The great hall of the Red Keep had grown silent in the days after the news of Edward Grafton's marriage reached the capital. Tension clung to the crimson banners like smoke from dragonfire. Rhaegar Targaryen, Prince of Dragonstone and heir to the Iron Throne, stood alone before the Iron Throne, his violet eyes fixed on the twisted metal as if he were seeing it for the first time.
The Iron Throne, forged from the swords of conquered kings, now felt more like a prison than a symbol of power. And on that throne sat a madman — his father.
King Aerys had become a shadow of what a king should be, his mind lost to the flames he so loved. The court whispered of his paranoia, of his cruelty, of his obsession with burning anyone who dared question him. Even the smallest of offenses — imagined or real — ended in screams.
Rhaegar had tolerated much. Too much. For years, he had tried to believe there was a way to bring peace without bloodshed, to preserve the realm his ancestors built. But now, with Edward Grafton legitimized, married into House Arryn, and Gulltown transformed into a bastion of strength, the political tide had turned. The war could no longer be stalled.
Rhaegar paced in the royal gardens, surrounded by the fragrant aroma of late summer roses. Ser Arthur Dayne stood nearby, ever silent, ever watchful. The Sword of the Morning had fought many battles, but now his sword was sheathed as he watched his prince wage an inner war.
"Arthur," Rhaegar said softly, his voice nearly lost in the wind, "If I end the reign of my father... would the realm damn me?"
Arthur did not respond immediately. He looked toward the distant towers of the Red Keep.
"If you do not," Arthur finally said, "the realm is already damned."
Rhaegar nodded. The decision had haunted his dreams for months. The cries of the innocent, the stench of burning flesh in the streets of King's Landing, the ruined fields of the Reach and the Riverlands — all screamed for a new dawn.
But kinslaying… that was a different sin altogether.
Still, Rhaegar was no longer the boy of Summerhall, lost in books and ballads. He was a man forged in war. And war demanded sacrifice.
That evening, he summoned his most trusted allies: Arthur Dayne, Oswell Whent, Lewyn Martell, and Lord Jon Connington. He laid out his decision without flourish.
"The realm cannot endure my father's madness. He will burn the city, perhaps the world. We must act before it's too late."
There was silence.
"Will you stand with me?" Rhaegar asked.
It was Arthur Dayne who answered first.
"You are my prince. I will follow you until the end."
The others agreed. Quietly. Firmly. Each of them knew the cost, the weight of what would come.
The plan was swift. In the middle of the night, the guards of the Red Keep were changed, loyalists replaced by men who had served with Rhaegar on campaign and who had long since lost faith in Aerys's rule. The king's pyromancer, Rossart, was lured away under false pretense and taken by Martell men.
Aerys never saw the blade.
He sat on the Iron Throne, ranting about wildfire, demanding that King's Landing be set ablaze should Robert's forces ever breach the gates. When Rhaegar entered, he did not rise. He merely screamed, veins bulging, spit flying, threatening to burn his own son.
"Burn them all!" he shrieked. "The traitors, the bastards, the dogs — burn them!"
"No more," Rhaegar said, calm and steady.
The blade was Valyrian steel, the sword of House Targaryen, Blackfyre. He drove it into his father's heart, and Aerys II, the Mad King, died without ever realizing he had lost.
By dawn, the bells of King's Landing rang out.
"Long live King Rhaegar!" the people shouted.
There was no mourning. The city, cowed and starved by the years of war and fear, breathed for the first time in what felt like centuries. The new king did not delay. He addressed the realm in a speech given from the steps of the Great Sept of Baelor, calling for unity, justice, and the end of tyranny.
Elia Martell stood beside him, their children watching. She held her head high but said little. Rhaegar's eyes scanned the crowd, and though he wore the crown of his ancestors, his heart felt heavier than ever.
In private, Elia asked, "Was it worth it?"
"We'll see," he replied.
But he could not stop. Not now.
Rhaegar immediately summoned the last loyal hosts: men of the Reach, of Dorne, and of the Crownlands. The Riverlands were divided, but many knights remained undecided. With the storm gathering once more, he marched to meet Robert Baratheon in the field.
He sent ravens across Westeros, calling banners, commanding honor.
In Essos, ships stirred. Gold flowed from hidden coffers to Essosi ports. Edward Grafton, always a shadow behind the scenes, received word of the change in rule. His plans continued.
Robert Baratheon was furious when he heard of Aerys's death — not because the madman was gone, but because Rhaegar now claimed the throne.
"He kills his own father and thinks that makes him a king?" Robert spat. "He stole Lyanna. Now he steals the realm. Jon, we end this. Now."
Jon Arryn nodded grimly. "The battle must be fought, and soon."
As the Targaryen banners moved south from the capital, the two great storms of Westeros began to spiral toward each other. The final battle loomed.
And in Gulltown, Edward Grafton watched from afar, smiling.
The dragon had finally turned on itself.
He had waited for this moment.
Now, he would shape the ashes into something greater.