Chapter 79 – Attack from Within and Without
The night was as dark as ink.
Yet on the high hill, Dragonpit Camp bustled, livelier than daylight.
Torches blazed while soldiers struck tents in good order.
The order for the joint assault on Maidenpool had been given—military orders are as immovable as mountains.
But a special guest had arrived at Dragonpit Camp: King Jaehaerys.
The king first paid a brief visit to the troops. Though the Eagle Guards had been formed only recently, their bearing was impeccable and their morale sky-high; the men burned with hot, youthful blood. More important, they were fresh—untainted by the habits of old barrack-room ruffians.
The warriors were elated, vying to return the king's salute. Rhaegar had confidence in his men; I will forge the finest army in the world. After Maidenpool, the Eagle Guards must expand further.
The Eagle Guards were few but already elite. They boasted Lord Commander Ser Barristan Selmy, drillmaster & judge-advocate Ser Brynden Tully, drillmaster & private aide Cesar, quartermaster Ser Joffrey Arryn, and deputy quartermaster Ser Laenor Velaryon. Most troopers came from noble or wealthy houses, well fed and well schooled; such a roster could be called the height of luxury in this day and age.
Jaehaerys looked again at Rhaegar's tent—simple, spacious, almost devoid of ornament. A plain military shelter, nothing more.
"This is no king's pavilion, yet for a warrior it is perfect." King Jaehaerys spoke with envy; the gods had made him a king but left him a sickly frame, barring him from the ranks of fine fighters. Still, the sight of his grandson Rhaegar consoled him—Rhaegar was a splendid warrior, certain to carry on the Targaryen battle legend.
Rhaegar prepared a seat for King Jaehaerys. Now only the two of them remained in the tent; the Kingsguard had been sent outside by the king.
"Good boy, you must take care of yourself." King Jaehaerys spoke to Rhaegar. The battlefield is blind; vanguards and storm-troops face the greatest danger. With Prince Aerys of Dragonstone incapacitated, Grandson Rhaegar would now go to Maidenpool as well. To Jaehaerys this was torment—only two usable males remained of the Dragonlord line.
Rhaegar obeyed, a pledge of loyalty to his king and a promise to his grandfather.
"Rhaegar, you should have wielded Dark Sister; the blade suits you well," King Jaehaerys suddenly sighed.
Both Blackfyre and Dark Sister had vanished; otherwise the Targaryens would still possess keen steel, a great boon to any warrior.
"Have no regrets, Grandfather. The curved blade you gave me will still let me smash all before me on the field." Rhaegar pointed to the dragon-bone–hilted Valyrian arakh.
He would accomplish the mission flawlessly, setting the stage for the king's tenth-anniversary coronation celebrations.
Of course, the finest gift—the dragon—still dozed around the nesting crags. Before long it would rise again and reappear in Westeros… After bidding the king farewell, Rhaegar led his men in repairing armor, packing weapons and grain, and then set out for Maidenpool.
Rhaegar marched at the head of the Eagle Guards, the Red Keep garrison, Baratheon men from Storm's End, and Lannister retainers from the Westerlands, mustering more lordly troops along the way.
So far the Crown had gathered one hundred knights, a thousand royal men-at-arms, and four hundred Lannister and Baratheon guards. From nearby Rosby and Stokeworth, the lords had already joined with their companies.
Rhaegar felt his host already rivalled the forces of the Dance of the Dragons; Ser Criston Cole had once bloodied Maidenpool—now the town would suffer a second calamity.
Before Maidenpool, in the dark hour before dawn, Lord Tywin Lannister, Lord Monford and Rhaegar had the town ringed by land and water. The black-dragon-on-red standard fluttered alongside the crowned stag and the roaring lion.
Rhaegar saw the gates shut tight, the stone walls faintly white in the gloom; by torchlight above the battlements he could still make out the longbowmen.
Two banners chiefly flew upon the walls. One was House Darklyn's black-and-gold lozenge, the left third red with seven white escutcheons—honoring the seven Kingsguard the house had produced to guard kings. The other bore red-and-pink horizontal stripes below, and three golden crowns on black above—House Hollard, sworn utterly to the Darklyns.
But today, no matter how ancient your line, you face annihilation. Loyal vassals in rebellion only made the tragedy sharper. Rhaegar gazed at those bright banners—soon no one would speak of them again.
Rhaegar needed the cover of night to coordinate with Ser Barristan.
Amidst the vast host, Maidenpool looked like a skiff adrift on the open sea. A determined assault would bring swift victory.
Yet no one dared press the attack; the Darklyn Family swore they would kill Prince Aerys of Dragonstone the moment the walls were breached. This was the very definition of "cart before the horse."
"Make a final parley! Whether the Darklyns yield or not, Prince Rhaegar and Ser Barristan proceed as planned. If they do not surrender, every traitor dies—no exceptions. Keep it secret." Lord Monford spoke, and as drums and cymbals sounded, the Darklyns knew the army had come.
Rhaegar said nothing: Maidenpool was a single iron plate. Without a sudden stroke, it could hold out half a year. Lord Denys might be eccentric, but his house still commanded respect.
Lord Denys at once sent envoys to Lord Monford, Lord Tywin, and Rhaegar demanding terms. He was arrogant and young, convinced the realm would bow and grant him favorable articles.
"Return and tell your lord to open the gates and surrender—now."
"Negotiation is but one path; the manner and place are for us to decide." Envoys shuttled between Maidenpool and the Hand's camp, while Lord Denys stayed hidden behind his walls.
The parley site lay between the town and the Hand's camp, three hundred yards beyond the range of either side's longbowmen. The envoys rode up.
On one side stood Rhaegar; on the other, Ser Simon Hollard, the man who had slain a Kingsguard. As a sign of good faith both parties might bear arms, but neither wore armor.
"Rhaegar of House Targaryen, Prince of the Iron Throne." Rhaegar urged his horse forward, flanked by Ser Brynden and Cesar.
"Ser Simon of Maidenpool. Highness, bid your longbowmen keep their three hundred yards. If we parley, let us play by the rules." The town's master-at-arms spoke—Ser Simon Hollard, who had murdered a Kingsguard.
Simon Hollard and Rhaegar kept their distance at first, then trotted closer, smiling. "Prince, perhaps we should move the parley—this place is open and perilous. Maidenpool would serve better."
Choosing Prince Rhaegar had been deliberate: a ten-year-old boy could hardly match a knight in his prime.
Though the lad bore some wildling-killing repute, it was mostly courtiers' flattery. Ser Simon was now bound body and soul to House Darklyn; capture the iron throne's two heirs, and the sick king would sue for peace.
Cesar and Ser Brynden exchanged glances—would the foe refuse surrender and court death?
Rhaegar signed: he would take the field himself, blade to blade.
Rhaegar studied the rough-hewn warrior—broad, brash, but surely no slouch. Yet refusing armor would only hasten his end.
Ser Simon spurred forward, sword in hand, two guards at his heels. Seeing the prince unable to dodge, he gloated—had the boy frozen?
"Too slow, ser. Killing a Kingsguard is death!" Rhaegar watched the bright arc—slow, feeble. He answered with Valyrian steel: a curved blade flashing faster, fiercer.
Steel blazed like wildfire, swift and blinding; steel surged like a river in full flood.
Simon's grin died as a single arc of light split him from crown to hip—Valyrian steel, true to its fame.
Blood and entrails rained onto the trampled grass.
The blade did not rest; it danced again, felling the two remaining guards.
The great dragon-bone–hilted saber had slumbered long, hungry for this reaping.
Rhaegar, spattered with steaming blood, looked every inch a cold reaper.
He lifted his gaze to Maidenpool's battlements and met the pale face of Lord Denys.
The town's soldiers recoiled; Lord Denys watched his good-brother and master-at-arms cut down before his eyes.
A fresh roar rippled through Maidenpool, from keep to streets.
The master-at-arms was dead—and someone had spirited the Prince of Dragonstone away.
The King's Landing host thundered like a tide and surged forward.
Caught between hammer and anvil, House Darklyn faced utter extinction.
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