ROBERT | RHAEGAR
The Great Sept of Baelor towered atop Visenya's Hill like a giant crown hewn from holiness itself. Its walls of pure white marble gleamed brilliantly under the scorching midday sun of King's Landing, reflecting a light so blinding it seemed to challenge the darkness shrouding the hearts of its inhabitants. The crystal and gold dome at its peak caught the sunlight, refracting it into an ironic rainbow amidst the atmosphere of mourning.
Beneath that architectural grandeur, a sea of people moved slowly like a river of ink. Thousands, from high lords to household knights, wore all black or somber dark colors. Black velvet, charcoal grey wool, and midnight blue silk dominated the view, creating a sharp and painful contrast against the white marble floor of the holy sept. Black and white. Life and death.
Robert Baratheon stood among them, feeling like a giant trapped in clothes that constrained him. He wore his finest black tunic, embroidered with gold thread forming the Baratheon stag. The fabric was thick and hot, yet he dared not loosen his collar.
Beside him stood Stannis, his younger brother. Stannis's face was calm, his eyes staring straight ahead without blinking. On the other side, his mother, Lady Cassana, stood gracefully with a black lace veil covering part of her face, while his father, Lord Steffon Baratheon, stood as a pillar of family strength. Little Renly, only a few months old and unable to understand the meaning of death, had been left at the Red Keep with wet nurses, for fear his cries would stain the silence of this ceremony.
This was the seventh day. The end of the official period of mourning.
In the center of the vast chamber beneath the main dome, a golden urn carved with the three-headed dragon was placed upon a marble podium surrounded by hundreds of burning candles. The ashes of King Aerys II Targaryen rested there. For seven days, that urn had been the center of the world, prayed over ceaselessly by Septons, surrounded by thick incense smoke and holy chants that echoed up to the ceiling.
People walked quietly in long lines, taking their turn to pay their final respects. Their footsteps were muffled by thick tapestries, creating a soft, hypnotic rhythm.
Robert shifted his gaze to the side, looking at his father's face. Lord Steffon was observing the ash urn with heartbreaking intensity. His father's blue eyes, usually warm and full of laughter, were now dark and very serious. There was a deep sorrow there, the grief of a man who had lost a childhood friend, a grief that transcended politics and titles. Robert knew, for his father, what was inside that urn was not just a King, but Aerys, the boy who used to play with him and Tywin Lannister, then fought alongside him in the Stepstones.
Seeing the depth of his father's grief, Robert suddenly felt a sharp pang of guilt in his chest. The feeling was cold and uncomfortable.
Just a few days ago, his mind had been filled with the desire to escape and find a whore to forget the boredom of this city. He wanted to get drunk. He wanted to laugh. While his father bore the burden of losing a best friend, Robert had only thought of ways to sate his own lusts.
Self-loathing crept up his throat. That was his greatest flaw, he realized now. He always prioritized his own pleasure. He was a slave to it. He spent his days playing at war, practicing hitting people with hammers, drinking, or simply boasting with Ned Stark.
He was shallow. In the face of this real death and grief, Robert felt small and insignificant.
His breath felt heavy. Perhaps... perhaps this was the time for him to change. He was the heir to Storm's End. One day, the burden his father carried would shift to his shoulders. If he continued to act like a boy who only knew how to satisfy himself, how could he lead men as hard as stone and storm?
He promised in his heart, a silent vow he might forget tomorrow or perhaps not, that he would try to be better. He would try to listen to the Maester's prattle about history and strategy without falling asleep. He would try to understand taxes and laws, not just how to hold a sword. He had to develop his brain to see the world the way his father saw it, with responsibility.
Robert shook his head slightly, dispelling those dark thoughts, and shifted his focus forward.
In the very front row, closest to the urn, stood Rhaegar Targaryen.
The Prince stood tall like a spear planted in the earth. His black cloak fell perfectly over his broad shoulders. His face was as firm as Valyrian steel. No tears. No trembling shoulders. Not a hint of weakness.
Robert observed the figure with a growing sense of respect in his heart. Rhaegar had just lost his father in a horrific way, yet he stood there, becoming the anchor for an entire shaken realm. He bore the weight of the crown even before the object was placed on his head.
Then, the High Septon lifted the book of The Seven-Pointed Star with both hands, the ancient parchment looking fragile and yellowed by age, yet radiating an aura of holiness that made thousands in the room hold their breath.
The voice of the religious leader echoed throughout the chamber, bouncing off the cold white walls. He spoke of the inevitable cycle of life, of how the Father judges justly, the Mother loves tenderly, and how in the end, every soul, be it a ruling king or a beggar, would be collected by the Stranger to be taken to the world beyond. None were exempt from death, and no crown could bribe fate.
The narrative then shifted, flowing like a calm river remembering the figure lying in ash before them. The High Septon painted the youth of Aerys Targaryen, not as a king who ended tragically, but as a gallant young prince in the Stepstones. He spoke of friendship, of visions of building, and of long years of peace under his reign. The words were woven beautifully, wrapping the memory of the King in a silk cloth of pure honor.
Silence then descended to blanket the giant room, heavy and pressing.
At a silent signal, everyone bowed their heads. Thousands of pairs of eyes closed in unison, creating a rare moment of unity in the capital.
Robert bowed his large head. He closed his eyes, letting the darkness behind his eyelids give him a brief respite from the blinding grandeur around him. The scent of sweet and heavy incense filled his nose, a scent identical to holiness and farewells.
In silence, Robert offered his own prayer. He was not the most pious man, but his heart was sincere in that moment. He hoped Aerys's soul found the peace he did not get in his final days at Duskendale. He thanked the figure, not as a king, but as a keeper of the peace.
The realm had run peacefully while he lived. Robert realized that now. He had grown up in a long summer, without knowing the horrors of civil war, without seeing villages burned or fields pillaged by foreign armies. His childhood had been spent in laughter and safe sword practice, not life-and-death battles. That was the gift given by the stability of Aerys's rule, despite all his flaws. People were happy, or at least, they were safe.
Robert took a deep breath, filling his lungs with air that smelled of wax, then exhaled slowly.
When he opened his eyes again, the atmosphere had shifted.
The Knights of the Kingsguard, in their brilliant white cloaks, stepped forward with trained, synchronized movements. Ser Gerold Hightower, Ser Arthur Dayne, and their other brothers surrounded the podium. Their faces were hidden behind helms, expressionless, like living statues of guardians.
With a gentleness that contrasted with their strength, the knights lifted the gold-plated litter where the ash urn rested. There was no sound of friction, no shaking. The urn rose, glittering under the incoming sunlight, as if Aerys himself were floating for the last time above his people.
The procession began.
The Kingsguard slowly headed towards the back of the holy altar. There, a wrought iron door that was usually closed was now wide open, revealing stone stairs descending into darkness. It was the way to the crypts of the Great Sept.
They carried the burden of their king down those stairs, into the belly of the earth, away from the sunlight and the cheers of the world, towards eternal silence among his ancestors.
Behind them, Rhaegar Targaryen followed with his mother. His steps were steady yet rhythmic as he descended those stairs, disappearing into the shadows to say a private final goodbye.
Robert watched those backs, receding until swallowed by the darkness of the passage.
…
Their footsteps echoed softly on the descending stone stairs, a somber rhythm swallowed by the darkness down below.
Rhaegar walked slowly, adjusting his long strides to his mother's hesitant steps. Queen Rhaella, now the Queen Mother, was beside him, her thin hand gripping Rhaegar's arm as if it were the only anchor preventing her from falling into the abyss.
Under the light of torches flickering on the passage walls, his mother looked so fragile. The black mourning cloth wrapping her body made her skin look as pale as a dim moon, almost transparent. Her violet eyes, swollen and red, stared blankly at the steps ahead. There was a weight on her shoulders that was not just grief, but the accumulation of years of fear finally released, leaving a suffocating emptiness.
The air down here was different. Cold, still, and heavy. This was air never touched by the sun, air that had been breathed by the dead for centuries. The smell of incense from above faded, replaced by the scent of damp earth, cold stone, and bone dust.
They reached the bottom. The crypt of the Great Sept stretched before them, a hall of shadows with a low ceiling supported by thick stone pillars. Here, within the niches of the walls, rested the ashes and bones of previous Targaryen kings who chose to be buried in the manner of the Faith.
The Kingsguard carrying the urn had arrived first. They placed the golden urn with solemn gentleness into a newly prepared niche in the stone wall. A marble slab, already carved with Aerys's name and titles, waited to close it forever.
After their duty was done, Ser Gerold Hightower gave a silent signal.
The White Knights retreated. Ser Arthur Dayne, standing closest to Rhaegar, glanced at his friend for a moment. In that gaze, Rhaegar saw deep sympathy, an unspoken promise of protection, before Arthur turned and joined his brothers in the shadows near the stairs, granting privacy to the royal family.
Only the two of them remained. Rhaegar and his Mother. The living and the dead.
Rhaegar released his mother's arm slowly and stepped forward. He approached the niche.
The light of torches mounted on the walls reflected on the surface of the golden urn. It was beautiful, Rhaegar thought bitterly. Aerys had always liked gold, liked luxury, liked things that glittered. Now, he was encased in gold forever.
Rhaegar's hand reached out. His long and pale fingers, the fingers of a musician, touched the marble edge of the tomb niche.
Cold.
He brushed the carving of his father's name. Aerys II Targaryen.
Rhaegar observed the details of the stone, the rough texture not perfectly sanded at the corners. This was his father's final resting place. Just like their predecessors.
Once they lived. They had warm bodies, flowing blood, voices that could command thousands, rage that could burn cities, and laughter that could fill halls. Aerys had once been a real man, a father who held him, a king who sat on the Iron Throne.
And now? Just a handful of ash inside a metal urn.
All the anger, all the disappointment and disbelief, all of it had become silent dust.
A strange feeling crept into Rhaegar's heart. Not explosive sadness, but a calm and deep melancholia about mortality.
I will end up here too, he thought.
If everything went according to plan, if he didn't drown at sea or some such, Rhaegar would also be carried down these stairs one day. He would become part of this row of urns and statues. His body would be burned, his ashes collected, and his name carved on this cold stone.
Perhaps, decades from now, if he had children, they would stand where he stood now. Perhaps they would come to visit, bringing their own children, lighting candles, and whispering, "Here lies Grandfather Rhaegar."
He would be a ghost. He would be a memory. He would be history, just like Aegon the Conqueror or Jaehaerys the Conciliator.
Would he be remembered as a good king? Or, would he fail, then wait for the time to destroy everything?
Rhaegar did not know. He could only hope. He could only strive to be better. To be the King this realm needed.
A movement beside him broke his reverie.
His mother stepped forward. Her steps were soundless on the stone floor. Rhaella stood beside the niche, staring at her husband's urn.
Rhaegar watched his mother. He waited for tears, waited for hysterical sobbing, or perhaps curses. But there were none.
Rhaella did not cry. Her eyes were dry, staring at the glittering gold with a gaze difficult to interpret, a mixture of grief, exhaustion, and... peace. Perhaps she had cried all her tears. Perhaps she had cried in her room, when alone. Or perhaps, in the face of the death of the person who hurt her, tears felt unnecessary.
Rhaella's hand moved, not towards the urn, but towards Rhaegar.
Her cold fingers sought her son's arm, clutching the fabric of his black cloak tightly, as if ensuring that Rhaegar was still real, still warm, still alive.
Rhaegar said nothing. He covered his mother's hand with his own, offering warmth.
They just stood there, side by side in the belly of the earth.
No dramatic farewell words. No speeches. Just two survivors of a long storm, standing amidst the debris of memories, observing absolute silence.
In that silence, Rhaegar felt the weight of the crown descend upon his head, invisible yet very heavy. The past had been buried within these stone walls.
Now, it was the future's turn to begin.
...
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