The bells of King's Landing tolled solemnly, not in mourning, but in coronation.
Aerys Targaryen, the Mad King, had passed from the world. And now, Prince Rhaegar Targaryen, the realm's last hope for honor and stability, stood atop the Iron Throne.
His coronation had been swift, almost too swift. The small council, though diminished and fractured by years of Aerys' paranoia, had rallied behind him. No one else in Westeros had a stronger claim, and with Viserys still a boy, and no other branch of the Targaryen line to muddy the waters, there had been no need for bloodshed or rival banners.
The Great Sept of Baelor was filled that day. Silent Sisters stood along the walls, Lords and Ladies sat in stiff silence, and the High Septon himself placed the heavy crown upon Rhaegar's brow.
"Long live the King," they had said, voices echoing without passion.
But now, seated alone within the Red Keep's solar, Rhaegar felt the true weight of rule settle across his shoulders—not the crown of beaten gold, but the invisible burden of legacy, betrayal, and ambition.
He stood before a large map of Westeros, the parchment edges curled, the painted rivers and roads faded with age. Colored pins marked allies and enemies both. There were too many black pins now, where once there had been red.
At the sound of quiet footsteps, Arthur Dayne entered, dressed in his white cloak, the Sword of the Morning polished but unsheathed.
"You summoned me, Your Grace," Arthur said, voice measured.
Rhaegar looked up. "Close the door, Arthur. I am no grace here."
Arthur obeyed, stepping forward.
"You wear the crown, Rhaegar. The world will call you King, whether you want it or not."
Rhaegar exhaled deeply and leaned against the edge of the table.
"I never wanted it like this," he muttered. "I believed... I believed I could bring peace. A new order. Not be cursed with the wreckage my father left behind."
Arthur said nothing, but his presence was grounding. Steady.
Rhaegar moved to a nearby chair and sat heavily.
"Did you know," he continued, "that my father insulted Lord Tully to his face at court? Called him a trout with a worm in his mouth. Sent him off red-faced. And Lord Tyrell? Publicly accused of plotting sedition because a gardener gifted him a rose."
Arthur raised an eyebrow. "That explains why half of the Reach did not send word after your ascension."
"Indeed." Rhaegar's tone darkened. "And Lord Jon Arryn? Denied a court seat after decades of loyalty. House Royce offended by being named lesser men in a drunken feast. House Martell only remains loyal because of Elia—and even she grows colder by the day."
"You speak of alliances, Rhaegar," Arthur said carefully. "But this is not only about old grievances, is it?"
Rhaegar looked up, met his friend's eyes.
"No," he admitted. "It's about Lyanna."
Arthur said nothing. The silence between them was long and heavy.
"I love her," Rhaegar confessed at last. "And she loves me. I know it. But if I bring her to court now, if I cast Elia aside, then I lose Dorne. And Robert... Robert Baratheon will turn the Stormlands against me without hesitation. I may hold the Iron Throne, but I will have no foundation beneath it."
"Then you cannot have both," Arthur said gently. "Not Elia and Lyanna. Not peace and love. You must choose."
Rhaegar's hands tightened into fists.
"Must I?" he whispered. "I am the king. The gods placed me here. Why must I sacrifice what little happiness I have for the sake of men who would spit on the crown as soon as it suited them?"
Arthur did not respond. He understood. He had seen the glint in Rhaegar's eyes when he spoke of Lyanna Stark. It was not lust. It was not infatuation. It was belief. Destiny.
And yet...
"You are not Aegon the Conqueror," Arthur finally said. "You cannot take two wives and expect the realm to smile upon it. You will be seen as no better than your father."
That struck deep. Rhaegar turned his face away.
"Elia deserves more," he said. "She has been nothing but gracious. But she is so often ill. So frail. We have a son, Aegon, but…"
He trailed off.
"But he is not Lyanna's son," Arthur finished for him.
Rhaegar stood again, began pacing.
"If I ask for her hand, I dishonor Robert. If I keep her hidden, I insult Lyanna. If I do nothing... I may lose both."
A knock interrupted them.
A servant entered, bowing low.
"Your Grace, your good brother has come from Sunspear. Princess Elia requests an audience at once."
Rhaegar's expression faltered. "Of course she does," he muttered, already knowing what it was about.
He turned to Arthur. "Send word to the council. We must prepare a feast. Dorne must be reminded that their blood still runs through our future king."
Arthur bowed. "And Lyanna?"
Rhaegar's eyes darkened. "She must remain hidden. For now. Until I am strong enough to protect her. Until I am strong enough to defy them all."
Arthur nodded slowly, though he did not look pleased.
The prince—now king—walked to the balcony, overlooking the glittering roofs of King's Landing. Far below, life carried on. Merchants shouted in the square. Bells rang from distant towers. The city did not yet burn.
But in his heart, Rhaegar could already feel the fire.
The golden sun had long since dipped beyond the horizon, and the halls of the Red Keep glowed with the amber light of countless torches. Rhaegar Targaryen walked with purpose through the corridors of his family's ancestral seat, his boots echoing softly upon the stone. There were still whispers in the court—whispers of Harrenhal, of flowers, of Stark wolves—but he paid them no mind. Not tonight.
He stepped into the Queen's Solar, where voices met him—soft, gentle, full of laughter.
Ashara Dayne sat cross-legged on the floor, her lavender eyes crinkling as she listened to Princess Rhaenys, who animatedly described her latest imaginary adventure: dragons and dolls, thrones and lions. On the other side of the room, Prince Aegon, still wrapped in Dornish silks, cooed in the arms of Oberyn Martell.
Elia looked up from her embroidery and smiled faintly. "You're early."
But the warmth died instantly.
Oberyn Martell, the Red Viper of Dorne, lowered Aegon to the plush rug with all the grace of a father placing his own son down. Then, in a flash, like a striking serpent, he was across the room. The blade—curved, sharp, wickedly thin—was at Rhaegar's throat before the Kingsguard had even registered the movement.
"Do not move!" Arthur Dayne barked, stepping forward instinctively—but one look at the knife's angle made him freeze.
Elia gasped, "Oberyn, no!" She stood, eyes wide with fury and fear. "Are you mad?"
"I've been mad for a long time," Oberyn snarled, eyes locked on Rhaegar. "I wanted to do this the day you shamed my sister in front of the realm—when you placed that damned crown on Lyanna Stark's head."
His voice was shaking with rage.
Ashara stood slowly, moving to her brother's side. "Oberyn—"
"Don't!" he snapped. "Don't you defend him. Not now."
The air was still. The Kingsguard edged closer, but Arthur Dayne raised a hand, warning them off.
"Oberyn," he said calmly. "If you spill royal blood, you doom yourself. Let him speak. Please."
Rhaegar stood unmoving, the Valyrian steel of the dagger kissing his pale neck. His violet eyes met Oberyn's without flinching.
"Let me speak," he said softly. "And if, after I speak, you still wish to kill me—then I won't stop you."
Oberyn's jaw clenched. "Speak then. Quickly."
Everyone in the room fell silent, even little Rhaenys, who clung to Ashara's skirts.
"You know the tale of the Knight of the Laughing Tree," Rhaegar began. "An unknown knight who unhorsed three others at the tourney of Harrenhal. A mystery that enraged my father."
"Everyone knows it," Oberyn snapped.
Rhaegar nodded. "But no one knows who the knight was. Except me."
The knife did not waver.
"It was Lyanna Stark," Rhaegar said.
A gasp escaped from Elia. Ashara's eyes widened.
"She saw squires mocking her bannermen—smaller, weaker men who served the North with pride. And she could not bear it. So she donned armor, stole a horse, and entered the lists as a mystery knight. She fought like no lady ever should have been allowed to, and she won. Three tilts. Three knights humbled. All for honor."
He paused.
"My father... saw danger in everything. When the knight would not remove their helm, he declared them a traitor. An assassin. He sent men to hunt the knight down."
"Did they find her?" Ashara whispered.
Rhaegar shook his head. "No. I found her first. She was frightened. Her brothers did not know. She would have been executed if caught. I helped her escape Harrenhal."
Oberyn's eyes burned with confusion. "Then why the crown?"
"Because," Rhaegar said, "I was moved. Not by desire. But by admiration. She was brave, bold, and foolish. Like the old heroes in songs. When I named her the Queen of Love and Beauty, it was not for love—it was to honor the knight that no one would ever know. To remember her courage in a world that would never allow it."
Oberyn's grip on the knife trembled.
"I knew what it looked like," Rhaegar admitted. "But I did not expect the court to twist it. I did not expect my father's paranoia to spiral out of control. And I never meant to shame Elia."
The words were heavy. Honest. And perhaps not entirely true—for the unspoken pieces still lingered in his mind. But some truths were not meant for others.
For a long moment, the knife remained.
And then Oberyn slowly pulled it away.
He stepped back, breathing hard.
"I still don't like you," he growled. "But if that's the truth… then I owe my sister peace."
Elia approached quietly, reaching for Rhaegar's hand.
"Is it true?" she asked, softly, tears in her eyes. "You did it for honor?"
Rhaegar nodded. "Yes."
And for the first time in weeks, Elia smiled—a small, trembling smile, but real.
"I hated you," she whispered. "For a while. But I'm glad you told me."
Rhaegar touched her cheek. "I never stopped caring for you, Elia."
Ashara exhaled, tension easing from her shoulders. Arthur relaxed visibly.
Oberyn turned, picking up baby Aegon and tossing him gently into the air, making the child laugh.
"Well," he muttered. "It's still not how I would've handled it. But I suppose stabbing kings isn't in fashion anymore."
Arthur smirked. "Not unless you want to lose your head."
Rhaegar said nothing more. He looked at the family gathered before him—flawed, broken, but still together. For now.
And somewhere in the North, a wolf was still waiting.
The candlelight flickered gently within the narrow chamber, deep within the Red Keep—an ancient, hidden room only passed down from king to heir, father to son. Stone walls closed in tightly around Rhaegar Targaryen, sealing him away from the world, from judgment, from duty—if only for a while.
A quill scratched lightly across parchment.
He wrote in silence, cloaked in midnight and crowned in loneliness. The heavy robe of kingship lay discarded on the arm of his chair, replaced by the looser, simpler attire he had always preferred. His fingers trembled slightly as he penned the words—not from fear, but longing.
My dearest heart,
The crown has settled upon my brow like a chain, cold and heavy. The bells of my coronation rang loud across King's Landing, but none of them reached my soul—not the cheers of the lords, not the promises of the banners. Only your name echoes there.
I miss you, Lyanna.
I long for the sound of your laughter in the frostbitten wind, for the stubborn fire in your eyes when you speak of honor. You are far from me in miles, but not a day passes that I do not feel your spirit beside mine. Wait for me, wolf of the North. I will come to you.
Soon.
Rhaegar paused, his hand tightening around the quill.
How could he speak of "soon," when every step toward her was through a swamp of blood and betrayal?
His eyes lingered on the flame before him, wavering like his resolve.
He dipped the quill again and wrote with firmer hand:
My mind is torn, my love. The path to you is steep, and at its summit stands a question I cannot yet answer. I am bound to a queen—a good woman. Elia has never wronged me. She smiles at me still, plays with our children beneath the shade of Dornish tapestries. And yet… I see her not as wife, but as shadow.
You are my sun, Lyanna. My dawn and dusk. The harp in my dreams.
If I must break my vows, I will. If I must forsake the Martells, the realm, and all they built to keep their house strong, I will do so. If I must shatter the peace of two kingdoms to claim you… then let the world burn in dragonfire.
And if Elia stands in my way—
He hesitated.
His breath caught.
He set the quill down and ran a hand through his silver-gold hair. His reflection stared back at him from a silvered shield hung in the stone wall. Not the man of songs. Not the noble prince of prophecy. Just a weary figure draped in quiet madness.
Could he do it?
Could he kill an innocent woman—his wife, the mother of his children—for love?
He stood slowly, walked across the room, and drew back the heavy velvet curtain that covered the only narrow window slit. Moonlight poured in, cold and silver.
Below, in the courtyard, he saw her.
Elia.
She was carrying Aegon in her arms, his chubby fingers gripping her braid, while Rhaenys chased them in circles, laughter spilling into the night.
For a long moment, Rhaegar said nothing. He simply stared.
Then he turned away.
He returned to the table, folded the letter, and pressed his seal to the parchment—a dragon and a harp intertwined.
We will be together, Lyanna. One way or another.
He tucked the letter into a hidden drawer behind the bricks, where only he could retrieve it later for delivery.
And in the stillness of the secret room, Rhaegar Targaryen—King of the Andals and the First Men—sat in silence, torn between the crown upon his head and the ghost who haunted his heart.
___________________________________________
Details about bonus content can be found on my profile page.