this kingdom is thinking of him."
Rhaegar sighed, smelling the faint scent of dried flowers that filled the room. "We will save him, Mother. Lord Tywin is gathering the army. Everyone is trying. You don't have to torture yourself with these thoughts, by not eating."
Queen Rhaella finally turned from the window, looking at Rhaegar. Her purple eyes, so much like his own, were weary and ringed with dark circles. But she forced a thin smile for her son. A smile that didn't reach her eyes.
"I know," she said, her voice trembling slightly. "You are very persuasive, my son. Far more persuasive than your father." She sighed. "If you insist... very well. Let's go have breakfast."
...
"It's very crowded, isn't it? They answered the call quickly," Jon Connington said beside Rhaegar.
The three of them, Rhaegar, Jon, and Ser Arthur Dayne, stood atop the highest tower of the Red Keep, looking down on Blackwater Bay. The sight was incredible. Dozens of sailing ships crowded the harbor, while many more were visible on the horizon, their sails like flecks of chalk on the dark blue water.
On the docks, the situation was more like organized chaos. Thousands of men poured from transport ships, carrying crates, horses, and the banners of the Crownlands Lords. They immediately sought places to eat and drink before this siege would begin. King's Landing, usually busy, now felt like it was overflowing.
"Look at all those ships," Jon continued, his voice tinged with his typical cynicism. "They all look like ants from up here. Ants very interested in honey."
"Honey, or blood," Arthur Dayne commented quietly on Rhaegar's other side. The Sword of the Morning stood still, his white Kingsguard cloak fluttering softly. "It will be like this for the next few days."
"The more the better," Rhaegar finally spoke, his eyes sweeping the fleet. He didn't see 'ants'. He saw strength. "We need many ships to blockade Duskendale's port completely. Nothing must be allowed in or out."
"If Darklyn doesn't surrender immediately after seeing a force this large, he must be the stupidest man in Westeros," said Jon Connington. "This will clearly crush him in a single day."
"If he didn't have the King right now, I'm sure that's what would happen," Arthur added flatly, bringing the harsh reality back to the surface. "But he does have the King. That changes everything from an assault to a hostage rescue."
Rhaegar nodded, feeling the weight in his chest grow heavier. Arthur was right. This was not a normal war.
"Let's go see the other soldiers," Rhaegar decided suddenly, turning from the view. The view from the tower made him feel too detached, like a god looking down. He needed to come down to earth. "Let's hope they don't all wilt like leaves blown by the wind."
He descended the narrow spiral staircase, Jon and Arthur following behind. The sounds from below grew louder, replacing the whistle of the wind at the tower's peak. As they stepped out into the main castle courtyard, Rhaegar was greeted by the true sights and sounds of war.
In the courtyard, scores of soldiers were already lined up, perhaps hundreds, organized into companies by their Lord's banner. The air was filled with the smell of sweat, oiled steel, and horse dung. The sounds of captains shouting orders, the clang of hammers from the smithy, and the restless whinnying of horses mixed into a deafening symphony.
Rhaegar saw Ser Barristan Selmy in the thick of it, his armor already complete even though the battle was still days away. His usually calm face now looked hard and tired. He saw Rhaegar and nodded curtly, a shared acknowledgment of duty between them.
Rhaegar, Jon, and Arthur walked past the lines of soldiers. Rhaegar observed them carefully. Many of them were green youths, their eyes shining at the thought of saving the king, not yet fully understanding what a siege meant.
"They look ready," Jon said, clapping a startled soldier on the shoulder as he passed.
"They look green," Rhaegar whispered. He then turned toward the smithy, where the most intense activity was happening.
Dozens of blacksmiths and their apprentices worked tirelessly. Forges blazed hot, hammers rang on anvils, scattering sparks. They weren't just making swords or repairing armor; they were preparing siege equipment. Piles of newly made arrowheads mounted in a corner.
Lord Tywin had ordered all this. Rhaegar had to admit the Hand's efficiency. The Red Keep had transformed from a peaceful palace into a true military fortress in less than a day.
"So much preparation," Jon muttered, wiping sweat from his brow even though he was just standing near the entrance. "Lord Tywin seems intent on leveling Duskendale stone by stone."
"He intends to win," Arthur said.
"But how long?" Rhaegar asked quietly, more to himself. "All these preparations... this is for a long siege."
Rhaegar felt a coldness in his stomach that had nothing to do with the wind. Tywin was preparing for a methodical, inevitable war. He would surround Duskendale, cut off its supplies, and wait. Waiting for Darklyn to starve. Waiting for Darklyn to become desperate.
But what will happen to my Father while Tywin waits?
"Prince?" Arthur's voice snapped him out of his reverie.
Rhaegar blinked, tearing his gaze from the flames. "It's nothing, Ser Arthur. I was just... thinking."
They left the noisy smithy and returned to the slightly quieter courtyard. Rhaegar stopped, staring at the high walls in the distance.
"Jon," Rhaegar said. "What do you think we should do?"
Jon Connington looked surprised by the direct question. "Do, Prince? We gather the army, we march to Duskendale, we show our strength. If Darklyn doesn't hand over the King, we break down his gate and take him."
"And if he kills my Father while we're breaking down his gate?" Rhaegar's voice was sharp.
Jon fell silent, his cynicism fading in the face of that reality. "Then... he dies, you will be King. And your first act will be to take revenge in the most terrible way."
Rhaegar closed his eyes. That was the problem. Jon saw the end result, the throne. Arthur saw duty, protecting the King. But only Rhaegar seemed to be trapped in the middle, thinking of the morality and the blood that would be spilled.
"I do not want to be King over a pile of corpses, Jon," Rhaegar said quietly. "Especially not my father's."
He turned and began to walk away, not to the tower, not to the throne room, but towards the castle sept.
"Prince, where are you going?" Arthur asked, confused.
"Seeking solace before the madness begins," Rhaegar replied without turning. "You two, keep an eye on the preparations. Make sure the soldiers are well-fed. I want them strong, not just numerous."
Jon and Arthur exchanged a look, then bowed. "As you command."
Rhaegar pushed open the heavy door of the sept. Inside, it was cool and silent, a stark contrast to the chaos outside. There were only a few serving women praying, and the colored light from the stained-glass windows danced on the stone floor.
He walked to the altar, but he did not kneel. He just stood there, staring at the stone-carved faces. He hadn't come to pray for victory. He hadn't come to pray for his father's safety.
He came because this was the one place in the Red Keep where no one expected anything of him. Here, he was not the Dragon Prince, not the son of the King. He was just a tired man, trapped between duty and emotion, listening to the silence and hoping, for once, that the silence would speak back.
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