The Dragon's Cold War

by HouseLannister558

In an alternate ASOIAF world, Robert Baratheon dies at the Trident, slain by Arthur Dayne. Rhaegar Targaryen wins the rebellion and marries a resentful Lyanna Stark. The North, hating the Targaryen Dynasty, becomes a hotbed of espionage and assassination attempts, leading to a tense cold war between the North and South. Rhaegar's rule over the Iron Throne is fragile!

1. Rhaegar I

RHAEGAR

Rhaegar stood above the broken, bloody form of Robert Baratheon, his distant cousin now a lifeless heap upon the trampled earth. The air was thick with the stench of sweat, steel, and death, yet it was not lost on the prince that if not for Arthur Dayne's insistence—his old friend urging to ride alongside him to the Trident—this rebellion might have seen a different end.

Had it not been Arthur's blade that struck from behind, a cowardly blow to the back of Robert's head, it might have been Rhaegar's own chest shattered beneath his cousin's fury. The thought sent a cold shiver down his spine, one that lingered even amid the heat of battle. Rhaegar knew well the dishonor of such an act—Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning, reduced to such treachery to protect him. But he could not bring himself to condemn his friend; not when he knew, deep down, that Arthur's desperation had saved him from the crushing might of Robert's warhammer.

Yet as Rhaegar watched the life drain from Robert's eyes, the thrill of survival gave way to something colder, darker. He had once thought that victory would bring him peace. Now, it only left him wondering what honor they had sacrificed to claim it.

He had contested Arthur leaving the Tower of Joy fiercely—how could he not? To pull Arthur away from guarding his two children, Rhaenys and Aegon, was a risk he could scarcely bear. But Dayne had sworn upon Dawn that Gerold Hightower's blade would be defense enough.

And so, reluctantly, Rhaegar had let him ride, watching as Arthur's white cloak billowed like the wings of some great, pale star. Now, with the heir of Storm's End blood staining the riverbanks, the prince could not shake the dread that gnawed at his heart.

His thoughts turned to his children—two dragons, both young and vulnerable. He had entrusted their care to Ser Arthur Dayne and Ser Gerold Hightower, the only men he could rely upon in a world that had turned to madness. Varys, that slippery spider, whom he distrusted with every fiber of his being, was the one who orchestrated their swift escape from King's Landing. The decision to trust Varys gnawed at him even now. The walls had been closing in, and his father's madness threatened to engulf them all in dragonfire. Aerys would have burned the city to cinders, children and all, rather than let his enemies take them. His children could not be left to Aerys' whims, and so, under the cover of darkness, they were sent away, to the Tower of Joy, where they would be watched by those Rhaegar could trust most.

Rhaegar's thoughts turned to Elia, the mother of his children. His heart still ached for her, though he could not deny the truth: he had never truly loved her. She had been a duty, a political match forged from necessity, not desire. But in the cold, echoing halls of King's Landing, he had learned something unexpected—what it meant to care for and protect someone who was utterly defenseless.

Elia had always been a target for Aerys' cruel japes. The Mad King took perverse delight in tormenting her, even going so far as to fondle her in front of the court while staring mockingly at Rhaegar, daring him to respond. Elia would remain mute in those moments, her dark eyes defiant, refusing to let a single tear escape. She bore her humiliation in silence, her pride unbroken. She would not give Aerys the satisfaction of seeing her weep.

But in the end, it had not been Aerys' madness that claimed her life—it was the birth of their second child, Aegon. Elia's frail health had never fully recovered after Rhaenys, and Aegon's birth had been too much for her to bear. She had withered in her bed, her breaths shallow and labored, slipping away before Rhaegar's eyes.

Aerys, ever the sadist, had weaponized her death against Rhaegar, taunting him at every opportunity. "She died bringing your wretched son into the world," he would cackle, his voice rising to a fevered pitch, eyes gleaming with madness. "The wife you could not love, taken by the child you did not want." He had never loved Elia in the way a husband should, and her death was a wound that, in truth, had bled more for duty lost than for love. But Aerys, in his twisted, fevered ramblings, was wrong about one thing: Rhaegar had wanted Aegon. His son was no mere accident of duty; Aegon was the continued fulfillment of the prophecy that haunted his ancestral history. The Dragon must have three-heads.

But love had never been his to claim. And now, as he stood on the edge of Trident, with war tearing the realm apart and his children hidden away in some distant tower, he could not help but wonder if he had ever truly known what it meant to love at all.

The embers of war had been kindled long before Robert Baratheon and Eddard Stark called their banners. The roots of this conflict lay in the death of Elia, and the cruelty of his father's demand that Rhaegar take another wife. Rhaegar had no desire for marriage, not so suddenly. But as the Crown Prince, he knew he had no choice but to consider his options carefully. His mind turned to Lyanna Stark, the daughter of Rickard Stark, a woman whose name had come to his ears more often than he would have liked. Aerys' command to marry her had come as a shock, but Rhaegar knew the politics behind it. His father had been playing a dangerous game, one Rhaegar had not fully understood until it was too late.

Lyanna Stark. He had seen her once, at the Tourney of Harrenhal, though he had not conversed with her at the time. She had been but a girl then, barely a woman, but there was something about her that had stayed with him. Her beauty was undeniable, wild, untamed in a way that made her seem both alluring and dangerous. Her eyes were the color of blue stormclouds, and her hair was the color of earth after rain. She was no meek maiden to be wed off to some noble lord; she was a wolf, fierce and proud.

Rhaegar had briefly contemplated crowning the Stark maid as his Queen of Love and Beauty during the Tourney of Harrenhal, captivated by her wild spirit and striking beauty. But just as quickly, he crushed the thought, the weight of duty pressing heavy on his shoulders. His second cousin, Robert Baratheon, had been eyeing Lyanna Stark with a hunger that could not be mistaken for mere admiration. Rhaegar could see the desire simmering in Robert's gaze, the way he all but undressed her with his eyes, and the last thing Rhaegar needed was to stoke the fires of jealousy in that temperamental Storm's End lord.

Besides, Elia had been dead for only a few weeks, her death still fresh in the minds of the realm. To even hint at a potential match between House Targaryen and House Stark so soon would ignite a blaze of scandalous whispers. The realm was a powder keg, with every whisper carrying the threat of rebellion, and Rhaegar could not afford to fan the flames. No, he would not make a spectacle of himself or tarnish Elia's memory.

And so, with a steady hand, he placed the crown of blue winter roses upon his mother's brow, declaring her his Queen of Love and Beauty. It was a safe, respectable choice—one that would not stir the viper's nest of courtly intrigue. But as the applause filled the air, Rhaegar could not shake the image of Lyanna's defiant gaze, nor the way Robert's eyes lingered on her. For a moment, he wondered what might have been if he had dared to defy both propriety and his own cautious nature. But that path, he knew, would lead only to chaos.

Unfortunately, Aerys had other plans. His mind, already twisted with paranoia, had witnessed Rickard Stark speaking with Lord Tywin and Lord Hoster Tully at the tourney. To his deluded eyes, it was the beginning of treason. It was no secret that Rickard Stark had been strengthening his alliances across Westeros. His eldest son, Brandon, was set to wed Catelyn Tully, and Eddard Stark had earned the loyalty of many lords in the Vale. But the possibility of an alliance between his two greatest enemies, Tywin Lannister and Rickard Stark, was a weight Aerys' fragile mind could not bear.

After returning to King's Landing, Aerys summoned Rhaegar to his chambers. The King, in his madness, wasted no time before unleashing his fury, shrieking accusations of betrayal. Rhaegar knew from experience that nothing good could come of this confrontation, but the next words that had slipped from his father's lips sent a chill through him: "Traitors! All of them!" Aerys screeched, his voice thin with paranoia, as he raved about the Starks and their supposed plots. "The North never wanted to bend to the Dragon, never wanted to kneel. I will show them who rules this realm." He looked at Rhaegar then, his eyes wild with delusion. "And you—my son—you will help me bring them to heel. Take what is theirs, and they will bow to me. Take away Rickard's daughter, and the Starks will learn their place."

Rhaegar recoiled, knowing that the King's madness would not stop at words. The consequences of his father's decree would be dire—nothing less than a devastating spark that would ignite the flames of rebellion across the realm. For news of Robert Baratheon's betrothal to Lyanna Stark was quickly spreading through the Seven Kingdoms. Details of the betrothal had been ironed out during the later stages of the tourney at Harrenhal. It was there, amidst the feasts and jousts, that Robert had publicly declared his intentions, his deep voice booming across the ruined castle walls, and his bold, unashamed desire to claim Lyanna's hand before all who would listen.

The cold calculation behind the Mad King's decree sent a chill through Rhaegar's heart. This was not born of madness alone. No, someone had whispered this in his ear. Perhaps Varys, that slippery spider, or the Hand of the King, Merryweather, whose ambitions had always run deeper than his loyalty to the crown. Whoever it was, Rhaegar could not say, but the idea had taken root, and now it was a scheme that was already set in motion.

It was a clever ploy—one born out of madness, but of a cunning madness that Rhaegar could not deny. But it was madness nonetheless. Rhaegar had to make a choice. Would he bow to his father's will and marry Lyanna Stark, or would he defy him, even if it meant losing his head? The weight of the crown, the legacy of House Targaryen, and the lives of his children hung in the balance. As the embers of war continued to smolder, Rhaegar knew one thing: the true cost of his kingdom had yet to be revealed.

The bethroed between Lyanna Stark and Prince Rhaegar Targaryen would crush any potential whispers of rebellion that had swirled around. Whispers had circulated through the Seven Kingdoms for years, ever since King Aerys II had begun his slow descent into madness. The Mad King had grown paranoid, seeing traitors in every corner, and the name that reached his ears most often had been that of Rickard Stark.

Ravens flew across Westeros, carrying the news: Rhaegar Targaryen was to be betrothed to Lyanna Stark, severing the young wolf maid's promised match to Robert Baratheon. Rhaegar knew his cousin Robert well; he was a tempest of fury and passion, more likely to charge headlong into battle than to bend the knee. Yet, to Rhaegar's surprise, Robert did not march on King's Landing. Instead, it was the Starks who came: Brandon, the wild and impetuous heir to Winterfell, and his father, Lord Rickard, who arrived before the Iron Throne with fury and desperation in their eyes.

Rhaegar had been present that day, standing to the right of his father, the Mad King, who lounged atop the Iron Throne like a vulture perched over its meal. Brandon Stark was trembling with barely contained rage, while Rickard's gaze was wary and weary, as if he already knew the fate that awaited them. Brandon had not come to make polite petitions; no, he had come to demand that the marriage pact with the crown be broken. "Lyanna will be no hostage," he shouted, his voice echoing through the hall. "She is no pawn for your games, Aerys."

Aerys' response was a thin, twisted smile, his lips curling in wicked delight as he leaned forward. "So you admit the Starks were plotting to overthrow me?" the king's voice a dry hiss. "Swear your fealty, Stark, and I might show mercy." But mercy was not a word that existed in Aerys' lexicon, and Rhaegar could see it in the gleam of his father's eyes that their fates were already sealed. He watched with dread as the scene unfolded, unable to stop the madness that his father had wrought.

"All of the kingdoms have heard how you tortured Elia Martell with your court games, Aerys. I will not allow my sister to fall into the same fate!" Brandon Stark's voice rang out with fury, his words were as sharp as the steel he drew. Never one to cower, he unsheathed his sword in a flash, the cold steel gleaming in the torchlight. His hands trembled, but it was not fear—only rage, a burning, white-hot rage that consumed him. His eyes never left the Mad King, the tension in the room thick enough to choke on.

Aerys' gaze flicked over Brandon, amusement dancing in his maddened eyes. "So, the wolf bares his fangs, does he?" Aerys had sneered. "Do you truly think your little blade will change anything, Stark?"

But Brandon did not flinch, his fury only deepening. He would never let his sister fall victim to the twisted whims of the king who had already ruined so many lives. This was no longer about politics. This was about family. And there would be no turning back.

"Bring forth your champion!" the Stark heir bellowed, his voice cracking like thunder. "I will fight any of the King's guards for my sister's freedom!"

Rhaegar's heart sank at those words. Fool, he thought, his stomach tightened with dread. There was only one true champion of Aerys Targaryen, and it was not some knight. His father's thin, spidery fingers drummed eagerly on the jagged arm of the Iron Throne as he issued his command. "Seize him," Aerys said, the words dripped with sick delight.

What had come next was a horror beyond imagining.

Brandon was bound in chains, dragged before the court like a dog, and then suspended above a pit filled with green wildfire. The bitter stench of the noxious substance filled the air, causing the courtiers to cover their noses and avert their eyes. Rhaegar stood frozen, horror coursing through his veins like ice. Rickard Stark tried to reason with the king, to beg for his son's life. He threw himself to the ground, groveling in front of the Iron Throne like a common beggar. But it was already too late.

"Mercy?" Aerys cackled, his laughter was like the scraping of iron on stone. "You shall have your mercy, Stark. If you can simply touch your son as he is lowered into the flames, you both may go free."

The Gold Cloaks forced a noose around Lord Rickard's neck, binding him in place. He was positioned a calculated distance away, just out of reach of his son, who was slowly being lowered into the wildfire pit. The rules of this perverse game were simple and one Rhaegar knew very well: if Rickard could touch any part of Brandon's body before the wildfire consumed him, they would be spared. But it was a lie, a cruel jest from a madman. The noose was designed to tighten the more Rickard struggled, a twisted trick devised to turn the lord's desperation into his death sentence.

Rhaegar watched in silent horror as Lord Rickard strained against the rope, his hands clawing, his face turning crimson as he choked. Brandon screamed as the wildfire began to lick at his legs, his cries turning into a hellish symphony that filled the throne room with echoes of agony. It was the sound of madness, the sound of a family being torn apart in the name of a mad king's delusions.

Rickard's eyes bulged as the noose tightened, and with a sickening crack, the Lord of Winterfell was dead. Brandon's screams became shrieks, and then silence, as the wildfire devoured him, turning his flesh to charred bone.

The stench of burning flesh hung heavy in the air as Aerys laughed, clapping his hands like a gleeful child who had just witnessed a jester's trick. The courtiers stood in stunned silence, some retching on the stone floor, others turning away in disgust, few whispering to themselves as if trying to convince their minds that what they had just witnessed was some twisted nightmare.

But Rhaegar knew better. There would be no waking from this. The blood of the Starks had been spilled, and the Seven Kingdoms would drown in fire and blood because of it. As he looked upon the remains of Rickard and Brandon Stark, Rhaegar could feel the ground beneath him begin to crumble. This was not a single tragedy; it was the spark that would set the realm ablaze.

War was coming, and Rhaegar had known, deep in his heart, that he had already lost.

The throne room was thick with the stench of charred flesh and madness. Rhaegar stood there, frozen, the screams of Brandon Stark still ringing in his ears, the acidic taste of wildfire burning his throat. His father's laughter echoed like the shrill cries of some demonic bird, filling the vaulted halls with a sound that would haunt Rhaegar's dreams. He had pleaded with his father, tried to reason with him as Brandon had been dragged into that pit of green flame, but it had been like speaking to stone. The Mad King had only smiled, the glee of a madman dancing in his eyes.

In that moment, Rhaegar knew it was over—knew that his father's descent into madness had gone beyond the point of no return. He had seen the seeds of this madness before, long ago, when his father had first begun his descent into paranoia, but even he had not thought Aerys would go so far as to kill a warden and his heir in broad daylight. This was a madness that could not be contained, a wildfire that would consume them all.

The farce of a trial was over, and the court stood in stunned silence, too afraid to move, too afraid to speak. Lord Merryweather, the king's Hand, who had repeatedly screamed "End this madness," as Rickard and Brandon were dragged to their cruel endings, was silent for some time, his eyes were glistened with fear. His voice finally cracked with the desperation of a man who knew he was already damned, echoing through the quiet throne room. "You're insane!" he had said quietly at first, his words trembling in the cold air. But then, the weight of it all broke him, and he screamed, "You're truly insane, Aerys!"

The words hung in the air, and for a moment, it seemed as if the entire throne room held its breath, waiting for the Mad King's response But Aerys' smile only widened, his eyes glowing with that sickly light as he leaned forward on the Iron Throne, the jagged swords cutting into his flesh. "Burn him," Aerys said, with the utmost glee in his voice. "Burn the traitor and let his burning flesh light the King's Road. Let his screams be the music of my city."

Lord Merryweather's shrieks echoed as the Gold Cloaks dragged him away, his voice shrill with horror. "You've doomed us all, you madman! The Starks will burn this city to the ground!" But Aerys only watched, pleased with his handiwork, already scheming who next he might throw to the flames.

By dusk, the Mad King had appointed Jon Connington as his new Hand—a decision Rhaegar knew was nothing more than a means to tighten the noose around his own neck. Connington was a fierce and loyal man, but he was no fool; Jon had been brought in to keep the crown prince in line, to ensure that Rhaegar would not waver in his father's quest for blood.

And so, the ravens flew again, this time carrying Aerys' mad proclamations to every corner of the realm. In his own hand, scrawled in wild, uneven letters, the king wrote:

I am the King.

I am the blood of the Dragon.

I demand the heads of all my enemies.

Brandon Stark has confessed to me his crimes. He and his Lord father were burned for their transgressions!

Bring me every Stark head.

Bring me Hoster Tully's head.

Bring me Robert Baratheon's head.

Bring me Jon Arryn's head.

And you will be rewarded with life.

Defy me, and I will burn you all.

Aerys Targaryen Second of His Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and protector of the realm.

Rhaegar had read the letter, the parchment trembling in his hands. His father's writing was barely legible, the script jagged and frantic, the scrawlings of a madman trapped within his own mind. It would have been pathetic if it were not so terrifying. Rhaegar did not know whether to laugh or cry as he held the letter. The realm was splitting in half, and his father was stoking the fires.

The ravens' flight brought war, and now, every inch of Westeros was stained with blood and ashes. Lords who had once sworn fealty to House Targaryen turned their banners, and Aerys, in his madness, responded by burning more and more of his subjects. Every day, the city reeked of charred flesh as another so-called traitor was sent to the flames, their screams mingling with the cries of crows that circled the Red Keep like omens of doom.

This madness had driven Rhaegar to the Trident, where he faced his second cousin Robert Baratheon in combat. The realm had been plunged into chaos for the whims of a madman, and Rhaegar found himself fighting a man he had once called kin for reasons he could no longer remember. What was he fighting for? His father's madness? The ashes of a crumbling empire?

Rhaegar had felt the weight of his armor pressing down on him, the crimson rubies on his chestplate glinting in the dimming sun. He had donned it not for glory, but to protect what little remained of his broken house. As he watched Robert charging toward him, his warhammer raised, Rhaegar had wondered if perhaps this would be his final act. Perhaps it was better this way—to die here, on this blood-soaked field, than to watch his father's madness destroy everything he had ever cared for.

He had won battles before, but he was not sure he had ever truly known victory. The echoes of his father's madness had made sure of that. The drums of war beat louder, and the shadow of the dragon loomed over them all.

The clashing of steel and the cries of dying men surrounded them, but for Robert Baratheon and Rhaegar Targaryen, the battlefield had shrunk to the space between their clattering weapons. Their breaths came ragged, their eyes locked, and both knew what the other did: Rhaegar was losing.

The prince's elegant dance was no match for Robert's raw, unrelenting power. Every strike from that massive Warhammer drove Rhaegar back, the ground beneath his feet seeming to quake with each blow. It was no idle boast that Robert had the strength of a stag—no, he was the storm in human flesh, his hammer gleaming in the dimming light like the sun itself forged the weapon in molten bronze.

Rhaegar's arms ached, his breath was ragged, and with each swing, he knew he was moments from death. As Robert's hammer arced downward once more, aimed squarely for his chest, Rhaegar's defiance faltered. He had accepted it, then—his doom. There was no escaping the fury of Robert's rage. Closing his eyes, he had whispered his final pleas to the Seven: let Aegon and Rhaenys live peaceful lives, let his mad father's reign come to an end…

The world went dark. He had braced for the crushing blow, but instead of cold steel, he felt a warm spray upon his face. The sound that followed was not the crushing of his bones, but a wet, sickening squelch. Rhaegar's eyes flew open to find Robert Baratheon standing still before him, the light in those fiery blue eyes already dimming. And there, piercing through his skull, was a blade as pale as Robert's once shining eyes.

Dawn. The sword of legend. The sword of his friend.

Arthur Dayne stood behind the dying stag, his expression grim, untroubled by the dishonor of a blade driven through a man's face from behind. Robert's once-handsome features were now a ruin of blood and bone, the edge of Dawn protruding grotesquely between his eyes.

Rhaegar's heart twisted with a flood of emotions—relief, horror, shame. He had prayed for salvation, but this was no knightly triumph. It was a coward's kill, a betrayal of everything Arthur had once stood for. Yet Arthur's dark eyes met his, unflinching, and in them, Rhaegar saw a truth as cold and sharp as the blade itself: glory be damned, if it meant his prince could live another day.

But for what? Rhaegar wondered. What future had been bought with Robert's blood?

"Stand, Rhaegar! Rally the men, or we are lost!" Arthur's voice rang out, sharp and urgent, cutting through the haze that clouded the prince's mind. It took a hard shake from the Sword of the Morning to drag Rhaegar from the horror of what had just transpired, but at last, he found his feet. His legs trembled as though they might give way beneath him, but he forced them to hold.

The blood of Robert Baratheon clung to his face like a crimson mask, and with a shaking hand, he wiped it away, smearing it across his once-silver armor. His longsword lay discarded in the muck, its dark steel now mingled with mud and blood. Rhaegar retrieved it, feeling its weight settle in his grip. But the comfort that once came from holding his long-time blade was gone. The world around him was chaos—his men screaming, dying, driven back by the rebel forces surging at their flanks.

They were losing. He had known it from the moment their lines had first clashed, the rebel forces fighting with the desperation of men who had everything to gain. Rhaegar had gambled everything on this day. He thought that if he could fell Robert Baratheon, the rebellion would crumble, the men breaking without their leader to spur them on. Smash the head of the snake, and the body withers, his mad father had shrieked time and time again, perched upon that accursed Iron Throne like some twisted gargoyle. Aerys had taught his son little of worth, but this—this he had learned.

Yet now, as he stared into the blood-soaked morass, Rhaegar wondered if he had been a fool to think the death of one man could turn the tide of this war. The rebels fought like men possessed, and they were winning, driving his loyalists back step by bloody step.

"The line is failing, Rhaegar!" Arthur barked again, his voice harsh with urgency, his pale blade still gleaming wet with Robert's blood. "If we do not press them now, we will be surrounded!"

Rhaegar's voice was barely more than a whisper, swallowed by the clamor of steel and the screams of dying men. "We cannot break their line, Arthur," he said, his words faltering as he looked to the eastern flank where the knights of the Vale rode down his foot soldiers with ruthless precision. "The Stormlands cavalry... the Knights of the Vale... they are too strong." His voice wavered, thick with despair, and he wondered if his friend had even heard him through the din of battle.

Arthur's gaze did not waver, but Rhaegar saw the flicker of something behind his friend's calculating, violet eyes. Doubt, perhaps, or a reluctant acknowledgment that their doom was fast approaching. He had heard Rhaegar's words, and though he said nothing, his silence spoke volumes. Arthur Dayne was no fool. The tide of battle was shifting, their men faltering, their lines breaking like sand before the tide. The loyalist forces were on the brink of collapse, and they both knew it.

For a long moment, the two friends stood amid the chaos, the air thick with the cries of dying men, the clash of steel, and the scent of blood. At last, Arthur shook his head, as if trying to dismiss the grim reality that Rhaegar's whispered admission had revealed. But he did not argue, for there was nothing left to say. They were cornered, backs pressed against the edge of ruin, and honor was a luxury neither could afford.

"I know how we can win this, Arthur," Rhaegar said, his voice low, almost lost amid the cacophony of the battlefield. His tone was steady, but there was a darkness in his eyes, a desperation. "It won't be pretty, and the Gods will curse my name for it, but if it saves my family and stops my father from dragging this realm further into madness, then so be it."

Arthur's breath caught in his throat. The weight of those words hung heavy between them. "What would you have us do?" Arthur asked, though his eyes betrayed him.

Rhaegar's eyes burned with a cold resolve. "Robert's head," he said flatly, lifting his longsword ever so slightly, the dark steel catching the fading light. "I will take it. And I will raise it high for all the rebels to see. Let them know their great stag is dead. It might break them—shatter their will to fight."

Arthur's face paled, his lips pressed into a thin line. For all the battles they had fought together, all the blood they had spilled, this was different. To desecrate the body of a fallen warrior, to parade the head of Robert Baratheon like a prize—it was an act that would stain Rhaegar's soul. The Gods would not forgive it, and neither would men. The whispers of such dishonor would haunt him to his grave, casting a shadow over House Targaryen that might never lift.

Arthur swallowed, his jaw clenched tight. "This... this is no knightly act, Rhaegar," he said quietly, a plea hidden within his words. "The Seven, the old Gods—they will curse you for it."

Rhaegar's laughter was bitter, a hollow sound that held no mirth. "Let them," he said darkly. "What is honor to a corpse? What is honor to fatherless children? If I must be cursed, then let me be cursed, so long as my children get to see another day."

Arthur looked at his prince, the man he had followed into hell and back. There was no turning back now, not from this path. Rhaegar was willing to cast aside his honor, his very soul, if it meant securing a future free from his father's madness.

With a heavy sigh, Arthur nodded, though his eyes was heavy with the weight of it. "Very well," he said, voice barely more than a whisper. "But know this, Rhaegar... there is no undoing what you are about to do. Once you raise that head for all to see, you will have no honor. Not in the eyes of men, and not in the eyes of the Gods."

Rhaegar's gaze was distant, his expression hardened into something unrecognizable. "Honor is a luxury I can no longer afford," he said, and with that, he strode toward Robert's lifeless body, his sword glinting darkly in the dying sunlight.

Arthur only watched as Rhaegar Targaryen, the last sane dragon, began his descent into the darkness.

"Very well, my prince," he said, his voice a whisper amidst the battlefield. "I will ride with you into the storm, and I shall be your shield in the darkness." Rhaegar nodded, a silent gratitude passing between them that needed no words. Arthur, ever loyal, would not abandon him—not now, not when the end seemed so near.

A scream pierced the chaos, a Northern soldier charging at them with a wild battle cry, "The North remembers!" But Arthur's blade was swifter than the man's cry. Dawn cut through the air in a gleaming arc, and the rider fell, lifeless, before he could bring his sword down. Without missing a beat, Arthur took the fallen man's horse, mounting it with the grace and ease of a Dornishman.

What followed was a blur, a nightmare that would haunt Rhaegar's dreams for as long as he drew breath. Robert Baratheon's body lay heavy and still, his once-mighty form brought low. Rhaegar approached, the steel of his longsword held high, shimmering darkly in the fading light. His heart thundered in his chest, each beat echoing like a death knell. One swift swing, clean and precise, severed the head of the fallen stag. The sound of it was sickening, but it was drowned beneath the screams of men and the clash of arms. Rhaegar could not allow himself to feel anything—not regret, not guilt—only the cold, pitiless resolve to end this rebellion.

Blood dripped from the severed head, staining the ground beneath him, but there was no time to dwell on the horror of it. Rhaegar and Arthur turned their horses, spurring them forward through the chaos. They rode as if death itself pursued them, the severed head of Robert Baratheon dangling from the saddlebag of the black destrier, a macabre trophy meant to break the spirit of the rebels. Vale knights, Rivermen, and Northerners alike tried to cut them down, their blades and axes flashing in the fire-lit haze, but none could withstand the fury of Arthur Dayne and the Dragon Prince.

Dawn and Rhaegar's longsword became twin reapers, each swing cutting down men who dared block their path. The loyalist forces were scattered, breaking before the tide of the rebellion, but for a moment, amidst the chaos, Rhaegar and Arthur carved a bloody path to the heart of the battlefield.

They reached a clearing—a small, blood-soaked respite where the battle thinned. Rhaegar knew this was his chance, their last hope to break the rebel lines. He turned to Arthur, his voice raw with urgency. "Arthur, find me a horn. We end this, now."

Dawn flashed from its scabbard as Arthur dismounted his horse. He advanced, daring any man to stand against him. But none were so foolish; even in the chaos, the legend of the Sword of the Morning was enough to freeze men's hearts. With a single, savage look, Arthur drove back those who might have been bold enough to challenge him, threatening to cut down those foolish enough to try.

Arthur's eyes were sharp with purpose as he nodded to Rhaegar. "A horn, my prince. I'll find one," he promised, his voice firm. Without wasting another moment, he sprinted away, cutting through the chaotic throng. The air was thick with the scent of blood and the screams of dying men, as Rhaegar watched Arthur move with the grace of a twinkling star, singularly focused on his task.

The sword of the morning weaved through the muddied battlefield, dodging the wild swings of rebel swordsmen and the thrashing hooves of panicked horses. His cloak, once white, was now streaked with crimson and filth, yet it still marked him as a knight of the Kingsguard, enough to make even the most battle-hardened foes hesitate. Arthur did not slow to engage any of the rebellion forces, Rhaegar was thankful for this—every moment wasted was another loss for the loyalists.

Ahead, the remnants of the Targaryen and Martell forces were still locked in desperate combat, trying to hold the flank. Rhaegar's keen eyes scanned the chaos, seeing Arthur search for anything that could serve their purpose. At last, Arthur spotted it: a battered horn, slung over the shoulder of a fallen Tyrell bannerman. Arthur dove forward, grabbing the bloodied horn from the corpse's grip.

As he turned to race back to Rhaegar, a Northern axeman lunged at him, shouting, "For House Stark!" But Arthur's sword was quicker. Dawn flashed, and the man fell, lifeless, before he could land his blow. Arthur did not linger.

Clutching the horn, Arthur fought his way back toward the heart of the battlefield where Rhaegar awaited. Every second felt like an eternity, the weight of what they were about to do pressing heavily upon his shoulders. Rhaegar's command was clear, and he knew Arthur would not fail him now—not when they stood at the edge of oblivion.

Arthur arrived at Rhaegar's side, breathless, the battered horn in hand. Without a word, he lifted it to his lips. The sound that followed was deep and mournful, like the cry of a wounded dragon. The horn's bellow echoed across the battlefield, cutting through the screams and clashing steel. It was not a call to rally, but a final, desperate plea—a signal to the remnants of their scattered forces.

Rhaegar stood in the clearing, blood-slicked and weary, yet still defiant as the tide of battle surged around him. With Robert's severed head raised high, the prince's voice carried like a thunderclap over the cacophony of war.

"Your leader is dead!" Rhaegar roared, his voice cracking with the weight of desperation. Blood dripped from the grisly trophy in his hand, each drop a cruel punctuation to his words. "Lay down your arms, or be damned like the Stag!"

For a moment, there was silence. Then, like the crash of a wave upon a shore, the loyalists roared as one, a final surge of defiance in the face of overwhelming odds. The rebels, disheartened and leaderless, began to waver, their will to fight draining away with every passing second.

Rhaegar did not lower Robert's head as the horn's wail faded into the distance. He kept it held high, his eyes burning with a fury that could have rivaled his father's madness. As the echoes of the horn lingered in the cold air, the battlefield shifted. Here and there, loyalist soldiers who had been on the verge of breaking now turned back to the fight, spurred on by the trophy presented by the crowned prince.

Arthur to his side, blood splattered across his white cloak, eyes dark with unspoken thoughts uttered "It is done, my prince," though there was no triumph in his voice. Only the heavy weight of what they had sacrificed to win this day.

Rhaegar merely nodded, his face a mask of exhaustion and hollow regret. He had preserved his family's fragile hold on the throne, for now, but at a cost that no horn or battlefield triumph could ever cleanse. The weight of what he had done would haunt him for the rest of his days, like a shadow he could never outrun.

As the echo of the horn's mournful cry faded, the battlefield around him was a twisted tapestry of blood and bodies. Rhaegar's eyes flickered over the gathered men—Northern rebels and Stormlanders alike. He could see the hunger in their eyes, the silent calculation behind their stares, as if he were a maiden to be claimed on their wedding night. These men could end this war right here, he thought bitterly. My head would be worth thousands of golden dragons if delivered to a Stark or Baratheon.

But Rhaegar Targaryen was not one to surrender so easily. He was the blood of the dragon, and even if his heart was heavy with doubt, his sword hand remained steady. They may fear Arthur, he thought, glancing at his steadfast friend who stood like a lion guarding its cub, completely uncontested. But they do not fear me. Or perhaps, their greed is stronger than any fear.

A ragged cry rose from the ranks of the rebel soldiers, and the first of them—a Stormlander with desperation in his eyes—charged forward, brandishing a pitifully dull sword. Rhaegar sidestepped the wild swing with fluid grace and drove his longsword through the man's chest, feeling the sickening crunch of ribs as the blade pierced his heart. The stormlander gasped, eyes widening in shock, before he crumpled at Rhaegar's feet.

No sooner had Rhaegar withdrawn his blood-slicked sword than another attacker, this one a grizzled Northman wielding a heavy axe, came barreling toward him, roaring about vengeance for Brandon Stark. The Northerner's swings were wild and undisciplined, fueled more by rage than skill. Rhaegar parried easily, the clash of steel ringing through the air, before a swift upward stroke disarmed the man. With a single, brutal downward strike, Rhaegar split the Northerner's head nearly in two, the blood spraying like mist in the cold air.

But they kept coming. Seeing the folly of attacking one by one, six more soldiers—men of the Riverlands, desperate and driven by the hope of glory—rushed together, their swords glinting in the dying light. They came at him and Arthur from all sides, swinging and screaming in a frenzy, hoping to overwhelm the dragon prince and his sworn shield with sheer numbers.

Rhaegar's eyes narrowed, his mind as sharp as the blade in his hand. Let them come, he thought, his resolve hardening. I am not done yet.

The Riverlanders charged, their swords raised, but they lacked the precision to strike down the prince. Rhaegar's every movement was fluid and deadly—sidestepping, slashing, cutting down one foe after another with ruthless efficiency. This is my everything, he thought grimly as the clang of steel filled the air, I cannot fail my children and the realm now.

With a decisive strike, he cleaved through the first man's defense, sending the soldier crashing to the earth in a heap. Another came from his right, but Rhaegar's longsword met the blow with such force that the Riverlander's weapon splintered, leaving him wide open for the final cut. A third attacked with a vicious downward swing, but Rhaegar's blade intercepted the blow with a parry that sent the soldier tumbling to the ground, his life snuffed out after Rhager plunged his sword into the heart of the now-beaten man.

Minutes passed in a blur—Rhaegar cutting, sidestepping, and slashing with all his strength. The clash of steel rang in his ears, each blow of his sword met with the satisfying thud of a man crumpling to the earth. His arms burned, but he did not stop. He could not stop. Fourteen bodies littered the ground around them before he even had time to catch his breath. Blood and bile soaked his armor, dripping from his brow like sweat. As the adrenaline ebbed away, he realized that the rest of the men—those who had been too hesitant to attack—were now fleeing, the fear of death settling into their bones.

Despite the carnage around them, Arthur had not broken a sweat—his movements as effortless as ever, having cleaved through several knights of the Vale without so much as a hitch in his stride. His white cloak was stained with blood, but there was no sign of the wear that Rhaegar felt in his bones.

"Robert Baratheon is dead. Lay down your swords and you may live to see another day," Rhaegar's voice once again rang out over the battlefield, though he knew the words were a bluff. He did not have the strength to slay the remaining rebellious forces—his men were scattered, broken, and their morale shattered. But still, he pressed on, hoping to sow doubt in the hearts of the rebels.

At first, there was only silence, a hesitant pause, but then—like the first stone of an avalanche—a few Stormlanders dropped their swords. And with that, Rhaegar knew the tide had turned. Slowly, surely, the floodgates opened. The Riverlanders and Knights of the Vale followed suit, their weapons clattering to the blood-soaked earth.

The Northerners, though, were different. They were the last to yield, their loyalty to their own more unshakable than any other. Rhaegar knew that they would not bow easily—not after everything his family had done to them. The Northern force had been a thorn in House Targaryen's side for several moons now, fighting more like savages than the experienced knights expected from a well-fielded Westerosi army. Their tactics were brutal, refined, and unpredictable—striking from the shadows, using the land itself as an ally. They were a reflection of the harshness of their homeland, where only the strong survived, and where the warmth of a fire could not always shield against the unforgiving cold. They fought not for glory, but for revenge, driven by an ancestral fury that Rhaegar could not fully understand. But without the support of the other forces, he could see their resolve faltering. Outnumbered three to one, the Northerners would be hard-pressed to hold their ground much longer.

"Bend the knee," Rhaegar called once more, his voice low but firm, "and all of your crimes will be forgiven. This is a new day in Westeros."

He nodded to Arthur Dayne, silently giving him permission to oversee the treatment of the prisoners after all soldiers eventually discarded their weapons. The Tarly commander, ever stoic, met his gaze, acknowledging their accomplishment on the battlefield today.

Rhaegar's eyes flicked back to the prisoners, where the remaining rebels stood, their hands shaking but their pride still intact.

"Lord Tarly, you will take whatever abled men you can and reinforce our vanguard," Rhaegar said, his voice hardening, as though each word was tempered in ice. "Their strength is spent, but we must make sure the battle is done. Take reinforcements from the reserves. The rebels will not rise again."

"What about our eastern flank, my prince? It's all been decimated," Lord Tarly inquired, his voice flat, betraying no emotion despite the bloodstains that marred his face.

"Once you crush the rebels' vanguard, Lord Tarly, I expect the eastern flank to turn their attention to your forces," Rhaegar replied with calculated precision. "You will have the field advantage at that point, and you will ride your cavalry to crush what remains of the eastern flank."

Lord Tarly simply nodded, understanding the cunning in the Crown Prince's battle strategy. This ploy could only work because we have won the western flank, Rhaegar thought, the strategy forming in his mind like a well-laid Cyvasse. He knew the key to victory was to trap the rebels, to corner them and sever their last line of retreat. The eastern flank was originally lost to the loyalists, but they had the momentum now—and that was all they needed.

With that, Lord Tarly spurred his horse and rode off to carry out his orders, leaving Rhaegar standing amidst the chaos, his mind already moving to the next phase of the battle. The storm was almost over. The rebels would break, and then, at last, peace would return—at a terrible cost.

Rhaegar turned his gaze back to the horizon, knowing that this day—though it had been won—would be remembered for the blood that had been spilled.

With the western flank now secured and under loyalist control, Rhaegar turned his attention to the vanguard of the rebellion, where the Stark and Tully banners still flew defiantly in the biting wind. The storm of battle had begun to slow, but the enemy forces remained a threat.

Rhaegar rode hard once more, the thunder of hooves pounding beneath him as he made his way past the vicious skirmishes that continued to rage along the front line. His mind was focused; he had already secured his victory on the western flank. Now, his eyes were set on the heart of the rebellion. He had to end it. Now.

The Stark and Tully tents loomed ahead of the ongoing fighting in the vanguard, and Rhaegar couldn't help but notice the strangely sparse guard around them. As he dismounted his horse and drew his sword, a cold suspicion crept into his mind. He moved swiftly, his cloak fluttering behind him as he neared the tents.

Slipping into the command tent, he found himself face-to-face with a surprised Hoster Tully, clad in his red and blue armor, and Lord Jon Arryn, his stern face creased in confusion. Both lords immediately unsheathed their swords, but Rhaegar's calm demeanor and the ease with which he held his own sword made it clear to them that they were outmatched.

"How did you pass our vanguard, Dragon spawn?" Hoster spat, his voice full of venom. His ancestral Valyrian steel was pointed directly at Rhaegar, but the prince wasn't intimidated. He could see the flicker of uncertainty in the older man's eyes. Both lords were nearing the end of their fighting primes—Rhaegar knew they were no longer the formidable warriors they once were.

"I did not come to fight," Rhaegar replied, his tone steady as he sheathed his sword. There was no need for bloodshed here. Not yet. "I come with words, not steel."

Hoster sneered, stepping closer, his face flushed with anger. "You come to gloat? To boast of your victory on the western flank?"

Rhaegar's eyes narrowed, and he took a deep breath before speaking. "Lord Eddard Stark is on the battlefield, I presume?" He did not wait for confirmation; he already knew. The Starks were a proud and honorable house, too proud to allow their forces to fight a battle they did not believe in.

"Aye, Rhaegar," Hoster Tully answered, his words thick with bitterness. "He fights for his family, and for the end of 300 years of Targaryen tyranny."

Rhaegar did not flinch. "I have killed Robert Baratheon. Your rebellion is dead." His voice was cold, the words like a hammer striking iron.

For a moment, there was only silence. Hoster's face went pale as the words sank in. He opened his mouth to speak, but the words were lost. Jon Arryn muttered a curse under his breath, sheathing his sword back into its scabbard, his brow furrowing as he weighed the truth of the prince's words.

"Another Targaryen lie," Hoster growled, his voice filled with disbelief. "Robert would never fall to the likes of you."

Rhaegar's gaze hardened. "I have Robert Baratheon's head in my saddlebag. Your men on the western flank are surrendering. Your forces are broken." He met Hoster's eyes with an unwavering gaze. "Lord Tarly has taken command of the reserves. They will reinforce the loyalist vanguard and crush what's left of your eastern flank. After that, the battle will be done. Your rebellion will end."

The weight of Rhaegar's words hung heavy in the tent. Hoster Tully's grip on his sword tightened, but there was no denying the truth. Rhaegar could see the resignation in the older man's eyes—he knew the rebellion was doomed, but his pride wouldn't let him accept it just yet.

"You will not leave this tent, my lords," Rhaegar said coldly, not waiting for a response. His mind was already on the battlefield, and his victory was assured. This was the end of the rebellion, and no further blood would be shed here—at least not today.

"My offer is this," Rhaegar said, his voice measured and calm. "Fly the white banners and bend the knee to me, and none of your men need die." He pulled a chair from the corner of the tent and took a seat, his posture regal, his eyes cold with the weight of his words. He was ready to be the king Westeros needed, to bring an end to the bloodshed, even if it meant the rebellion had to bow before him, broken.

Hoster Tully clenched his jaw, his longsword still drawn, eyes flicking between Rhaegar and Lord Arryn. He could see the doubt in the older lord's eyes, the silent calculation. Tully was no fool, but his temper was sharp, and the defeat he had suffered stung like salt in a wound. Still, the choice was clear, and after several seconds of silent, angry glaring, Hoster slowly sheathed his sword. He took his seat next to Jon Arryn, his body tense, as if bracing for an argument that he could not afford to lose.

Rhaegar let out a quiet sigh, rubbing his forehead. How did it ever get to this? he thought, his mind briefly drifting into the bleakness of the situation. The dream of a peaceful Westeros, a united realm—was it even possible now?

"These are my terms," Rhaegar continued, his tone hardening with the gravity of what he was about to propose. "To end this rebellion, I will unseat my father and sit the Iron Throne myself. None of the lords who have rebelled, nor your men, will lose their heads—provided they have not committed heinous crimes against the people of Westeros."

He paused, watching Hoster Tully's expression shift between incredulity and suspicion. "No major lords will lose their seats or their lands. I will honor the integrity of the realm, as best as I can. It is not my wish to see this realm burned to ash."

Rhaegar leaned forward, his voice lowering as he spoke of a matter that he knew would change everything. "Furthermore, I will honor my betrothal and take Lyanna Stark as my wife. She will not be a hostage, nor will she be mistreated. She will be the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms"

Hoster Tully's jaw tightened once more at the mention of Lyanna Stark, but it was Jon Arryn whose face betrayed a flicker of surprise. His eyes flickered to Rhaegar, searching for any hint of deceit, any sign that the prince might have gone mad. But Rhaegar's gaze was unwavering, his words calculated.

"Why continue this farce of a betrothal to Lyanna Stark?" the ever contemplative Lord of the Vale asked, his voice carrying a weight of both suspicion and disbelief.

Rhaegar did not wish to take Lyanna Stark as his bride either. When he had last seen her, she had been just coming into womanhood—much younger than Rhaegar would have liked. No doubt the she-wolf was a woman grown now, after nearly two years of war. But his martial options were limited. He had the allegiance of House Martell, for their blood would sit on the Iron Throne, but the Baratheons had no eligible lady for him to marry. Tywin's eldest daughter, Cersei, was a viable option that Jon Connington had pushed for, but Rhaegar was inclined to avoid bringing more Lions into his new realm. No, he would have to find another way to appease the old lion. He would not be a prisoner to Tywin Lannister's ambitions, nor would he be trapped in a marriage with Cersei, her cold, calculating green eyes always watching him.

Lyanna Stark, on the other hand, was the logical choice. She would bind the Starks to the Iron Throne, and through them, the Baratheons, Tullys, and Arryns would follow suit—whether to doom or glory.

Rhaegar had discussed this possibility with Jon Connington prior to marching to the Trident.

"Robert will be furious if he knows you plan on keeping your betrothal to Lyanna," Jon had warned, his voice low as they walked through the royal garden beneath the gleaming sun.

That's assuming I can win this war, Rhaegar had thought darkly but said nothing, only sighing.

"I still think Cersei is the best match. Reach out to Tywin Lannister. Inform him you will marry his daughter. That should stir the old lion to march the entire strength of Casterly Rock to crush the rebellion."

Jon spoke the truth, but Rhaegar would not be bound by the Lion. He had no intention of owing Tywin a debt, nor would he marry for an army. His reign, after the rebellion, had to be about more than winning battles—it had to be about peace.

"The North will never bend the knee if I do not marry Lyanna Stark. You know this, Jon. The North effectively controls three other kingdoms. I will not be known as the king who lost the Seven Kingdoms."

"I will marry the girl," Rhaegar had said, ending their discussion, though neither of them was truly convinced.

Rhaegar's mind snapped back to the present, away from the fleeting thoughts of schemes long discussed in the royal gardens of King's Landing. He focused once more on the matter at hand, his eyes narrowing as he addressed Lord Jon Arryn, the tension in the tent thickening.

"The Starks will never accept. Eddard will be more likely to march north and wall up his kingdom, and Lyanna Stark will never agree to marry into the family that killed her brother and father." Lord Arryn's words were as sharp as they were true, and Rhaegar felt them keenly, the weight of reality pressing down on him.

"If the winds are to be believed, Eddard Stark is an honorable man who will see reason. He will want an end to this rebellion, and he will convince his sister to marry me for peace," Rhaegar replied, his tone tinged with a flicker of uncertainty. He knew the words sounded weak even to his own ears, a thin hope stretched too thin, but it was all he had left to cling to.

Jon Arryn did not appear convinced, his stoic expression betraying nothing but quiet skepticism. He nodded slowly, his lips pressed in a tight line as he considered the prince's words. But he said no more on the matter, the silence between them growing heavy with unspoken truths.

The room fell silent, the air thick with the knowledge of what was to come. Each man was lost in his own thoughts, the burden of the decisions weighing on them both. They were not simply navigating political alliances or waging a rebellion; they were fighting for the very soul of the realm. And with every choice made, the stakes grew higher, and the danger more perilous.

Rhaegar stared into the dim light of the tent, knowing that the game they played was one of power, but also of survival—and that the price of failure would be far greater than either of them could afford.

"I am not my father," Rhaegar continued, his voice quieter now, more personal. "No man, woman, or child shall be burned under my reign. The use of wildfire will be banned in Westeros. No lord or knight shall lose their head unjustly without a fair trial. This will be a kingdom of law, not of fear."

He looked between the two men, his gaze piercing. "Accept these terms for peace, and we can all return to our homes without further bloodshed. Decline... and my men will march on your lands and sack your castles once this battle is won."

The silence that followed was thick, heavy. Hoster Tully's face was flushed with anger, but beneath that, there was doubt—doubt that he was unwilling to speak aloud, not yet. Lord Arryn's face remained an unreadable mask, his eyes still trained on Rhaegar, searching for any sign of the madness that had gripped the Targaryens before him.

"Why should we bend the knee to the Mad King's son?" Hoster spat, his voice rising in frustration. "He could very well burn us all, just as his father would. Why should we trust him?". Hoster Tully turned to Jon Arryn for support, hoping the older man would see reason. But Rhaegar could see the conflict in Lord Arryn's eyes. The choice wasn't as simple as Tully made it out to seem. A kingdom built on bloodshed might not last, but a kingdom built on promises might collapse just as quickly.

The weight of history, of their fathers' blood, hung in the air. The rebellion might be almost over, but the war for the soul of Westeros had only just begun.

"We are winning this war, Jon," Hoster Tully said, his voice edged with grim certainty. "This is our first defeat in battle. We cannot lose faith now."

Rhaegar frowned at the admission. Hoster wasn't wrong about the current trajectory of the war, the admission of this fact stung. The loyalist forces were being slaughtered across Westeros, their numbers dwindling as the rebellion gained ground. The Targaryen forces were badly losing this battle—until Arthur Dayne had killed Robert Baratheon. It was a victory, but a hollow one. Would the loss of the Stormlands' heir be enough to break the rebellion's spirit? Rhaegar had to believe it, for the alternative was unthinkable.

At the outset of the war, the rebellion had numbered an impressive 95,000 men: 20,000 Stormlanders, 20,000 Northerners, 15,000 Rivermen, and 40,000 Knights of the Vale. The loyalist forces had been slightly superior, boasting 110,000 men: 70,000 Reachmen, 15,000 Crownlanders, 5,000 men-at-arms from Dragonstone, and 20,000 Dornish spears. Numbers, however, rarely won wars. Men do, Ser Barristan the Bold's words echoed in Rhaegar's mind.

While the loyalists had the advantage on paper, many of House Targaryen's war commanders had underestimated the apathy of their soldiers. They had little loyalty to the crown, and less to a Mad King who had made enemies out of every corner of the realm. The rebellion's forces, driven by passion and revenge, had decimated the Targaryen loyalists at every turn. They fought not out of duty but because of the fire that burned within them—fire that had been stoked by Robert Baratheon's war cries and the vengeful Northerners. The loyalists, however, were merely fighting to survive. They had no love for the Targaryen cause, and no reason to bleed for a king who would gladly burn them all.

Damn that old lion, Tywin Lannister, Rhaegar thought bitterly. If Casterly Rock had joined the war, if Tywin had called his banners, the Baratheon-Stark-Tully-Arryn alliance would have crumbled before it even began. Even Robert Baratheon, with his reckless pride, would have known better than to lead his men into battle against an army that outnumbered his own nearly two to one.

Rhaegar's gaze darkened as he glared at Hoster Tully. "Aye, you were winning this war when the figurehead of your rebellion was rallying men to fight against impossible odds," he said, his voice cold with bitterness. "But now he is dead. How long do you think your men will last, Hoster, without Robert Baratheon charging headfirst into battle? Without him spurring them on, how long before they lose heart?"

Hoster Tully's face tightened with a bitter sigh, conceding the wisdom in Rhaegar's words. Eddard Stark might be a skilled fighter and an honorable man, but he was no leader of soldiers in the same way that Robert had been. Rhaegar knew it—he had seen it on the battlefield.

"What will happen to your father?" Lord Arryn asked bluntly, his tone matter-of-fact. "Surely Lord Stark will want his head for all the crimes committed against his family."

Rhaegar stiffened. The question was too direct, too complex to answer easily. He had little time to contemplate what would happen to Aerys. His focus had been on his children's safety, on securing the Targaryen stronghold, on pushing back the rebellion forces, who seemed as undeterred as ever.

How long could he maintain the peace, and for whom? He had the Iron Throne in his sights, but the cost of claiming it was far steeper than he had ever imagined.

"Please, Rhaegar, listen to me," Jon Connington implored, his voice urgent, his eyes bloodshot from the sleepless night. "Your father is slipping further into madness. Take the crown, take your father's head. Present it to Eddard Stark and Robert Baratheon, and pray they are merciful"

The sunlight waned as the last of the golden rays flickered across the well-appointed chamber of the Targaryen prince. The shadows stretched long on the stone walls as dusk crept through the Red Keep. Rhaegar, standing at the window, glanced toward the horizon where the sky was beginning to darken.

"Stop this madness, Jon," Rhaegar replied, his voice hard as steel. "I will not be known as a kinslayer, nor a usurper. I will continue to deter my father as best I can, and pray to the Seven that he does not commit any more heinous crimes before the Stranger eventually comes for him."

His hands clenched, his jaw tight with resolve. The Red Keep was full of eyes—spiders as some called them, crawling through the stonewalls—and even here, even in the safety of his chambers, treasonous talk could get them both burned. His father's reach stretched farther than the crown itself.

Jon Connington did not look convinced, his brow furrowed in doubt. He had seen what happened just hours before in the throne room, and the horrors of that moment had left their mark. The scent of burning flesh still hung in the air, clinging to the fabric of the room like a lingering stench, refusing to fade.

A boy, no older than two and ten, had been caught stealing from a baker's shop. Under normal circumstances, such petty theft would have been dealt with swiftly by the lords of Crownlands, a swift punishment of losing a finger, perhaps even a hand. But Aerys Targaryen had decreed that all thefts be reported to him for judgment before the Iron Throne. And the punishment, the only punishment, was always the same: death by fire.

Rhaegar and Jon had tried to intervene, tried to save the boy from his doomed fate. They had begged his father to take the boy's hand, to take his arm, to show mercy in the face of such a minor crime. But Aerys had been immovable, his madness implacable.

"Burn the boy. Burn the boy. Burn the boy!" Aerys had hissed the chant like a song, a mantra even, his voice carrying across the cold stone walls of the throne room. Minor lords looked away in disgust, while the boy's mother screamed for mercy, her voice a shrill wail in the oppressive silence.

The boy, terrified, pleaded for his life, but it was all in vain. He was strapped to the brazier, his flesh exposed to the flames, awaiting the inevitable. The King's Guard stood at attention, impassive, as Rhaegar could do nothing but watch in horror. The fire flared, and the boy's cries were replaced with shrieks of agony as the wildfire consumed him.

Rhaegar could feel the heat of the flames in his chest, a tightness gripping his heart as the boy's screams dwindled into silence. Make it stop, make it stop was all Rhaegar could think, his mind screaming even as his body remained still, paralyzed by the sight.

When it was over, Aerys had spoken coldly, with a cruel satisfaction. "Hang the boy's body in the streets of Flea Bottom. Let them see what happens when someone disobeys their king's command."

The Gold Cloaks had complied, their faces impassive as they pulled the lifeless charred remains from the flames and strung it up for all to see.

"This cannot continue, Rhaegar," Jon said, his voice tight with urgency. "Any day now, Aerys could burn you and your children. He will burn King's Landing to the ground before he lets Robert Baratheon storm the city".

Rhaegar's fist clenched involuntarily, the memory of a conversation with the Lord of Griffin's Roost from over two years ago flooding back to him. Jon's words echoed in his mind with cruel clarity. He was right, Rhaegar thought bitterly. All of this needless bloodshed, all of this could have been avoided if I had been a man of tougher steel.

He chuckled darkly under his breath, the sound bitter and hollow. There was no undoing what the Mad King had done. The crown was as much a burden as it was a prize, and Rhaegar was beginning to wonder if it was worth the cost of what it had already taken from him.

Two years ago, betraying his father had been unthinkable, a betrayal of everything he had been raised to believe. Now, the truth gnawed at him like a festering wound, and Rhaegar knew the time had come. His eyes met Jon Arryn's, steady, unflinching, as he spoke in a voice stripped of any false hope.

"I will not kill my father. I am no kinslayer." His words were firm, yet his heart ached with the weight of the decision that had already begun to shape his destiny. "My father will abdicate the throne, and spend the rest of his days in a cell, where he can no longer burn innocents for his pleasure."

Jon Arryn's frown deepened, his face betraying his disquiet. The stoic lord, who had spent a lifetime in service to the realm, seemed to shrink beneath the gravity of what Rhaegar had just proposed. "Lord Eddard will not be satisfied with this compromise, Prince Rhaegar. Aerys burned his father and his brother in the cruelest way possible. How can you ask him to accept such an offer?"

Rhaegar's gaze softened. The pain that had been haunting him since the day the rebellion began flared again, a deep sense of helplessness mingled with a new, steely resolve. "That is your job, Lord Arryn," he said, his voice cool, the weight of his crown already settling on his brow. "I entrust you to convince Eddard Stark to reach a peaceful agreement. Taking my father's head will not bring back Rickard or Brandon Stark. You must convince him."

Lord Arryn nodded slowly, though his eyes betrayed doubt. He turned toward Hoster Tully, who stood watching the exchange with increasing disbelief.

Hoster's voice cut through the tension like a jagged blade. "You mean for us to bend the knee, end a war that we are winning, and our only consolation prize will be another Targaryen spawn sitting on the Iron Throne?" His words were filled with disdain, the sharpness of his gaze never leaving Rhaegar.

"I am offering all of you a chance to keep your titles, and more importantly, your heads, once I inevitably take the throne." Rhaegar's words were cold, his tone as unforgiving as the steel of his sword. Rhaegar's eyes met Hoster's with cold intensity, knowing full well that the Tully lord would be a problem waiting to happen. I will be watching you closely once I sit upon the Iron Throne, he thought, his mind already calculating the potential uprisings Hoster Tully could cause.

Hoster snorted in disbelief. "And what of the Stormlands? How do you think they'll react when you present Robert's head to them? The Stormlanders, the Baratheon bannermen who fought so fiercely for him—they'll be more likely to declare independence than kneel to a Targaryen."

Rhaegar's eyes narrowed, his mind already racing through the intricacies of the war. "The Stormlands are under siege by Mace Tyrell. If the ravens are to be believed, Stannis will not hold out much longer. What do you think will happen when we present Robert's head outside the gates of Storm's End, Hoster?" He leaned forward, his voice low and calculating. "The Stormlanders will abandon Stannis and return to their homes. Your allied forces will not gain those 5,000 abled-bodied men garrisoned at Storm's End. No Stormlands lord will levy a new army for your rebellion. Once the siege is broken, Mace Tyrell will be free to march, bolstering the loyalist ranks and strengthening our position with over 50,000 men."

A long pause hung in the air as Rhaegar's words sank in. Hoster Tully's face twisted in anger, but Rhaegar's resolve was ironclad.

"I swear on my honor, Robert Baratheon's head and bones will be returned to Storm's End for proper burial. Stannis Baratheon will rule the Stormlands." Rhaegar's words were final, his intent clear.

Hoster's lip curled with contempt. "A Targaryen's honor? Worth as much as the encouraging words of a common whore in a tavern." He sneered, his disdain palpable.

Rhaegar's eyes flashed, but he said nothing. The insult stung, but it wasn't worth the fight. Not now. The prize was too great.

Jon Arryn, realizing that their negotiations were going nowhere with Hoster continuing to antagonize the Targaryen prince, rose from his seat. His gaze softened as he extended a hand toward the Crowned Prince.

"We will tentatively accept your terms, Prince Rhaegar," Lord Arryn said, his voice weary but resolute. "I will speak to Lord Stark and discuss the finer points. We must find a solution to this bloodshed, or it will consume us all."

Rhaegar clasped the hand that was offered, though the gesture felt like a farce. The road ahead would not be easy, and the blood of countless men would stain his hands before this war was done. But peace... peace was within his grasp. And he would not let it slip through his fingers.

Rhaegar shook the hand, promising to call for a temporary ceasefire between the warring factions. Hoster Tully, however, refused to acknowledge the Prince of Westeros, scoffing loudly before storming out of the tent, his fury palpable.

The rest of the day passed in a blur of tense negotiations, the lords of Westeros locked in heated arguments long into the night, past the hour of the eel. Hours stretched into the early morning as shouting and glares between the Northern lords and loyalists continued, each man unwilling to yield to the other.

At last, Lord Jon Arryn, ever the diplomat, drew up the peace agreement. Each term, every small detail discussed throughout the long hours, was meticulously outlined. The falcon of Arryn, weary but resolute, sighed as he signed the parchment with his quill, the dim light of the flickering candles casting shadows upon his features.

Rhaegar, unaware of how tightly his chest had clenched, let out a shallow breath when Lord Arryn finished his task. Next came Hoster Tully's reluctant signature, followed by several Stormlands lords, acting in place of the dead Robert Baratheon.

"Will Lord Stark not join us for the signing?" Rhaegar inquired, his voice calm yet heavy with the weight of unspoken history. He turned his gaze toward one of the Northern lords present, a man in gleaming chainmail adorned with the flayed man of House Bolton upon his chestplate.

"No, my prince," the lord replied coldly, his pale eyes piercing as he confirmed Rhaegar's suspicion. "He mourns the loss of his dear friend."

So, Lord Stark refuses to acknowledge the peace agreement, Rhaegar thought, his mind turning. No doubt the Warden of the North could not bear to face the son of the man who nearly wiped out his entire line.

Lord Jon Arryn, overhearing the conversation, stepped in, his voice a calm balm to the tension. "No need to fret, your grace. Lord Eddard Stark has sworn to bend the knee and to respect the betrothal between you and Lyanna Stark. He is not a man to take his word lightly."

Rhaegar nodded, feeling the weight of the man's honor even from across the room. "Very well. If Eddard Stark will sign the parchment and come to King's Landing to swear fealty, I will not press the matter further."

With the peace agreement now signed by the majority of the lords present at the Trident, a raven was dispatched to each of the rebellion's footholds, bearing the seal of House Baratheon, announcing the end of the rebellion and the cessation of all hostilities in the name of the crowned prince and Lord Arryn of the Vale. Several other ravens were sent to loyalist forces, one to Mace Tyrell at Storm's End, ordering the cessation of the siege and the march of his forces to King's Landing.

Although the war had officially ended, and peace had been brokered, the lords in the tent looked upon Rhaegar with distrust, their resentment poorly veiled. Many had questioned Lord Arryn's wisdom in bending the knee when the loyalist forces were reeling on their heels, but the old lord of the Vale had convinced them that victory was a fleeting dream and the cost of further fighting would be too great. They were winning a losing effort, he had claimed, and so the war was brought to an end.

"My prince, it is time," Arthur Dayne's calm voice broke through Rhaegar's thoughts, rousing him from the murky waters of doubt. The Sword of the Morning had returned to his side shortly after word spread of the peace agreement.

Rhaegar nodded wordlessly, his mind still heavy with the glances of the lords, their distrust simmering beneath their measured words. He excused himself from the tent, where the air was suffocating with animosity, not just for him, but for the Targaryen dynasty itself.

"We ride to camp. We will prepare the men to march back to King's Landing," Rhaegar instructed his war council as squires hurriedly readied the horses. "We march at the break of dawn."

As the last remnants of the night ebbed away under the rising sun, Rhaegar looked up at the pale sky, still brimming with stars. The crisp air filled his lungs, a sharp reminder of the journey that lay ahead. He had done what many had deemed impossible—he had ended the civil war. Soon, he would return to his children and end his father's tumultuous reign. His heart stirred at the thought, a fleeting moment of peace before the weight of the throne, and its consequences, awaited him.

A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth as he mounted his black steed. He spurred the horse forward, galloping away from the tense camp, toward the tree line and his destiny.

Unbeknownst to Rhaegar, a pair of steel-grey eyes—cold, unforgiving—glared from the shadows of the trees, burning with hatred as they fixed on the back of the Dragon prince's head.