It was not for mercy that Robert Baratheon spared Rhaegar on the Trident. It was not for honor, or kindness, or respect for a beaten yet valiant foe.
It was for vengeance.
Those eerie violet eyes stared up at him in bright defiance.
Robert swung the hammer, and reveled in its crunch.
The day they took King's Landing, Rhaegar limped behind Robert's horse as he entered the city. Bloodied, beaten, his blond hair tangled, his sword arm shattered, Rhaegar walked with head held high.
That night, Robert took his fingers. The fingers Rhaegar had used to strum his harp, the fingers that had grasped his sword, the fingers that had touched…
Afterwards, in chains and darkness, Rhaegar sang. His voice grieved for a city borne down with suffering, for all the brave men who had died upon the Trident. It was clear and true and beautiful.
The next night, Robert took his eyes. The eyes Rhaegar had used to read his books, the eyes that had drunk of distant worlds, the eyes that had looked…
Afterwards, in anguish and anger, Rhaegar sang. His voice grieved for the sun, for the green grass, for the beautiful face he would never see again. It was soft and sweet and tore at the heart.
The next night, Robert took his manhood. The manhood Rhaegar had used to father his children, the manhood that had pleasured his wife, the manhood that had defiled…
Afterwards, in suffering and shame, Rhaegar sang. His voice grieved for a prophecy destroyed, for the loss of honor, for a world that held nothing but bitterness and loss. It was hoarse and haunting and wracked with pain.
The next night, Robert told him that Lyanna Stark was dead.
Afterwards, there was only silence.