Chapter 20: The Death Sentence Prepared in Advance
The pages of the book were yellowed and brittle, their edges frayed by time. The leather cover had long since lost its color, cracked like old skin, yet the words within remained sharp.
Prince Rhaegar Targaryen held the book as though it were priceless treasure.
Knowledge is a blade, he thought calmly. And even Valyrian steel dulls without care.
The autobiography of Brynden Rivers, called Bloodraven, lay open before him.
This was no Age of Dragons in its prime. The power of House Targaryen no longer stood unshakable like the Red Keep's stone foundations. King Maekar I had been crushed beneath falling rocks while quelling rebellion. King Aegon V had spent his reign struggling against his own lords. Even now, the Iron Throne ruled more by balance and debt than awe.
Rhaegar's sense of security did not come merely from being a prince.
It came from preparation.
Brynden Rivers was a figure worth studying.
The name Brynden Rivers, bastard son of King Aegon IV, carried the weight of legend. Like Prince Daemon Targaryen, called the Rogue Prince, and Prince Baelor Targaryen, who died beneath Maekar's fists, Bloodraven was one of those men whose shadow stretched far beyond his life.
He had never worn a crown, yet for decades he had guided the fate of Westeros.
Rhaegar imagined him clearly: pale skin like old bone, straight white hair, and the unmistakable wine-colored birthmark that spread across his cheek and neck. One red eye, sharp and watchful. His build had never matched the brute strength of his half-brothers, but his mind had ruled them all.
Men had called him cruel. Many had hated him.
Yet none denied his ability.
Rhaegar read slowly, absorbing Bloodraven's victories and failures alike—his mastery of spies, his talent for archery, his unrelenting grip on power. He lingered longest over the passages concerning Shiera Seastar, the love that had never borne fruit, and the endless struggle between Brynden Rivers and the Blackfyres, especially Daemon Blackfyre and his descendants.
The latter chapters grew vague.
There were hints of sorcery, of dreams and whispers, of knowledge gained through unnatural means—but those sections were incomplete, either deliberately removed or sealed away. Rhaegar suspected Bloodraven had never intended those truths for ordinary readers.
Closing the book, Rhaegar exhaled softly and returned it to its place.
"Brynden Rivers truly was a legend," he murmured.
He could not remain in the library any longer. Lingering would draw attention.
Still, the gains were immense.
Bloodraven's methods of intelligence gathering, the structure of his spy network, and—most valuable of all—his diagrams of the Red Keep's secret passages were now etched into Rhaegar's memory.
As he stepped out into the corridor, Rhaegar noticed an unfamiliar Kingsguard knight standing beside his mother's attendant.
So his grandfather wished to see him again.
"Please inform my mother that I have gone to see His Grace," Rhaegar said politely.
"At once, my prince," the maid replied, bowing deeply.
The King's Private Council Chamber
The chamber was dim, lit by narrow windows and guttering candles. Shadows clung to the corners like conspirators.
Power did not only flow through the Small Council or the voices of great lords—it moved quietly, carried by decisions made in rooms like this, by two or three men at a time.
At the long table of goldenheart wood sat King Jaehaerys II Targaryen, pale but sharp-eyed; Ser Ormund Baratheon, Hand of the King; and Prince Rhaegar, seated slightly apart.
Before Rhaegar were small plates of fruit and cheese—tangerines, figs, raspberries, and water buffalo cheese—set there by his grandfather's order. Jaehaerys fed him absentmindedly while speaking, the habit of a man who loved his grandson fiercely despite the burdens of rule.
"The war in the Stepstones nears its end," King Jaehaerys II said quietly. "And with victory comes consequence."
Ser Ormund Baratheon nodded. "The realm enjoys a rare calm. The Starks keep to the North, the Arryns watch their mountains, the Tyrells and Tullys are at peace, and even the Greyjoys are silent. Only the Westerlands simmer."
"The debt to the Iron Bank must be repaid within three years," Jaehaerys said. "For that, we need Lannister gold. The Westerlands cannot be allowed to fracture."
"Then House Lannister must prevail," Ormund said. "Lord Roger Reyne of Castamere gained glory in the Stepstones, but his house lacks the roots to challenge Casterly Rock. Before the Conquest, only Houses Stark, Arryn, and Baratheon ruled as kings."
Rhaegar listened silently, committing every word to memory.
"Lord Tytos Lannister is weak," Ormund continued carefully. "He was not raised to rule. His strength lies in his sons, not himself."
Jaehaerys inclined his head. "Precisely."
He produced two documents and placed them on the table.
The seals bore the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen.
Ser Ormund stiffened. "Declarations of treason… against House Reyne and House Tarbeck."
"Treason is the cleanest knife," Jaehaerys said coldly. "Dead men do not rebel."
The message was clear.
This was not merely justice—it was an offering.
A test for Tywin Lannister.
Rhaegar glanced at his grandfather, finally understanding. The tragedy of Castamere had already been decided. The crown merely ensured the blade would fall harder—and with royal approval.
Power, he realized, was not loud.
It was prepared in advance.
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