RHAEGAR
The waves slapped against the hull of the command ship with a monotonous rhythm, a restless lullaby for the troops who had been stalled there for over a month. Morning came with a deceptive brightness; a pale blue sky stretched out cloudless, and the sea breeze blew fresh, carrying the sharp, slightly fishy scent of salt.
Inside the ship's main cabin, the air felt far heavier than outside.
Rhaegar Targaryen sat on one side of a long wooden table bolted to the floor to keep it from shifting when the waves struck. Before him lay a breakfast simple yet well-cooked, considering the kitchen's limitations.
"Let me go in, Lord Hand."
Ser Barristan Selmy's voice broke the silence, firm and urgent. The knight stood, his food untouched. His usually calm face was now filled with deep lines of frustration. The fresh morning air seemed to fan the flames of his impatience rather than cool them.
"I can sneak in," Barristan continued, his eyes staring sharply at Tywin Lannister who sat at the head of the table. "I can disguise myself as a beggar or a lost merchant. I know cracks in the Dun Fort walls that may not be guarded. I can get in, find where the King is held, and bring him out of there before Darklyn realizes what happened."
Tywin Lannister did not answer immediately. He was cutting a sausage on his plate. His face, as always, was a mask devoid of emotion.
"Too risky," Tywin said finally, without lifting his face from his plate. His voice was flat, killing every argument before it could bloom.
"Risk is part of my duty, Lord Tywin," Barristan retorted, his hand clenching the hilt of his sword.
"There is a difference between bravery and folly, Ser Barristan," Tywin looked at him now, a gaze of pale green eyes that made many lords in Westeros tremble. "Even if you could get in, a very large assumption considering Darklyn must have doubled the guard, then what? You are alone. You are just one sword against a full garrison. You would die before you could touch the door of the King's cell, let alone bring him out."
Barristan fell silent for a moment, his jaw hardening. Rhaegar could see the inner conflict in the old knight's eyes, between Tywin's irrefutable logic and the sacred vows that bound his soul.
Rhaegar turned his attention to his own plate. A piece of grilled fish lay there, its white, tender flesh still steaming faintly. Atop it, the ship's cook had sprinkled bright red tomato chunks and slices of onion sautéed until caramelized.
He cut the fish, bringing it to his mouth. The flavor exploded on his tongue, the savoriness of fresh fish, the fresh acidity of tomato, and the sweetness of onion. It was fragrant, delicious, and ironically, the only good thing here right now. Amidst this boring and uncertain siege, this simple breakfast felt like an inappropriate luxury.
He chewed slowly, letting the taste distract his mind for a moment from the image of his father who might be starving in a cold stone cell.
"At least that means I would have tried," Barristan said again, his voice quieter but no less intense. "As a Kingsguard, my honor demands action. I cannot just sit here all day, eating and drinking on this comfortable ship, while my King... my King is not far from here, perhaps being tortured, and is in mortal danger every second."
Tywin placed his knife down gently. He looked at Barristan, a long and heavy gaze. To Rhaegar, that look had the power to break the spirit of a common man, crushing their resolve into dust. But Barristan Selmy was no common man. He was Barristan the Bold. He was the capable knight who had cut through enemy lines alone in the War of the Ninepenny Kings. He returned Tywin's gaze with the same fire.
The situation had reached a stalemate. The tension in the room thickened, suffocating.
Then, Tywin's gaze shifted slowly, sliding from Barristan and landing on Rhaegar.
Rhaegar knew the meaning of that look. It was a signal. Tywin had said his part. Now it was Rhaegar's turn to say the emotional part, the part that could be accepted by a knight's heart.
Rhaegar swallowed his food, wiped his mouth with a linen napkin, and looked at Barristan. He, too, actually wanted to do something. He felt the same urge to storm the gates, to end this nightmare. However, logic held him back.
"We still need you here, Ser Barristan," Rhaegar said softly, his voice calm yet authoritative.
Barristan turned to him, his brows furrowed. "Prince?"
"The soldiers," Rhaegar continued, gesturing toward the cabin window, toward the thousands of tents spread across the shore. "They are tired. They are bored. This month has made some of them waver. They whisper around the campfires, wondering if we will ever go home, if the King is dead, if Darklyn possesses magic. They are unsure of the future."
Rhaegar stood, walking closer to Barristan. "They need a symbol. They need a respected man, a living legend, to walk among them and raise their spirits. If Ser Barristan Selmy stands tall, then they too will stand tall. If you go and die foolishly in there... the morale of this army will shatter instantly."
Barristan seemed shaken by those words.
"The Prince is right," Tywin added, picking up a glass and sipping the water within. "This war is no longer about swords, Ser. It is about endurance. Who blinks first."
Tywin leaned his body slightly forward. "If it wavers here, it is no different in there. Our spy reports say their supplies are running low. If our morale is strong, it will pressure them. It means Darklyn's forces will diminish one by one due to desertion or despair, and we won't even have to do anything but wait."
Tywin placed his glass back down. "When that happens, when hunger starts to bite and hope fades, and if Darklyn indeed still has even a little brain in that hard head of his, he will soon realize his position. He will surrender."
Barristan sighed deeply, his shoulders slumping slightly as if the weight of his armor had suddenly increased. He knew he had lost the argument. Rhaegar's logic about troop morale was something he could not refute as a commander.
"Very well," Barristan said finally, his voice heavy. "I will remain here. I will check the guard posts and ensure discipline is maintained."
"Thank you, Ser," Rhaegar said sincerely.
"But," Barristan added, his finger pointing toward the Dun Fort visible faintly from the window, "if there is a chance... however small... I want to take it, Lord Hand."
Tywin did not answer, only returning to cut his sausage. It was a silent agreement, or perhaps indifference.
The conversation continued for a while longer, discussing the logistics of food shipments from King's Landing and the rotation of blockade ships, but the main tension had subsided. Rhaegar went back to finishing his fish, though it no longer tasted as delicious as before.
Meal finished, the servants began clearing the table. Rhaegar rose. He needed a conversation that did not involve siege strategies or his father's grim fate.
"I will step out," said Rhaegar.
Tywin only nodded without looking.
Rhaegar stepped out of the cabin onto the ship's deck. The sea wind immediately hit his face, fluttering his silver hair. He took a deep breath, filling his lungs with clean salty air. Around him, naval activity was running well. Sailors shouted, rigging was pulled, and seagulls circled looking for scraps.
He walked toward the gangplank that would take him to land. He had another destination. Arthur.
…
Rhaegar walked along the main thoroughfare, his simple cloak hiding his princely raiment, yet his stride still carried an elegance difficult to conceal. He walked deeper into civilization.
He found Ser Arthur Dayne speaking with a captain of the guard. The knight looked striking amidst the crowd, his pure white armor reflecting the sunlight like a mirror.
Arthur saw him approaching, gave a brief nod to the captain to dismiss him, then approached Rhaegar.
"Prince," greeted Ser Arthur, his voice calm as always. "Bored of being on the ship?"
'I am bored of being here. I am bored with this uncertainty,' Rhaegar thought.
He opened his mouth, letting a thin, weary smile appear on his lips. "You could say that. The ship is starting to feel like a swaying prison. And my father..." He didn't need to finish the sentence. Arthur knew. Everyone knew.
"A siege is a boring business, Prince," Arthur said, his eyes scanning the passing crowd with vigilance. "Waiting is the hardest part of war. It is easier to fight against an enemy you can see than against time."
"And Tywin seems to enjoy this time," Rhaegar murmured.
"He wants to ensure victory without much spilled blood," Arthur commented. "It is efficient."
They walked side by side, two of the most respected figures in the realm, yet currently feeling the most powerless. Their conversation flowed from siege strategies to lighter things like Rhaegar's songs, sword practice, or archery. It was a rare normal moment, a pause in the middle of the storm.
However, that peace shattered instantly.
SWOOSH!
The sound was sharp and distinct, the sound of a bowstring released at full force. Followed by the hiss of splitting air.
Rhaegar and Arthur reacted instinctively. Arthur was halfway to drawing Dawn, his body spinning to find the threat. Rhaegar looked up.
In the blue sky above them, a black crow fell, spiraling down. The bird did not fly; it dropped like a stone, an arrow piercing its chest.
Thud.
The carcass of the bird landed on the dusty ground, just a few steps from them, kicking up a small puff of dust. Its black wings lay broken and spread.
People around them screamed in surprise and backed away, creating an empty circle around the bird's carcass.
Arthur and Rhaegar looked at each other, then gave a brief nod. They stepped forward, approaching the poor bird.
"A messenger raven," Arthur said, pointing to something small tied to the bird's leg.
He knelt beside the raven. Usually, this was a desperate attempt by Darklyn to ask for help, a letter begging to other lords, or perhaps another empty negotiation. Rhaegar had seen dozens of such letters intercepted.
However, there was something strange about this raven.
Its beak was tied with rough twine, preventing it from making a sound. And on its leg, it was not the usual scroll of parchment tied neatly.
It was a bundle. A small bundle made of dirty linen cloth tied with a leather cord. The cloth was stained dark.
And the smell...
The wind carried the scent to Rhaegar's nose. The sharp smell of metal. The smell of copper. The fishy scent he recognized so well from the training grounds and hunts.
An archer approached, breathing heavily, bow in hand. "Forgive me, Prince! I saw it flying low from the castle, I thought..."
"Quiet," Arthur ordered sharply.
Rhaegar reached out, his slender, pale fingers hesitating for a moment over the bundle. He had a bad feeling. A cold feeling creeping up his spine like an ice snake.
He untied the leather cord slowly. The linen cloth was wet and sticky.
The folds of the cloth opened.
Rhaegar's eyes widened. His breath hitched in his throat, caught on a lump of horror that suddenly appeared. His chest pounded hard, beating against his ribs with a painful rhythm.
The world around him seemed to tilt. The sound of the crowd became a distant hum.
There, lying on the blood-soaked cloth that was beginning to dry, was a small object. Long, pale, with a long, yellow nail curving at the tip.
It was a finger.