Rain threatened over King's Landing that night.
Heavy clouds rolled across the sky like dark waves, swallowing moonlight and turning the city below into a maze of shadows and distant torch-fire. The wind carried the smell of salt from Blackwater Bay mixed with smoke from thousands of chimneys.
High above it all, the Red Keep stood silent and watchful.
And somewhere within its blood-red halls, a dynasty was ending.
The rider came close to midnight.
He thundered through the Mud Gate atop a horse frothing with sweat and blood, nearly collapsing from exhaustion as the guards shouted in alarm. Mud splattered across his cloak and armor. One sleeve hung torn open where dried blood blackened the fabric beneath.
The man looked half-dead already.
But still he rode.
Still, he clutched the leather satchel chained tightly against his chest.
The royal seal stamped upon it, a three-headed dragon of red wax.
Men moved immediately as word spread.
"A messenger from the Trident!"
"For the king!"
"Make way!"
The rider barely remained conscious as gold cloaks escorted him upward through the winding streets toward Aegon's High Hill. Rain began falling in thin cold droplets while bells echoed faintly from distant septs.
No one noticed the shadows following them.
Damon's men had been waiting for this.
They emerged silently near a narrow alley just below the outer walls of the Red Keep. Dark cloaks concealed faces and armor alike, blending perfectly into the mist-choked streets.
The messenger never even cried out.
One moment, he rode.
Next, a knife slid beneath his ribs from behind.
His eyes widened in shock as rough hands dragged him from the saddle and into the darkness between two buildings. The horse bolted riderless down the street while the gold cloaks.
Continued as if nothing had happened.
Only rainwater running red through the gutters.
The body vanished into the Blackwater before dawn.
The letter traveled elsewhere.
Upward.
Into the hands of Prince Damon Targaryen.
He stood alone beside the hearth in his chambers when Harrold Waters delivered the satchel.
"No witnesses," Harrold said quietly.
Damon nodded once.
The older knight hesitated briefly.
"Do you want me to stay?"
"No."
Harrold studied him for a long moment before bowing his head.
"As you wish, my prince."
The door shut softly behind him.
Silence returned.
Only the crackling fire disturbed the stillness as Damon stared at the sealed parchment in his hands.
For several seconds, he did nothing.
He already knew.
He had known since the moment the rider entered the city.
History moved toward him like an executioner's blade.
Slowly, Damon broke the seal.
The parchment crackled softly as he unfolded it.
His violet eyes moved across the words once.
Then again.
Prince Rhaegar Targaryen has fallen at the Trident.
Slain by Robert Baratheon.
The royal host scatters.
The rebellion marches south.
The room grew very quiet.
Damon lowered the letter slightly and stared into the flames dancing within the hearth.
Rhaegar was dead.
He felt no grief.
Rhaegar had not been cruel. Not truly. Detached perhaps. Obsessed. Blind to the destruction left in the wake of his choices.
In another life, perhaps they could have been brothers instead of strangers bound by blood and ruin.
But that life no longer mattered.
Rhaegar's death pushed his plans into the next stage.
The royal army was broken. Robert Baratheon marched south victorious, and Tywin Lannister would arrive soon after like a vulture descending upon a dying beast.
And Aerys would rather burn the city before surrendering it.
Damon already knew where the wildfire lay hidden. Beneath streets. Beneath taverns. Beneath the Sept of Baelor itself.
Damon opened his eyes.
The decision settled over him then, not sudden, not emotional, but cold and inevitable.
Aerys Targaryen had to die tonight.
Not tomorrow.
Not when the Lannisters arrived.
Tonight.
He folded the letter carefully and placed it into the flames.
The parchment curled black instantly.
Rhaegar vanished into ash.
For several moments, Damon simply watched the fire consume the final proof of his brother's death.
Then he moved.
He dressed slowly and deliberately.
No royal silks. No jewels. No armor bearing the dragon crest.
Only black. A dark tunic. A black leather cloak trimmed faintly in crimson. Soft boots silent against stone.
From a locked chest beside his bed, he retrieved a dagger.
Plain steel. Sharp enough to shave skin, unremarkable.
Not a prince's weapon.
An assassin's.
He tested the blade lightly against his thumb.
Then tucked it beneath his belt.
When Damon finally stepped into the corridors of Maegor's Holdfast, the castle felt strangely hollow around him.
The hour was late enough that most servants had vanished into sleeping quarters. Torches flickered weakly along red stone walls while distant thunder rolled beyond the castle.
The storm was coming.
His footsteps echoed softly as he walked.
Every corridor carried memories.
Here, Rhaegar once dueled Ser Arthur Dayne while squires watched in awe.
There, Aerys had ordered a servant's tongue removed for spilling wine.
By the time he reached the royal apartments, rain hammered against the windows overlooking Blackwater Bay.
Two guards stood outside the king's chambers.
Both loyal to Damon.
Both were handpicked years ago and quietly guided to the position in the king's guard.
They straightened instantly upon seeing him approach.
Neither spoke.
Neither questioned him.
One slowly pushed open the heavy oak doors.
Damon entered alone.
The smell hit him first.
Sweat, ash, and rotting flesh.
The king's chambers looked less like a royal bedchamber and more like the lair of a mad sorcerer.
Half-burned candles littered every surface. Wildfire jars lined shelves and tables in careful rows, their eerie green substance gleaming faintly in the firelight. Torn maps covered the floor alongside scattered letters and overturned goblets.
Aerys Targaryen slept amidst it all beneath dark crimson blankets.
Or perhaps "slept" was the wrong word.
He twitched constantly, even in unconsciousness, muttering softly beneath his breath. Thin silver hair clung greasily against his face while yellowed fingernails curled atop the sheets.
This frail creature had once terrified the Seven Kingdoms.
Damon approached slowly.
The dagger felt strangely heavy in his hand now.
Not because he doubted.
But because this was final.
No more plans. No more waiting.
One thrust would end the reign of the Mad King forever.
He stopped beside the bed.
Aerys looked ancient.
Smaller somehow than Damon remembered.
Just a dying man drowning in his own madness.
For a brief moment, pity stirred inside him, but it disappeared as quickly as it came.
Damon drew the dagger.
Steel gleamed softly above the sleeping king.
He raised it.
And Aerys opened his eyes.
Damon froze.
For one terrible heartbeat, neither moved.
Then the king spoke.
"…it took you long enough."
The dagger hovered inches above his chest.
Damon stared.
The madness was gone.
Not entirely, something fractured still lingered deep within those violet eyes, but for the first time in years, clarity looked back at him.
Real clarity.
Aerys exhaled shakily against the pillows.
"Rhaegar is dead."
Not a question.
A statement.
Damon said nothing.
Rain battered the windows harder now.
The old king gave a weak, bitter laugh.
"I saw it." His voice sounded dry and cracked. "Dreams of rubies falling into water… dragons drowning beneath a black stag."
His eyes drifted toward the ceiling.
"My son always believed himself chosen."
Silence stretched between them.
Then Aerys looked back toward Damon.
"But not you."
Something dangerous flickered behind the king's gaze then.
Not madness.
Understanding.
"You hid yourself well," Aerys whispered. "All these years pretending obedience while building knives in the dark."
Damon's expression hardened slightly.
"How much do you know?"
Aerys smiled weakly.
"I was never as blind as they believed."
His breathing rattled unevenly.
"Varys whispered. Servants vanished. Gold cloaks changed loyalties." He coughed harshly into his hand. " Rossart is dead. Jaime is gone."
Damon tightened his grip on the dagger.
"And yet you did nothing."
Aerys laughed again.
This time, the sound bordered on hysteria.
"What was left to do?"
Suddenly, his voice sharpened violently.
"THEY TOOK EVERYTHING!"
The outburst echoed through the chamber.
Spittle flew from his lips as madness surged briefly back into his eyes.
"Tywin betrayed me! Stark betrayed me! Even Rhaegar was plotting to replace me."
His breathing hitched painfully.
Then, just as suddenly, exhaustion reclaimed him.
He sagged back against the bed, trembling.
"…all of them traitors."
Damon remained silent.
Aerys stared toward the ceiling once more.
"You know what's strange?" he whispered. "I truly wanted to be a great king once."
The confession sounded almost childlike.
"I dreamed of another golden age. Dragons reborn. A realm united beneath fire."
His eyes drifted slowly toward Damon again.
"But fire consumes."
For several seconds, only thunder spoke.
Then the king smiled faintly.
"The dragon must have three heads," he murmured. "Rhaegar believed it was about prophecy."
A shiver crawled down Damon's spine.
Aerys' gaze sharpened.
"Maybe prophecy was never meant for him."
The old king studied his son carefully.
"Maybe it was meant for you."
Damon felt something twist painfully inside his chest.
Not because he believed in prophecy.
But because it was too late for him to try to believe in him.
Aerys seemed to realize it, too.
His expression grew tired beyond words.
"They'll come soon," he whispered. "The wolves. The lions. The stag."
Madness flickered again.
"They'll tear us apart."
Then suddenly, his eyes widened.
"No."
Fear entered his voice.
"No… no, they must burn."
His breathing quickened frantically.
"Burn them all…"
The madness returned fully then, rushing back like floodwaters bursting through broken gates.
Aerys grabbed Damon's wrist with shocking strength.
"Do you hear me?" he hissed wildly. "Burn them! Burn them all! Let the city become wildfire! Let them choke on ash and blood and green flame."
Damon looked into his father's eyes.
And saw there was nothing left to save.
Only madness wearing a dead king's face.
Slowly, gently, he leaned closer.
"I know," Damon whispered.
Then he drove the dagger into Aerys Targaryen's heart.
The king gasped sharply.
His grip spasmed violently around Damon's wrist as blood bloomed across crimson blankets.
For an instant, madness vanished again.
Pain, shock. and relief.
Aerys looked up at his son.
"…fire…" he rasped weakly.
Blood bubbled from his lips.
"…and blood…"
His eyes unfocused slowly.
Silence swallowed the room.
Damon remained standing beside the bed, breathing hard.
Blood dripped steadily from the dagger onto the floorstones below.
He expected triumph.
Instead, he felt only exhaustion.
A madman had ended beneath his hand.
No songs would ever tell the truth of it.
Slowly, Damon pulled the blade free.
More blood spread across the sheets.
Aerys looked small now.
Pathetic.
Just a corpse beneath silk blankets.
Damon wiped the dagger clean against the dead king's robes before turning away.
Outside the chamber, the two guards immediately straightened.
Neither asked questions.
They saw the answer in his eyes already.
"In ten minutes," Damon said quietly, "you raise the alarm."
One nodded instantly.
"The story?"
"An assassin entered through the lower passages." Damon adjusted his gloves calmly. "Signs of struggle. Wounded guards. Make it believable."
"And the king?"
Damon paused.
Then answered coldly.
"Make sure they see the knife wound."
The guards bowed.
"As you command, Your Grace."
The title hung strangely in the air.
Damon said nothing.
He simply walked away into the darkness of the corridor while thunder shook the Red Keep around him.
Back in his chambers, he sat beside the balcony overlooking King's Landing.
Rain fell steadily now across the sleeping city.
Somewhere below, bells rang faintly through the storm.
Damon poured himself wine with steady hands and waited.
Ten minutes later, the Red Keep erupted.
Shouts thundered through the halls.
"ASSASSIN!"
"The king is dead!"
"Seal the gates!"
Armor clattered. Servants screamed, bells rang wildly from tower to tower.
Torches flared alive across the battlements like rivers of fire.
Damon leaned back slowly in his chair and closed his eyes.
The game was over.
Aerys Targaryen was dead. Rhaegar Targaryen was dead.
And when dawn came, only one dragon would remain within the Red Keep.
Prince Damon Targaryen.