The night was black as ink.
However, high on the hill, the Dragonpit camp was bustling, livelier than during the day.
Torches burned brightly, and soldiers struck tents with methodical precision.
The order for a joint attack on Maidenpool had been issued; military commands were as immovable as mountains.
But the Dragonpit camp welcomed a special guest: King Jaehaerys.
The King first inspected the troops briefly. Although the Eagle Guard was newly formed, their bearing was correct and morale high; the soldiers radiated the vitality of youth. More importantly, they were spirited, free from the ruffian habits of old veteran camps.
The warriors were ecstatic, vying to pay their respects to the King. Rhaegar had full confidence in his men: "I will build the most elite army in the world." After the Battle of Maidenpool, the Eagle Guard would have to expand further.
Though few in number, the Eagle Guard was an elite force. They boasted Ser Barristan as Lord Commander, Ser Brynden Tully as instructor and judge, Sessa as instructor and personal squire, Ser Joffrey Arryn as quartermaster, and Ser Laenor Velaryon as deputy quartermaster. Most soldiers came from noble or wealthy families, well-fed and educated; in this era, such a lineup was the height of luxury.
Jaehaerys looked around Rhaegar's tent again—simple, spacious, almost devoid of decoration. Just an ordinary military tent, nothing more.
"This is no king's palace, but for a warrior, it is perfect," King Jaehaerys said with a touch of envy. The Gods gave him the throne but left him sickly, denying him the life of a valiant warrior. Yet, seeing his grandson Rhaegar, a trace of comfort welled up in his heart—Rhaegar was an outstanding warrior who would continue House Targaryen's martial legacy.
Rhaegar prepared a seat for King Jaehaerys. Only the two of them remained in the tent; the White Knights had been sent outside by the King.
"Good child, you must take care of yourself," King Jaehaerys said to Rhaegar. The battlefield was dark, and the vanguard faced the greatest danger. Since Crown Prince Aerys could not fight (being a hostage), his son Rhaegar had to go to Maidenpool. This was torture for Jaehaerys—there were only two viable males left in the Dragon bloodline.
Rhaegar obeyed; this was loyalty to the King and a promise to his grandfather.
"Rhaegar, you should have wielded Dark Sister; that sword would suit you well," King Jaehaerys suddenly sighed.
Both Blackfyre and Dark Sister were lost; otherwise, House Targaryen would still possess sharp steel, a boon for any warrior.
"Grandfather, have no regrets. The scimitar you gave me will still make me invincible on the battlefield." Rhaegar pointed to the dragonbone-hilted Valyrian scimitar.
He would complete this mission perfectly, laying the foundation for the King's tenth anniversary jubilee.
Of course, the most precious gift—the dragons—still slept among the nesting cliffs. Soon, they would awaken again and return to Westeros... After bidding farewell to the King, Rhaegar led his men to repair armor, pack weapons and rations, and set off for Maidenpool.
Rhaegar marched with the Eagle Guard, the Red Keep garrison, Baratheon soldiers from Storm's End, and Lannister squires from the West, gathering more noble levies along the way.
By now, the Crown had assembled one hundred knights, a thousand royal guards, and four hundred Lannister and Baratheon guards. Lords from nearby Rosby and Stokeworth had also arrived with their troops.
Rhaegar felt his army was comparable to those in the Dance of the Dragons; Criston Cole had once made blood flow like rivers at Maidenpool, and now the town would suffer a second disaster.
Outside Maidenpool, in the darkness before dawn, Lord Ormund, Lord Tywin, and Prince Rhaegar surrounded the town by land and water. The red banner of the black dragon flew alongside the crowned stag and the roaring lion.
Rhaegar saw the city gates shut tight, the stone walls glowing faintly white in the gloom; by the light of torches on the battlements, he could make out longbowmen.
Two main banners flew from the walls. One was the black and gold diamond banner of House Darklyn, with the left third red and adorned with seven white escutcheons—symbolizing the seven White Knights the family had produced to defend the King. Below it flew the banner of House Hollard: red and pink horizontal stripes topped with three golden crowns on a black field. They were completely loyal to House Darklyn.
But today, no matter how ancient your bloodline, you faced annihilation. The rebellion of loyal vassals only added to the tragedy. Rhaegar gazed at the bright banners—soon, no one would mention them again.
Rhaegar needed the cover of night to coordinate with Ser Barristan.
Amidst the vast enemy host, Maidenpool was like a small boat on a stormy sea. A hearty attack would surely bring swift victory.
However, no one dared attack; the Darklyns had sworn to kill Crown Prince Aerys the moment the walls were breached. This was putting the cart before the horse.
"Make a final negotiation! Whether House Darklyn surrenders or not, Prince Rhaegar and Ser Barristan will proceed as planned. If they don't surrender, every traitor dies—no exceptions. Keep this secret." Lord Ormund finished speaking, and with the sound of drums and cymbals, House Darklyn knew the army had arrived.
Rhaegar remained silent: Maidenpool was a tough nut to crack; barring a sudden stroke of luck, it could hold out for half a year. Lord Denys might be eccentric, but his family was still formidable.
Lord Denys immediately sent envoys to Lord Ormund, Lord Tywin, and Rhaegar, demanding terms. Young and arrogant, he firmly believed the Kingdom would bend and grant him favorable conditions.
"Go back and tell your master to open the gates and surrender—surrender now."
"Negotiation is just one path; we decide the manner and place." Envoys shuttled between Maidenpool and the Hand's camp, while Lord Denys hid behind his walls.
The negotiation site was between the town and the command camp, three hundred yards out—beyond the range of longbows on both sides. The envoys rode out.
On one side was Rhaegar; on the other, Ser Symond Hollard, the man who had killed the Kingsguard. To show good faith, both sides could carry weapons but wore no armor.
"Rhaegar of House Targaryen, second heir to the Iron Throne." Rhaegar spurred his horse forward, with Ser Brynden and Sessa flanking him.
"Ser Symond of Maidenpool. Your Grace, order your longbowmen to keep their distance of three hundred yards. If we negotiate, let us follow the rules." The Master-at-Arms of the town spoke—Ser Symond Hollard, the murderer of a Kingsguard.
Symond Hollard and Rhaegar kept their distance at first, then trotted forward with smiles. "Prince, perhaps we should negotiate in a different place—it is open and dangerous here. Maidenpool would be more suitable."
Choosing Prince Rhaegar was a calculated move: a ten-year-old boy could hardly match a knight in his prime.
Although the kid had a reputation for hunting wildlings, that was mostly court flattery. Ser Symond was now inextricably tied to House Darklyn; if he could capture both heirs to the Iron Throne, the sick King would sue for peace.
Sessa and Brynden exchanged a look—would the enemy refuse surrender and choose death?
Rhaegar signed: he would take the field himself, sword against sword.
Rhaegar sized up the rugged warrior—burly, reckless, but no weakling. However, refusing to wear armor would only hasten his death.
Ser Symond spurred his horse forward, longsword in hand, followed by two guards. Seeing the Prince fail to dodge, he gloated—was the child frozen with fear?
"Too slow, my lord. Killing a Kingsguard is a death sentence!" Rhaegar watched the bright arc of the blade—slow and weak. He responded with Valyrian steel: an arc of light that was faster, fiercer.
Steel burned like wildfire, swift and blinding; steel surged like a flood.
Symond's smile vanished as an arc of light sliced him from the top of his head down to his hip—Valyrian steel lived up to its name.
Blood and entrails rained down on the trampled grass.
The blade did not rest but danced again, striking down the remaining two guards.
The massive dragonbone-hilted sword had slept for a long time, hungering for this harvest.
Splashed with scalding blood, Rhaegar looked like a cold Reaper.
He looked up toward the battlements of Maidenpool, meeting the pale face of Lord Denys.
The town soldiers were in panic; Lord Denys watched helplessly as his sworn brother and Master-at-Arms was cut down.
A deafening roar rang out through Maidenpool, from the castle to the streets.
The Master-at-Arms was dead—and someone had secretly spirited the Crown Prince away.
The great army of King's Landing surged forward like a tide.
Caught between the hammer and the anvil, House Darklyn faced total extinction.
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