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Reyne's Rebirth - Take Two Chapter One
🕑 Added 2025-11-21 14:14:52 +0000 UTCSTORY TITLE: Reyne’s Rebirth – Take Two
PART: 01 of 29
AUTHOR: Red Jacobson (red.jacobson@gmail.com)
DISTRIBUTION: FF.Net, Questionable Questing, Hentai-Foundry, Archive of Our Own
DISCLAIMER: None of the characters you recognize belong to me; they all belong to George R.R. Martin and HBO
SUMMARY: The Lannisters believed they had destroyed the last of the Reyne family during their rebellion. But they were wrong, and in the aftermath of Prince Rhaegar’s defeat of Robert Baratheon at the Trident, the last Reyne makes his plans to return.
FEEDBACK: Of course! It Makes Me Write Faster
CATEGORY: Harem
RELATIONSHIPS: Rhaegar/Lyanna, Rhaegar/Elia Martell, Randal Reyne/Daenerys Targaryen,
RATING: M
WORDS: <8,033>
SPOILERS: None, goes AU prior to Season One of Game of Thrones
WARNINGS: No Lemons Planned
AUTHOR’S NOTE ON TYRION AND TYSHA: Tyrion met and married Tysha after Tywin was forced into exile, so the lie that she was a whore and the gang-rape by the Lannister guardsmen never occurred in this AU.
AUTHOR’S NOTE RE: THE PRIOR VERSION OF THE STORY: I made the mistake of trying to deal with too many plots for one story. Not to mention the problem of the Faith and the illegitimate children, which was a strong subplot in the original story, the more I tried to twist the story to work with Westerosi canon, the more complicated it got, to the point where I couldn’t find a way to get back to the original concept. Which brings us to this chapter. I’ve got the story reworked and completely outlined through to the final chapter. I’m not going to be wasting any screen space on citrus, I’m sure you know what happens without me telling you.
Above The Trident River
282 AC
Even the river screamed.
The Trident, swollen with spring melt and the blood of fallen men, roared beneath a sky the color of a fresh bruise. Smoke stung the air, bitter with the scent of burning pitch and boiled horseflesh. From both banks, soldiers of two realms pressed forward, lines blurring, banners slashed to ribbons by arrows and the frenzied wind. In the rush and churn of mud, steel, and bodies, the water turned a livid pink, choked with armor, limbs, and the tattered ghosts of dead hopes.
On the eastern shore, Robert Baratheon’s warhammer carved a path through the melee as if he were born for nothing else. He wore his house’s colors proudly, blue cloak trailed in the mud, yellow antlers glistening wet above a helm battered and flecked with gore. His rage was legend, but it was nothing next to the cold clarity of purpose in his eyes. Each swing broke not only bone and mail but the resolve of men who had, moments before, believed themselves immortal.
They said he fought for the honor of Lyanna Stark, for the insult of a woman stolen and a love murdered, but the truth was less poetic. Robert fought because this was the only language he ever spoke fluently. With every body crushed beneath the hammer’s head, he translated that language into the dialect of terror and awe.
He was nearly to the ford when he met the first real obstacle: a tangle of white cloaks, knights of the Kingsguard, formed in a perfect crescent around their charge. They did not break, even as Robert’s vanguard slammed into them like the fist of an angry god. “Hold the line!” one bellowed, but the line dissolved in a spray of bone fragments and teeth. The men behind Robert surged forward, trampling the living and dead alike, and for a moment it seemed as though the rebellion would crest and wash the king’s armies from the field.
But then, cutting through the chaos, a single horn sounded from across the river—sharp, two notes, perfectly timed. The rebels paused, confusion flickering over faces smeared black with mud and blood. And into the heart of that confusion rode Rhaegar Targaryen, prince of the realm, the last dragon in all but name.
He wore black armor chased with silver, and his helm—wrought in the shape of a dragon’s head—gleamed in the uncertain light, scales catching the sun in cruel ripples. The rubies at his throat burned with a private fire. There was no battle-cry, no taunt or challenge; Rhaegar simply lowered his lance and began to ride, his guard fanning out around him in a precise wedge.
The two armies, seeing their avatars approach, gave ground in a wide, trembling circle. Even the river’s song dulled to a low, watchful murmur.
Robert faced Rhaegar at the edge of the ford, feet braced in the churned mud. The hammer hung at his side, its haft slick with blood—some of it his own. Rhaegar slowed his horse, eyes never leaving his enemy’s. They said the prince’s eyes were indigo, but from where Robert stood, they were black as the river itself. Cold. Flat.
“You could have yielded at King’s Landing,” Rhaegar said, his voice barely more than a breath, audible only because the world itself seemed to lean in to listen.
“I’ll yield when you answer for what you did to her,” Robert replied. He spat at the prince’s feet, the gobbet of blood and saliva lost in the swirl of red river water.
Rhaegar dismounted. The move was almost delicate. He removed his helm, revealing hair the color of pale silver and skin so fine it seemed otherworldly. Even here, ringed by death and ruin, the prince looked untouched—except for the thin, dark line above his right brow, a souvenir from a long-forgotten childhood fall.
He drew his sword.
It was not a grand weapon, no gaudy showpiece for bards to sing of later, but the steel was Valyrian, dark as slate and hungry for light. The rubies in the hilt echoed those at his collar. He waited, blade angled just so, a fencer’s pose rather than a brute’s.
Robert lunged, swinging the warhammer in a wide arc meant to crush Rhaegar’s skull in a single, decisive blow. The air itself seemed to recoil from the force. But Rhaegar was not there. He ducked low, sidestepping with the grace of a dancer, the tip of his sword scraping a line along the hammered breastplate as Robert’s momentum carried him forward.
For a moment, Robert faltered, off-balance. Rhaegar used the opening to press close, slashing for the exposed joint at the Baratheon’s right elbow. The blade cut through the ringmail with a wet, sickening sound. Robert roared, more in fury than pain, and twisted away, swinging his hammer blindly. Rhaegar leapt back, just out of reach, letting the hammer’s massive weight bury itself in the soft, sucking mud.
“You fight like a bull,” Rhaegar murmured, circling. “It suits you, I suppose.”
“You talk too much,” Robert spat, cradling his wounded arm. “Let’s finish it.”
Rhaegar obliged. He feinted left, spun right, and brought his blade up beneath the ridge of Robert’s chin. The steel bit, a shallow wound, but enough to send fresh blood streaming down the inside of the gorget. Robert staggered, then brought the hammer up one-handed, the movement slower now but no less deadly.
“Why her?” Robert rasped, eyes wild, as the two men closed again. “You could have had anyone. Why her?”
Rhaegar’s face showed nothing, but his next attack was tinged with something close to sorrow. He stepped in, let the warhammer whistle past his ear, and with a clean, surgical motion, sliced through the tendons at Robert’s knee.
The rebel king went down, not with a cry, but a guttural grunt of disbelief. The impact rattled the armor plates and sent a small spray of blood across the trampled reeds. Rhaegar stood over him, sword poised. For the first time, something broke in the prince’s composure—a tremor, maybe, or just a flicker of exhaustion.
“It was never about you,” he said softly. “Or Lyanna.”
Then, with a swift blow to the side of the helm, he sent Robert sprawling face-first into the shallow, stinking river.
The silence that followed was not one of peace, but of horror. The rebels watched, frozen, as their champion bled into the Trident. On the banks, the king’s men dared not cheer. In the span of one heartbeat, the fate of the realm had changed direction, and none could find words to greet it.
Rhaegar did not gloat, did not raise his sword in triumph. Instead, he knelt beside the fallen man, pressed a hand to the ruined knee, and whispered something too quiet for any to hear. Robert’s warhammer slipped from numb fingers and vanished beneath the churning water.
The battle ended soon after. What resistance remained crumbled, the will of a thousand men breaking alongside their leader’s body. Rhaegar’s bannermen moved through the aftermath with grim efficiency, offering quarter where it was accepted, dispatching the wounded where it was not. The riverbank was a graveyard, the mud churned into a grotesque stew of armor and flesh, the reeds bent under the weight of corpses.
Above it all, ravens gathered, black silhouettes against the bruised sky. They circled once, twice, then descended in a silent, swirling tide, bearing witness as the last of the fighting stilled and the Trident claimed its dead.
In the hours that followed, as the smoke cleared and the moans of the dying faded to memory, some would claim to have seen a vision: Rhaegar, standing in the river, his black armor soaked through with blood, sunlight catching the rubies at his throat, a living shadow at the heart of the storm. Some would say it was an omen. Others, a warning.
But the truth was simpler.
It was a beginning.
Later That Evening
The tent was neither grand nor richly appointed. It was a soldier’s shelter, borrowed from the regulars, canvas stained with old rain and newer blood, the edges curling with the stink of smoke and men too long unwashed. Two chairs stood at a folding table that wobbled even when empty, as if resenting the weight it was meant to bear. A pitcher of water sweated on the wood, untouched.
The cries and songs of victorious soldiers rose and fell outside, sometimes a dull, throbbing chorus, sometimes a sharp, riotous shout as a keg was broached or an enemy corpse discovered and desecrated. None of that noise pierced the canvas, or if it did, it went unheeded. In this pocket of silence, Rhaegar Targaryen and Eddard Stark sat across from each other, as wary as beasts from rival packs forced into an uneasy truce by necessity and exhaustion.
Rhaegar wore his hair bound back, a silken cord the only sign of his old station. The armor was gone—what use for a prince’s plate, now that he was a king in all but name? He looked even more spectral out of it, lean and long-fingered, the moon-pale of his skin thrown into relief by the shadows flickering along the tent wall. There was a bloodstain at the collar of his tunic, not his own, and he kept tugging at it as if it irritated more than his nerves.
Ned Stark sat stiffly, hands flat on the table, knuckles white as the bones of a winter hare. His face was unreadable, save for a tightness around the mouth and eyes. He had washed before coming, but his cloak still smelled faintly of death, and when he spoke, it was in the clipped, careful cadence of a man who weighed every word as if it might be his last.
“Your men say Robert lives,” Ned began, after a span of silence so thick it might have been a third presence in the tent.
“He does,” Rhaegar answered. “A Maester tends to him. The leg is bad, but he is not the sort to die from pain.” He didn’t bother with pleasantries. “You will see him soon enough.”
Ned nodded, but it was more an acknowledgment of the expected than of relief. “They also say Lyanna is dead.”
Rhaegar’s hands flexed on the tabletop. “She lives,” he said, voice soft but certain. “Though she is weak. The child is due within the fortnight, perhaps sooner.”
A muscle in Ned’s cheek twitched. “She was stolen. My sister. She would not have left of her own accord. I know her nature.”
Rhaegar let out a long breath. “You know the Lyanna who rode horses at dawn, who blooded her knuckles on bullies and would not abide a lie. You know your sister. But you do not know the woman who lived with me in the Tower of Joy.” He hesitated, as if the words themselves weighed something. “She came willingly, Eddard Stark. She wrote you once. Did you never receive her letter?”
The Northman’s silence was answer enough.
Rhaegar reached into the satchel at his side and produced a roll of parchment, bound in a faded blue ribbon. “I kept these. For her memory. For your own peace, perhaps.”
Ned took the letter as though it might burn him. He broke the seal, and as he read, his brow furrowed, first in confusion, then in something close to horror. At length, he set the parchment down and looked up, the walls he had built around his anger flickering, then failing.
“‘He is not what they say, Ned. He is not the monster Robert made him out to be.’” Ned’s voice was a ghost of itself, a pale echo. “‘I am not a prisoner. I am a wife.’”
“She insisted on a septon,” Rhaegar said, and there was a faint smile, the first of the evening, though it lasted less than a heartbeat. “She was stubborn that way.”
Ned closed his eyes, pressing thumb and forefinger to the bridge of his nose. The revelation settled on him like fresh snow: cold, sudden, and impossible to shake off. “Robert will never accept this. Even if you parade her before the armies, he’ll call it sorcery, or worse.”
“I know.” Rhaegar’s voice was without self-pity, just a statement of fact. “But I do not intend to parade her anywhere. When this is over, she will be free to return to Winterfell, if she wishes. Or stay, if that is her desire.”
The words rang hollow, though there was nothing in Rhaegar’s tone to suggest they were a lie. Ned stared at the table, at the letter, at his own hands.
“I will not betray my friend,” Ned said at last. “Nor my sister.”
“There is no betrayal,” Rhaegar replied. “There is only truth. And the world will bend to it, or break.”
It was a Targaryen thing to say, Ned thought, though not in the way Mad Aerys would have meant it. The statement was not pride but resignation, as if the prince—king now foresaw every step of the sorrow that would follow and simply accepted it.
From outside, the shouts of soldiers rose again, another celebration, another name chanted in victory. Neither man moved. The water pitcher still sat, sweating, between them. Ned poured two cups, the action as automatic as the passage of seasons. He slid one across to Rhaegar, who lifted it in a mute toast.
“To the future,” said Rhaegar.
Ned’s lips twisted. “To whatever is left of it.”
They drank. The water was cool and unremarkable, but it washed the dryness from their mouths.
“I should see her,” Ned said after a while, not quite a request, not quite a command.
“You shall,” Rhaegar said. “Tomorrow morning, when we have rested, we ride for the Tower of Joy. A raven will be sent that you are accompanying me, which should raise her spirits. What happened to your father and brother devastated her, and horrified me. But that is something to discuss when the sun is in the sky and we aren’t surrounded by the dead and dying. This rebellion of Robert’s was so unnecessary, but I want to discover what happened to the different ravens that we sent. One message could be lost, but not every one we sent.”
Ned nodded, and the air in the tent grew thick again, the silence settling in like fog.
At the threshold, Ned paused, one hand on the flap. “If you have lied, I will kill you myself.”
Rhaegar stood, not as a challenge, but as a courtesy. He met Ned’s gaze, unblinking. “Then I hope for your sake, Lord Stark, that I have not.”
Outside, the sounds of life returned in full force: laughter, the ring of steel as arms were cleaned, a distant horn sounding the changing of the watch. But in the tent, for one instant, time held still as the two men shook hands—awkwardly, formally, but with something approaching honesty.
It was a gesture old as Westeros, but in this case, it meant everything had changed.
The Tower of Joy
Red Mountains
Dorne
3 Days Later
The sun was high in the sky when they arrived at the Tower, and Rheagar was pleased to see that the members of the Kingsguard that he had left to guard his wife were still there. Dismounting, he approached Ser Gerold, the Lord Commander, who knelt before him. Bidding the man rise, he said, “How is my lady wife? Has our child arrived?”
The older man smiled slightly, “She is much improved since the raven arrived telling of your victory, Your Grace. And your child seemed to want to wait until you were there; they are expected today.”
Ser Gerold looked at Ned curiously, obviously recognizing him, but Rheagar didn’t have time to explain, saying, “Come on, Ned, let’s go see your sister!”
Ned grinned. He had relaxed a great deal during the ride, and the two of them entered the tower and hurried up the stairs. The two of them had just reached the door to Lyanna’s room when they heard a loud cry, and then a baby crying.
Pushing open the door, the two of them froze at the scene, as the sister finished cleaning the baby, a boy, and handed him to Lyanna. His wife looked up at the two of them with a tired grin and, as she held her baby, said, “Hello, husband, nice of you to show up, finally, after the hard work is done. And you brought a guest? Hello Ned, good to see you, but why didn’t you answer our ravens?”
Rheagar shook his head in amusement; that was typical of his wife, but it did raise a worrying question, since Ned told him that he never received any ravens from them.
“It seems that no ravens were received, Lyanna, and that is something that we will be finding an answer for when we return to King's Landing. But that can wait, I would hold our son.”
“His name is Aemon, husband, as we agreed,” Lyanna said, as he took his son into his arms. He smiled down at the boy, but his eyes were still closed. Turning to Ned, he handed the man his nephew, and the big man held the baby surprisingly gently.
They were interrupted by the nurse who needed to finish her work, and the two men were gently but firmly escorted from the room.
When the two of them reached the bottom of the steps, Ned turned to him and removed his sword and scabbard, holding them in his hands as he lowered himself to one knee and placed the sword at Rheagar’s feet.
Rheagar nodded, glad that his decision to bring Ned to see his sister had been the correct one. He said, “Take up your blade and rise, Lord Eddard Stark, Lord of Winterfell, and Warden of the North!”
When Ned was standing again, Rheagar led the man over to a table that had been filled with food and drink, and gestured for the man to join him.
After they had eaten, he said, “I’m glad you chose to bend the knee, Ned, because I will need your assistance, and that of your Banner-men. My father’s madness has gone too far; your father and brother are not the only ones he burned. Even worse, word has reached me that he has secreted barrels of wildfire all through Kings Landing, planning to turn the city into his funeral pyre so he can be reborn as a dragon! It’s madness beyond anything I’ve ever heard, and he needs to be removed from the throne as quickly as possible.”
Ned stared in shock, whispering, “By the Seven! Wildfire?” When Rheagar nodded, he said, “I will follow you, of course, and my men. But they will not bend the knee to a King Slayer, even if he’s mad.”
Rheagar shook his head, “I’m planning to exile him to Dragonstone, and have members of the Kingsguard who are loyal to me guarding him to keep him safe. I won’t kill him if I can avoid it.”
He yawned then, and said, “I think we need to get some rest, we’ve got some more hard riding ahead of us to get back to your men.”
When he got to the room set aside for him, Rheagar was pleased to find a bath had already been prepared, and after stripping out of his armor, he relaxed, washing the dirt and strain of the last several days away. When he was feeling clean again, he dried off and made his way to the bed, falling asleep almost instantly. He enjoyed the dreams of him, Lyanna and Elia watching their family grow, as both of his wives had swollen bellies, although the cries of the dragons in flight were a bit distracting...
When he woke, a raven was sitting on the windowsill, a letter tied to its leg. He frowned. There was a white dot above one of the bird’s eyes, and he muttered, “What does the spider have now?”
Taking the letter, he scanned it, his anger growing as he read of Tywin Lannister’s planned treachery! The ‘Lord’ of Casterly Rock would pay for this! But that could wait until he had the throne. If his father discovered what Tywin was plotting, the man would be burned, and Rheagar didn’t want the man dead, just broken.
Dressing in clean clothing from his pack, he went back down and found that Ned was also looking clean and rested, chewing on a hunk of dark bread that was on the table. He was writing a letter of some sort, but since the man didn’t appear nervous at his appearance, Rheagar didn’t worry that the man was about anything underhanded.
Sitting down, he grabbed some bread and a mug of ale to break his fast, waiting quietly for Ned to finish writing.
When Ned finished, he looked up with a slight grin, “Just letting Catelyn know that I’m still alive, and that it will be some time before I can return to the North.” He sighed, “She won’t be happy, but she understands. I just wish that things had worked out differently. She is expecting our first child at any time.”
Rheagar nodded in understanding, “Hopefully, I can get through to my father and make him see what he’s become. Then you can be back in your lady’s arms before too much longer.”
Ned finished swallowing a piece of the bread and, after washing it down with ale, he said, “Not to raise a rude question, Your Grace, but you said that Lyanna was your wife; what about Elia?”
Rheagar chuckled. He knew that the question would arise, “She’s still my wife, Ned, and Aegon is my heir. I know it’s not exactly common in the North, but my family has a history of second wives, even if they weren’t called that publicly. Elia understood that from the very beginning and encouraged me, although she is currently rather unhappy. She had made it clear that she was to be consulted before I made my approach to the woman I was attracted to.” He snorted, “Unfortunately, when I saw your sister at the tourney, all my senses left me. It’s going to take all my diplomatic skills to get the two of them to get along when I bring Lyanna and Aemon back to King's Landing.”
Ned shook his head with a slight smile, “I don’t envy you, Your Grace. Catelyn may be an understanding woman about any of my ‘indiscretions’, but she would not be happy if I brought another child into things.”
“Well, what’s done is done. I’m going up to see Lyanna. Will you see to our mounts? You can say goodbye to your sister when you finish.”
Ned nodded, and Rheagar walked back upstairs, a good bit more decorously this time, and knocked gently on the door to his wife’s room.
The child arrived in the hour before dawn, when the world itself seemed to be holding its breath.
The chamber was small, stone walls sweating with condensation, candles guttering in the chill drafts that snuck through even the thickest hangings. The midwife worked with efficient silence, her hands stained from a night spent coaxing life through pain and blood. In the cot by the fire, Lyanna slept, her breathing shallow but steady, the wild tangle of her hair spread across the pillow like the branches of a blackthorn in winter.
Rhaegar stood at the window, holding the swaddled newborn as if afraid the slightest pressure might break the spell that kept the child breathing. The infant’s cries were shrill and urgent, the protest of a soul yanked too soon from comfort into the raw chill of existence. With each wail, Rhaegar flinched—then marveled at his own helplessness, at the way love and terror could so quickly become indistinguishable.
The boy’s eyes were a stormy blue, already searching, already hungry. Rhaegar touched the tiny cheek with a finger, and the child’s fist closed around it with astonishing strength.
“You are Aemon,” Rhaegar whispered, as if naming the boy might anchor him to the world. “Prince of Dragonstone. My son.” His voice caught, and he was suddenly ashamed of the tremor in it. What would his own father have said to such weakness?
But this was not the Red Keep, not the throne room or the battlefield. Here, there was only the hush of candle flame, the slow tick of water from the ceiling, the thick scent of new life layered over the old tang of sweat and iron.
Rhaegar looked down at his son, the entirety of his future bundled into six pounds of wriggling, furious hope. “You will know peace, not war,” he promised, though he doubted even the gods could enforce such a vow. “You will not bear the weight I did.”
The baby gurgled, unconvinced.
From the corner of the room, the midwife finished folding linens stained dark with the proof of Lyanna’s ordeal. “He is strong,” she said, not quite looking at Rhaegar. “He’ll nurse soon.”
“He will,” Rhaegar agreed, though he did not move to hand the child over. He traced the delicate arch of the infant’s ear, the curve of the tiny jaw. Here was something fragile, yes, but also indomitable. Already, the boy gripped Rhaegar’s finger with a tenacity that seemed to say, I will not be lost. Not now, not ever.
A soft knock at the door broke the moment. A messenger slipped in, bowing so low his nose nearly brushed the rushes.
“Your Grace,” the man said, voice hoarse. “There is news from King’s Landing. Urgent.”
Rhaegar did not sigh, but the set of his shoulders changed, some essential lightness lost. He pressed a kiss to the child’s forehead—so small, so impossibly soft—and only then relinquished Aemon to the midwife.
“Protect him,” he said, the command so gentle it was nearly a plea.
“Of course, Your Grace,” the woman replied. She cradled the baby with practiced care, rocking him in a rhythm older than the stones of Dragonstone itself.
Rhaegar lingered for one last look. Aemon blinked up at him, eyes still full of storm and question. In that gaze, Rhaegar saw both the end of his line and its beginning, a circle drawn in blood and water and hope.
Then he turned and followed the messenger into the uncertain morning, leaving behind the only thing in the world he truly feared to lose.
King’s Landing
Outside the Walls
Two Weeks Later
Rheagar looked around the table at his impromptu small council. Ned was seated at his right side, with Ser Jon Arryn representing the former rebellious houses. He smothered a snort. They were all technically rebellious houses, even though nobody knew it yet; they would soon.
Ser Barristan Selmy sat to his left, and various other commanders were seated around the table. Rheagar spoke quietly, but his voice carried, “We know what needs to be done, keep the deaths of the townspeople to a minimum, we are not here to sack the city. The less disruption there is, the easier the people and the other Houses will find it to accept the change.”
After giving each of his commanders a chance to ask questions, there were none, he rose and walked to his mount. Looking over the armies, he nodded; the only banners visible were of the Royalist Houses, which would make getting through the gates much easier. The former rebel army was mingled with the loyalist troops to avoid suspicions at the gates and in the city proper. He had sent a portion of his forces to delay House Lannister if Tywin decided that he would go ahead with his plans.
Giving the signal, his banner-men started to march behind him along the King's Road toward the city. He had received word from the King’s Hand, Lord Jon, and the King was aware of their approach. Fortunately, his father seemed to be in a more rational state of mind recently, because he did not wish to have to put him to the blade, but he would if necessary. The Seven Kingdoms needed and deserved a rational King. Sadly, his brother Viserys was already showing signs of madness, and would not be a suitable King, or Rheagar would be willing to abdicate in his favor if it became necessary to kill his father.
Approaching the gates of the city, he spurred his mount and, when he was in sight of the guard tower, he called for the gate to be opened. There was a cheer on the walls when they recognized him, and the gates soon swung open, allowing him and his army to enter.
Kings Landing
Inside The Walls
King’s Landing wore a new face.
Gone were the crowds of whispering courtiers, the velvet echo of their schemes slipping around every corner. Gone too was the press of guards, their polished helms shining only for the chance to impress the mad king. The halls of the Red Keep had gone silent in the days since the battle, as if the bricks themselves remembered every scream, every flame. Even the rats, Rhaegar thought, had learned to move quietly.
Leaving his commanders to keep control of their army, he rode through the city, Ned and Ser Barristan at his flanks, until he reached the Red Keep. Dismounting, the three men entered the Keep, the guards bowing respectfully as he passed. He acknowledged them with a brief nod, but his thoughts were on what he would find when he reached the Throne Room.
Removing his helm, he opened the door, only to stop in surprise. The room was empty, save for his father and Lord Jon, the King’s Hand! Where was everyone else, the Kingsguard, or the rest of the King’s council that normally would be in attendance?
Walking forward, his feeling of concern grew because his father looked different, far from the powerful man he had last seen when he left to raise the army. King Aerys looked… different. It took Rhaegar a moment to place it, and when he did, the realization was more unsettling than the familiar spectacle of madness. The king’s beard and hair, so often wild and matted with grease, had been trimmed and washed. The nails, once black and curling, gleamed white and neatly cut. His eyes—those pale, unnatural eyes—were clear, almost calm, though ringed by the bruised shadow of sleeplessness. He wore simple black velvet, free of the flames and gilded dragons he had once favored.
Stopping several paces from the throne, he and the others took a knee, and Rheagar waited for the King to acknowledge him. It wasn’t long coming, but what was said shocked him. The King pushed himself up out of the throne and approached him, saying, “Rise, Your Grace, and take your throne.” The old man’s hands were trembling as he reached up and removed the crown from his head and placed it on Rheagar’s.
“Father?” Rheagar knew his voice was trembling, but he couldn’t help it; this was completely unexpected.
Aerys put his hand out, and Rheagar took it, rising to his feet, and followed his father to the council table, where they sat, joined by the Hand and, at the King’s signal, by Ned and Ser Barristan. When they were seated, the King started speaking, his voice calm, but there was a river of pain running through it.
“Several days ago, after we received word of your victory at the Trident, a strange woman appeared before me, a woman dressed all in red, who did not give her name; she just claimed that she was a priest of the Lord of Light. Naturally, I demanded to know what she was doing here, but she refused to answer; all she did was reach out and, before any of the guards could stop her, she touched my forehead before disappearing in a flash of fire!”
The King seemed to ignore the reactions of he and the others, as tears welled in the man’s eyes and he continued, “It was as if her touch washed away the madness that had consumed me, and I saw the evil that I’d done while lost in the fog. I knew then that I could no longer be King, and have just been waiting for your return to give you your crown. I can feel the madness still, at the edges of my mind, and know that it will return, but I don’t know when.”
Aerys laughed, a sound dry as dust. “I will abdicate. Publicly, at the council. They will want the theater of it, I imagine. Then I will go to Dragonstone, or perhaps to the Quiet Isles, where even a madman may find peace. I will be taking Viserys with me, because the red priest touched him as well, pushing back the madness. The Houses would never follow me now, not with all the world watching. The dragons do not rule by birthright, not anymore. They rule by strength. And you have won that.”
The words should have tasted like victory, but Rhaegar only felt the weight settle heavier on his shoulders. Rhaegar gave a shallow bow, more acknowledgment than gratitude. “Thank you, Father.”
The King’s strength seemed to return as he spoke, as if a weight had been lifted from his shoulders, and he said,
“They say you broke the rebel,” Aerys said at last. “Baratheon. Smashed him at the Trident, then brought him back on a litter. Is that true?”
Rhaegar hesitated, then: “It is.”
The king considered this, lips pursed, then nodded to himself. “And you have a son, now, I hear. Another dragon. You must be very proud.”
Rhaegar said nothing, not knowing the right answer.
With that, Aerys stood and walked away from the table, leaving Rheagar and the others speechless. Once the door closed behind him, the King’s Hand spoke, “The word has already gone out into the city that the King was stepping down; there will be no controversy about you taking the throne, Your Grace.”
Rheagar nodded, thinking furiously. “Very well, we will announce the formal coronation ceremony after the small council meeting. The Coronation will be thirty days after the Abdication. That will give time for the word to go out to the Houses throughout the kingdoms. Ser Jon, I would ask you to remain as the King’s Hand. I’m well aware that it was your influence that kept things under my father from being even worse.”
Turning to Barristan, he smiled, “You have been guarding my back since I first picked up a wooden sword. Will you take command of the Kingsguard? I will be offering Ser Gerald the role of Master of Battle, in recognition of his years of loyal service.”
The older man seemed stunned, but managed to say, “Of course, Your Grace, it would be my honor!”
“Good,” turning to Ned, he said, “I know you are anxious to return to your Catelyn and the North so that I will confirm your posts as Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North. I am going to ask that you remain here until after the coronation, so your wife will have to be patient a bit longer.” He gave the other man a grin, which was returned at the final comment.
Standing, he turned to Ser Jon, “After breakfast tomorrow, I will want to see the Master of Coin, and then the Whisperer. I will call for a small council meeting within the next few days. But now, I’m going to see my wife and children; it’s been far too long. I’ll see you at Dinner.”
The other three men rose and bowed, and Rheagar left the throne room, his heart much lighter than he expected it to be. He would still need to find out just how much the kingdom owed to Tywin Lannister, and what it would take to settle those debts. He would be damned if he would allow that snake in a lion’s skin to have any hold over the throne!
The King’s Council Chamber
Three Days Later
The Small Council chamber was never truly small. It was a long, echoing box of a room, with a fire that never quite touched the corners and windows set high to let in the light without inviting in the wind. Beneath the painted beams, the new king-to-be stood waiting, flanked by the handful of lords who had survived the war intact enough to return to court. Some faces were drawn and wary, others openly hungry. All of them watched the old king shuffle in, black robes trailing, eyes fixed on the floor as though it might suddenly give way beneath his feet.
Aerys reached the table, ignored the chair at its head, and stood before his son. There was a ceremony to these things, and for once, no one in the room dared disrupt it.
The crown was an ugly thing: too many points, too much hammered gold, the rubies set unevenly so that the light caught them in a way that always suggested fresh blood. Aerys took it in both hands and held it at arm’s length, as if presenting it to some invisible judge.
“My lords,” he said, voice carrying the faintest rasp, “I am not fit to rule.”
A silence. Rhaegar stared at the crown, the weight of it more than merely physical. Beside him, the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard—an old, battered man with a white mustache and more scars than teeth—shifted uncomfortably.
“I see clearly now,” Aerys continued, the words steady but his hands trembling so hard the crown itself quivered. “The fire showed me what I have become.” He smiled, and for an instant, the madness flickered in his gaze. “It showed me what I must do.”
From somewhere down the table, a nervous cough. The lords leaned in as if scenting a kill.
The king looked to his son. “Rhaegar, come here.”
Rhaegar crossed to the table, eyes on the crown, not the man. For all the pageantry of succession, the moment was almost intimate, two men in the quiet shadow of a dynasty’s ending. Aerys held the crown a moment longer, then pressed it into his son’s hands. Rhaegar’s fingers closed around the cold metal, and it took everything not to let his arms drop from the sheer exhaustion of it all.
In the long pause that followed, the lords measured their new sovereign. Some smiled; others nodded, as if already rehearsing the oaths they would offer. One man, a gaunt lord from the North, offered a brief, grudging bow. At the end of the table, the chair reserved for Tywin Lannister was empty, its absence more eloquent than any speech.
“It is done,” Aerys said. His voice, though thin, was almost relieved.
The Lord Commander knelt, sword tip resting on the flagstones. “Long live King Rhaegar,” he intoned.
The others echoed it, first tentatively, then in a wave that rolled down the length of the table. “Long live King Rhaegar.”
Aerys remained a moment, looking at his hands as if he expected the madness to seep back in at any second. Then he turned and walked from the chamber, his footsteps soft and uncertain. Rhaegar watched him go, wondering if he would ever see his father again.
The rest of the council remained in place, waiting for their new master to speak.
Rhaegar set the crown on the table and ran his hand over its spires. It was heavier than it looked, and sharp. “There will be changes,” he said, the words simple and without threat. “There must be.”
The lords murmured assent, some with more enthusiasm than others.
Rhaegar looked at each of them in turn, weighing loyalty, ambition, and fear. He saw what he needed to see. “Send word to the realm. Let them know the war is over. Let them know a new age begins tonight.”
He left the crown where it sat, for the moment. The spires gleamed, cruel and certain, in the dying light.
The Free City of Braavos
Six Months Later
In Braavos, the light was different. It had a watery sheen, thin as a blade’s edge, filtered through layers of mist and canal vapor. Every sunrise left the city’s stones slick, the alleys striped with green and black from centuries of wetness, the air always tinged with salt and the faint, bitter smoke from far-off forges.
The man known as Ragnor smiled as his wife came hurrying through the market, a look of naked excitement on her face. When she arrived at their stall, he embraced her and said, “What’s gotten you so worked up, Jessa?”
She smiled, a look of savage satisfaction, “There is news from King’s Landing that I knew you would want to hear. After the rebellion was crushed and Rheagar became King, he broke that motherless scum Lannister! Tywin Lannister has been stripped of title and lands for plotting treason and was given a choice: poison or permanent exile! The coward took exile; he could murder hundreds, but couldn’t face his own death like a man. All Lannister properties now forfeit pending a royal inquest.”
Ragnor’s mouth twisted, not quite a smile, not quite a snarl. “So. The lions of the Rock are thrown to the wolves, at last.”
Ragnor’s smile was as feral as his wife’s; the two of them had more reason than most to hate Tywin Lannister, he had destroyed their entire families during their gods be damned rebellion. It was only thanks to their father's wisdom that the two of them, as well as some trusted retainers, had escaped from Castamere and Tarbeck Hall before their destruction. They took with them records of all the debts that the Great and Lesser Houses owed to House Reyne, and one day soon, those debts would be called in.
In a room two floors above the canal’s flow, Randall Reyne practiced his lessons. He was six, though already tall for his age, with the red-gold hair that marked him out even in a city used to strangers. His tunic, Braavosi-cut and patched at the elbows, bore the faint outline of a lion’s head, hand-stitched and meant to be overlooked by anyone not in the know.
The sword in his hand was not steel, but wood, balanced to the ounce. He moved it through the eight forms his tutor had drilled into him, counting aloud as he shifted his weight from foot to foot, never letting the toe catch on the mat. Across from him stood his guardian, a barrel-chested man with a nose broken three times and an accent that ran thick as Westerlands ale.
“Again,” the man barked, though not unkindly. “You lift your left when you should drag it. Watch, see?”
He demonstrated, and for all his bulk, he was quick, the movements crisp and economic. “A lion must be patient before he strikes,” the tutor said, stepping in close to correct Randal’s wrist. “All strength, no patience, and you’ll lose your prey every time.”
Randal nodded, set his jaw, and began again. This time the sequence was smoother, the feint in the fourth form catching his guardian by surprise. The man grunted approval.
From the corner of the room, an older woman watched, her hair streaked with silver, her face lined but not soft. She wore Braavosi black, but her ring bore the Tarbeck sigil, a memory of the life they had lost. When Randal caught her eye, she inclined her head, almost smiling.
“Enough for today,” the guardian said, sheathing the wooden blade into a battered scabbard. “You’ll wear a rut through the floor, boy.”
Randal held the sword at his side, knuckles white. “When can I practice with real steel?” he asked, voice only a little tremulous.
“When your arms are stronger and your mind sharper,” the man replied. “And when you stop looking back, and start looking ahead.”
He ruffled the boy’s hair, but with a touch gentler than one would expect from such a man.
Their living quarters were narrow, every shelf and surface crowded with things both precious and practical: the blue-glazed pitcher from Westeros, always filled with water drawn before dawn; a faded banner, rolled and kept in oilcloth, the red lion on gold dulled to almost nothing; the small chest with iron corners, always locked. On the wall above the hearth, a Braavosi mask hung—neither happy nor sad, but serene, as if the thing itself found joy in surviving.
The evenings were for stories. Tonight, the woman told of Castamere, how its halls had once been filled with song, how the mines ran deeper than the ocean, how Tywin Lannister had brought it all to mud and memory. Randal listened, sitting cross-legged by the fire, his face set in a seriousness that made him seem older.
“They killed us all,” he said, not for the first time.
“Not all,” the woman reminded, her voice sharp. “Some escaped. Some waited.”
The guardian poured himself a mug of cheap wine. “You remember the lesson, boy?”
Randal nodded. “A lion must be patient.”
“And?”
“And learn from those who hunted him.”
The man grunted, satisfied. “You’ll do.”
Outside, the canal bell rang out the hour, and for a moment all three listened to it, the sound carrying far over water, through the windows of stone houses and the open doors of taverns. Somewhere a singer played, the notes wild and free, drifting up with the tide.
The woman tucked a stray lock of hair behind Randal’s ear. “You’ll go far, my cub. Farther than any of us.”
He smiled, a rare thing, and the room brightened with it.
Later, when the grown-ups thought him asleep, Randal crept out onto the narrow balcony. The canal below reflected every lantern and torch, making the city seem twice as alive. He leaned over the railing, breathing the salt air, and imagined a day when the name Reyne would echo through halls greater than Castamere’s, when the world would hear the roar again and remember.
Above him, two shadows watched from the window—one broad, one slight—and in their silence was a hope fierce as hunger, and a longing sharp as any blade.
End Chapter One
Chapter Link https://drive.google.com/drive/folders/1mEmKrzjHA5x-i1Jxnv_GKvUS0flRVQPS?usp=sharing
