The manse sat in the wealthier part of King's Landing, its stone walls thick enough to block the endless noise of the capital. Inside, the air was heavy with the scented candles, an expensive attempt to mask the ever-present stench of the city beyond its doors.
Prince Rhaegar Targaryen walked the dimly lit corridor of the place. His face betrayed nothing of the thoughts churning in his mind. Ryon followed a step behind him, moving with quiet grace, his hand resting casually on the pommel of his sword.
Rhaegar approached the doors of the main hall, pushing them open and stepping inside.
The chamber was vast, illuminated by the flickering, golden light of a dozen candles. Seated at the far edge of a moderate-sized, round wooden table was a man well past his middle years. He possessed sharp, angular cheekbones and startlingly pale skin, his thinning silver hair tied back meticulously. He wore an opulent, tailored doublet of deep purple.
Behind him were two massive, armoured guards. They stood a step behind where he was sitting.
As Rhaegar entered, the older man began to rise from his chair when the light caught the colour of Rhaegar's hair and his unmistakable Valyrian features.
For a fraction of a second, the Volantene lord's composure failed him. His pale eyes widened in shock, not expecting to find a Prince of Royal blood. But the man caught himself, swiftly masking his shock as he offered a deep bow.
"It is my greatest honour to make the acquaintance of the exalted prince," the man greeted, his voice smooth.
Rhaegar looked at him for a long, quiet moment before he offered a polite smile.
"The pleasure is mine, Lord Nyaros Belmoro," Rhaegar replied.
Nyaros blinked before he beamed brightly at being recognized by his name, gesturing with his hand toward a wooden chair opposite his own. "Please, my prince."
Rhaegar nodded and took his seat, the heavy wood groaning softly under his weight. Nyaros sat across from him, adjusting the cuffs of his silk doublet. Ryon stepped up to stand directly behind Rhaegar's right shoulder, his eyes locked onto the guards across the room.
Rhaegar rested his forearms on the table. There was no wine offered. No customary pleasantries of court.
"Forgive me for being blunt, Lord Nyaros," Rhaegar said, the pleasantness in his tone intact. "But I must ask. How did you find me?"
Nyaros maintained his bright, diplomatic smile, tilting his head. "Whatever do you mean, my prince?"
Rhaegar did not smile back. He tipped his head toward Ryon. "My knight tells me a noble of Volantis has been creeping through the shadows of my city, asking after 'The Patron.' So I will ask once more. How did you find me?"
Nyaros's smile faded. The jovial diplomat morphing into something more shrewd and calculating. He studied the young prince, measuring him for a moment.
"I did not exactly find you, my prince," Nyaros answered carefully. "I found your network in the East. And after much searching and a great deal of gold, the trails of that network led me across the sea to this city. From there, I merely had to make a little noise in the right, dark corners. I knew 'The Patron' would eventually find me."
Nyaros let out a short, breathy chuckle, though his eyes remained deadly serious. "That is how I got in touch with your people. I did come looking for 'The Patron', but I did not know it would be you. Believe me when I say I was very surprised when I saw a Targaryen walking through that door just now."
It was, on its face, a perfectly reasonable account. Rhaegar's web was vast, and no matter how heavily concealed, gold always left a trail if one had the patience and the wealth to follow it.
Rhaegar gave a slow nod. "You have come a very long way, Lord Nyaros. Volantis is half a world away from King's Landing. And the Narrow Sea has been closed to merchant ships for many moons now. How did you make the crossing?"
Nyaros nodded, a weary sigh escaping his lips. "It certainly was a long journey. I had to make my way north to Braavos first, and then secure passage to cross the sea from there to a port called Gulltown." He offered a faint smile. "Though I confess the crossing itself was less perilous than I expected."
Rhaegar studied the man again. Braavos to Gulltown was the only reliable route left, the same route through which the Iron Throne's intelligence was gathering information.
Rhaegar leaned back in his chair and smiled.
"Well," he said, his violet eyes locking onto the older man. "Now that you have braved the sea and found the Patron you were looking for... tell me. What can I do for an honoured son of the Old Blood?"
Nyaros bowed his head slightly. "I am deeply grateful to have been granted this audience, my prince." When he raised his head, his expression had turned grim. "But I am afraid I do not bring joyous news."
Rhaegar raised a brow and motioned for him to continue.
"Essos stands upon a dangerous precipice, my prince," Nyaros said, his voice thick with a mixture of disgust and terror. "That brute, Craghas Drahar. He has slaughtered the noble men and women of the daughters of Old Valyria. Lys, Myr, Tyrosh... and now Pentos. They have all fallen to his madness. The man is a plague, and right now, the whole continent is too terrified to even draw a blade against him."
"Yes," Rhaegar said, his voice flat and calm. "I have been told."
"The Iron Throne is at war with him now," Nyaros continued, his voice smooth as he navigated the conversation. "Once I traced the coin of your networks back to King's Landing, it only required a modest leap of logic to conclude that 'The Patron' had to be someone of exceptionally high standing within the court of the Dragonlords."
The Volantene noble offered a slight, deferential bow of his head. "Though, as I said, I aimed my suspicions at a wealthy lord or councillor. A prince of the blood... that was a pleasant surprise."
Rhaegar let out a slow, measured breath. He did not preen at the compliment.
"A sound deduction," he said softly. "Yet it still does not explain why you have crossed a blockaded sea to sit in this room, Lord Nyaros. What is it you want from me?"
Nyaros smiled, the corners of his eyes crinkling. It was the careful, measured smile of a merchant about to lay a priceless jewel on the table.
"My prince, you misunderstand my presence," Nyaros said, spreading his empty hands. "I have crossed the Narrow Sea to come to offer... You something."
Rhaegar rested his cheek against his knuckles, an idle pose that hid his sudden interest well enough. "Which is?"
"Information," Nyaros replied simply.
Complete silence descended upon the table. Nyaros did not elaborate, waiting for the prince to take the bait. Rhaegar simply stared at him, unblinking, the flickering torchlight casting long shadows against the stone walls behind him.
"Well," Rhaegar said at last, gesturing with his free hand, smiling. "The stage is yours, my lord."
Nyaros smiled, though the expression did not reach his eyes. "You are an educated man, my prince. You must know that the politics of Volantis are divided between two ancient factions. The Elephants and the Tigers."
"I do," Rhaegar replied, his voice flat.
"Then you must also know that the Elephants have held the greater share of power for over a century now. The merchants rule, while the militants remember the old glory."
"Yes," Rhaegar said, tapping one finger against the wood. "What of it?"
"Well, I am a Tiger, my prince," Nyaros said, folding his hands together. "And I am afraid many of my compatriots have committed a profound folly. In their desperation to claw back the power our party lost a century ago, they have looked outward for an alliance." The Volantene lord paused, a look of deep disgust crossing his features. "They have decided to make their bed with that cur, Drahar."
Rhaegar let out a low hum.
"Troubling news indeed," Rhaegar murmured, his posture remaining one of minor interest. "But you have crossed a sea, Lord Nyaros. You must have come here with more than complaints about your peers."
Nyaros gave a small, humourless smile. He leaned forward slightly, the golden candlelight highlighting the angles of his face.
"My prince," Nyaros asked quietly. "Are you... familiar with the Isle of Cedars?"
The name was followed by a brief moment of tense silence.
Rhaegar did not move. He gave no outward sign at all. No widened eye, no stilled breath, but the warmth seemed to leave the room regardless, and his gaze went cold and very hard. His violet eyes looked at the man across him with a painfully piercing gaze.
Behind him, Ryon was considerably less concerned with appearances. Steel sounded against the scabbard as his hand closed on his sword's pommel. Across the room, both guards mirrored the motion in an instant.
Nyaros looked at the murderous gaze from the knight and then slowly brought his eyes back to Rhaegar.
Rhaegar raised a single hand without looking back. Ryon's grip eased, though his breathing did not.
Rhaegar lowered his hand and offered a smile that was entirely devoid of warmth.
"Perhaps I am," Rhaegar replied softly.
Nyaros nodded, letting out a long, trembling sigh. The Volantene lord looked genuinely exhausted, burdened by the sheer weight of the game they were playing.
"I will not drag this on any longer, my prince," Nyaros said, his voice dropping all pretenses of a diplomatic duel of words, leaving only grim sincerity. "I will be straightforward. Volantis knows of your army."
For the first time since the meeting began, he had Rhaegar's undivided attention. Rhaegar leaned forward, forearms on the table.
"How?" Rhaegar demanded, all pleasantness gone. "They sit on an abandoned ruin bordering the Smoking Sea. No ships other than my own sail within leagues of that island."
"They did not find it by sailing, my prince," Nyaros answered grimly. "They found it courtesy of our new friend. Drahar."
Rhaegar's jaw clenched so hard his teeth ground together. Drahar again.
"Drahar delivered the intelligence directly to the members of my party," Nyaros explained. "And it does not bode well for you, my prince. The Tigers used the existence of your hidden host to stoke the fires of paranoia. They whispered that someone was building a secret force to conquer the Free Cities. It took only a few fearful words about your intentions, and even the Elephants were terrified enough to agree to a preemptive strike."
Nyaros met Rhaegar's piercing gaze.
"I would guess that our armada is sailing for the Isle of Cedars as we speak, my prince."
Rhaegar felt a cold fury boiling in his chest. He had spent years and untold amounts of gold building those legions.
"They do not intend to meet your men in open battle," Nyaros warned as he continued. "They know the ruin is likely to be heavily fortified. They intend to besiege the island. They will choke your men to death by cutting off all supply lines from the sea, starving them before advancing to slaughter whoever remains."
Rhaegar leaned slowly back into his heavy wooden chair, steepling his fingers beneath his chin as he analyzed the Volantene lord.
"You are asking me to believe," Rhaegar said, his voice dropping to a smooth, dangerous murmur, "that the Triarchs of Volantis, men who consider themselves the supreme heirs of Old Valyria, mobilized their fleets based on the unverified whisper of a Myrish admiral?"
Nyaros offered a slow, grim nod. "It would appear foolish at a glance, my prince. I concede that. But you must understand... my compatriots did not just listen to Drahar."
Nyaros gave a dry, bitter chuckle. "They built him."
"With whose help do you think he secured that kind of power?" Nyaros asked softly, leaning closer. "How does a man like him afford the staggering sums of gold, the men, and the sellsword companies required to orchestrate flawless, simultaneous coups across four different cities? The Old Blood armed him, my prince. They funded his Tetrarchy."
The silence that followed was heavier than the last.
Rhaegar did not speak. He raised a hand, slowly pushing his fingers through his hair, his eyes tracing the dark lines of the ceiling. It was Volantis all along. It was the Tigers who had bankrolled Drahar to destabilize the region and buy back their own relevance. That much would make sense. Gold could rent an army, and gold could buy coups.
What gold alone could not easily purchase was the precision with which his network in Lys had been gutted to the last coin-counter, or the particular horror of whatever had found and silenced a woman who carried the favour of a god. If the Tigers had bought that too, they had bought it from someone considerably more frightening than themselves.
Rhaegar lowered his hand, his violet eyes snapping back down to lock onto Nyaros.
"And the price?" he asked. "What does Volantis receive in exchange for crowning him and funding a continental war?"
Nyaros answered without a heartbeat of hesitation. "The Disputed Lands."
"The massive, incredibly fertile stretch of the territory is promised to be ceded entirely to Volantis," Nyaros continued. "It is a monumental and historic prize for our city that was so thoroughly humiliated and driven out of those very lands so recently."
Nyaros continued as he explained the politics responsible for the creation of a new kingdom.
"Once Volantis officially receives ownership of that territory, the Tigers can launch our political campaign on the back of a glorious expansion. It is our path back to absolute power over the city. And as for the Elephants..." Nyaros sneered in disgust. "Key figures within their merchant party were promised sprawling, impossibly wealthy estates in the newly conquered lands. Greed united us where principles could not."
Rhaegar gave a slow, measured nod, digesting the information.
"So it would seem," Rhaegar said, his voice analytical. "Volantis stands to gain a lot from this arrangement. The Tigers reclaim their military glory, the Elephants gorge themselves on the Disputed Lands, and your city is restored to the heights of power."
Rhaegar paused, his violet eyes locking onto the older man with a predatory focus. "Which begs the rather obvious question, Lord Nyaros. If your faction is on the verge of such a historic victory... why come here to warn me of it?"
Nyaros's face contorted into what looked like visceral revulsion.
"Because I despise that cretin," Nyaros spat with venom. "I find it an unforgivable disgrace that we who call ourselves the true heirs of the Freehold lower our heads to a low Myrman. To hand the reins of our empire to a corsair fueled by nothing but his own base greed. Even a blind man can see that Drahar will turn his newly acquired fleets against Volantis the very second we outlive our usefulness to him."
"So, it is loyalty to your city, then?" Rhaegar asked, a faint, mocking edge bleeding into his tone. "You are the lone patriot, risking treason to save Volantis from its own hubris?"
Nyaros looked at him, his pale eyes losing their fury, replaced suddenly by a cold, hollow exhaustion. He slowly shook his head.
"No."
Rhaegar tilted his head. "Then what is it?"
Nyaros let out a rueful, bitter smile.
"I am one of the last scions of my line, Prince Rhaegar. A few generations past, House Belmoro was a proud and great House. We were one of the most formidable pillars of the Old Blood in all of Volantis. We were respected. We were feared."
Nyaros's hands tightened into fists on the table, his knuckles turning white.
"But when the Tigers led our city into the Century of Blood, and the world united to break us... my house was caught in the most violent fires of the slaughter. Following the purge, when the Elephants seized control, House Belmoro was left for dead."
The Volantene lord looked up, and for the first time, Rhaegar saw the depth of the man's bitterness sitting across him.
"We were bled dry, my prince," Nyaros whispered. "Over the following decades, the other families of the Old Blood, families that had spent so long envying our standing, turned on us to save themselves. They ate away at our wealth. They stripped our lands. Turned us into a relic to be pitied."
Nyaros closed his eyes for a fraction of a second, as if reliving a painful memory.
"I have watched through the years as my late father was mocked," he continued, his voice trembling with a murderous rage. "I watched him ridiculed in the courts for our weakness. I watched him being pushed around, constantly threatened by our 'friends' to hand over what little holdings we had left just to ensure our survival. Over the last century, my house has been continuously hunted down from the height of power by the very vultures we once called brothers."
Nyaros opened his eyes, meeting the gaze of the prince sitting across from him.
"That is my reason, my prince. I did not come here just to save my city. I came to find someone capable of hunting those vultures."
Rhaegar let out a short huff of a laugh, completely devoid of warmth or humour.
"Forgive me if I misjudge the scale of your ambition, Lord Nyaros," Rhaegar said, leaning forward slightly. "But in exchange for warning me of this siege, you are asking the House of the Dragon to fly East and burn your own city to the ground?"
Nyaros did not smile. He did not waver. The pale eyes of the Volantene lord looked straight at Rhaegar.
"No, my prince," Nyaros replied, his voice steady. "I have not come to ask you to burn Volantis. I have come to ask the last of the Dragonlords to punish the men who dared move against you. I am simply asking you to exact your own vengeance. That my house's survival happens to align with it is merely convenient."
Rhaegar rubbed his jaw, weighing the audacity of the Volantene lord's proposition.
"Let us indulge this fantasy for a moment," Rhaegar said with a small smile on his face. "Let us say the Iron Throne does charge East. All I must do is shatter the Volantene armada in the Smoking Sea and break the siege. Once my legions are free, the immediate threat is gone. Why would I go through the monumental trouble of turning our dragons upon the Black Walls of Volantis?"
"I do not ask for an extermination, my prince," Nyaros urged, leaning closer across the table. "I am not asking you to melt the Black Walls or burn the commoners in the streets. I only ask that you burn the rot within the palaces. Only the worst of the Old Blood."
Rhaegar looked at the man for a long, quiet moment. Then, very slowly, he let out a long, weary sigh.
"You speak of the Old Blood as if there are good and bad among them, Lord Nyaros," Rhaegar said, his voice patronizing. "They are all cut from the same cloth. Arrogant, ambitious, and afflicted with endless greed."
Rhaegar leaned forward, resting his clasped hands on the table, closing the distance between them.
"So again, why would I trouble myself with such a monumental task? Say I fly my dragon over your city. Say I tread through whatever scorpions and defenses your walls have accumulated over the centuries, and I burn every rival magister, every Triarch, every general who opposes you. What then?"
Nyaros opened his mouth to answer, but Rhaegar cut him off, his voice hardening.
"I will tell you what happens," Rhaegar said coldly. "I leave, and you take power. But nobility is like a weed, Nyaros. I may burn the stalks, but the roots remain. Give it a few decades, a single generation, and the sons, cousins, and nephews of the men I burned will rise again. They will inherit the wealth of their fathers, their vengeance, and they will harbor a fresh, blood-soaked grudge against House Targaryen."
Rhaegar leaned back, dismissing the Volantene lord's grand vision with a slow shake of his head.
"It is a fool's errand," Rhaegar stated, his tone absolute. "A waste of my time, an unnecessary expenditure of the Crown's resources, and a needless risk to our dragons for a victory that will not even outlast my own lifetime."
The prince fell silent, letting the logic of his words suffocate the Volantene lord. He looked at Nyaros, his expression devoid of any mercy or sympathy.
"I simply have nothing to gain from this, Nyaros," Rhaegar said. "No tangible return for my House."
Nyaros stayed silent for a long moment, and Rhaegar watched him carefully.
"If you place my house in power, my prince, that will not happen," Nyaros countered, his voice losing its aristocratic polish, replaced entirely by a hardened, ruthless certainty. "I will not simply burn the stalks. I will tear them out by the roots. I swear to you by the fourteen flames of our ancestors, I will ensure that not a single man who harbors ill will against House Targaryen draws another breath."
Rhaegar raised a single brow in skepticism. He looked at Nyaros as one might look at a child making an impossible boast.
"A beautiful promise," Rhaegar murmured, his tone dry. "But what exactly makes you think you will stay in power once our dragons depart? You just admitted your house is a relic, despised by the rest of the Old Blood. The moment our presence leaves the Black Walls, your remaining peers will tear you to pieces."
Nyaros looked at him, his pale eyes burning with resolve.
"They will not touch me," Nyaros whispered. "Not if I will hold the city by swearing fealty. To the Iron Throne."
For the first time in the conversation, something like real surprise crossed Rhaegar's face.
The weight of the word was astronomical. Volantis was the First Daughter. They viewed themselves as the pure, unbroken heirs of the Valyrian Freehold. To them, the Westerosi Targaryens were lesser, diluted by Andal association and isolated on a savage continent.
Rhaegar slowly leaned back in his chair, remaining entirely silent, allowing the monumental weight of the offer to settle over the table.
"Volantis does not follow the customs of your sunset kingdoms," Nyaros continued, his voice steady, though his hands trembled ever so slightly against the wood. "But if you give me the city, House Belmoro shall swear eternal loyalty to House Targaryen. We will rule as your vassals. It is the city's rightful place to be governed beneath the wings of the last true Dragonlords... not ruled by the remnants of mutinous foot soldiers who cower behind the Black Walls and colour themselves the heirs of the Freehold."
Nyaros paused. He looked at the prince, waiting for any reaction. Finding none, he played the last card in his hand.
"If you are wondering why you should believe me," Nyaros breathed, the exhaustion finally pulling at his features, "or if you suspect this is some grand trap... consider my standing."
Nyaros leaned forward. "As you have already deduced, I have committed high treason by sitting in this room. I left Volantis moons ago. Two moons past, I travelled with a delegation to Braavos to treat, in secret, with Drahar's men. That is where the Myrman handed over the precise information regarding your Isle. That is where my peers sent the word back to Volantis, authorizing the armada to strike."
Nyaros gave a hollow, broken laugh. "While my compatriots drank Braavosi wine and celebrated their new alliance, I slipped away. I bought passage on a simple ship to Gulltown, and I hunted your network down."
The Volantene lord pressed his forehead against his clasped hands in a posture of total, absolute surrender.
"I have burned my way back, Prince Rhaegar. They will have noticed my absence by now. The whispers will have already reached the Triarchs. If I try to return to my home, I will be executed before I even step off the docks. I am already a dead man."
Nyaros raised his head, his eyes shining with a frantic desperation.
"I have nothing left but this offer. Help me, and the greatest city in Essos is yours with my aid. Refuse me, and you stand to lose the chance to gain a new kingdom."
The heartfelt plea hung heavy in the scented air of the hall.
Rhaegar sat very still, watching him, his face giving away nothing at all. And there, buried in the man's own desperate last argument, the seam finally showed itself plainly.
Very slowly, the corner of Rhaegar's mouth twitched upward.
Seeing the prince's expression soften, Nyaros let out a shaky breath. A relieved, profoundly grateful smile broke across the Volantene lord's pale face.
But Rhaegar did not stop there. The small smile morphed into a wide grin. A low chuckle rumbled in his chest, echoing in the quiet room. The chuckle grew louder, shifting into a cold, jarring cackle as Rhaegar slowly lifted his hands to offer applause.
Clap. Clap. Clap.
"A truly splendid performance, my lord," Rhaegar laughed, his eyes alight with dark, mocking amusement.
He cackled a little more, dropping his hands to rub his mouth, shaking his head in mock admiration. "Just the tiniest, little bit more polish, and I confess... even then you would have failed."
Nyaros's expression fractured. The relieved smile vanished, melting rapidly into confusion, then bewilderment, and finally settling into a creeping, icy dread at the prince's utterly bizarre behaviour.
"What is the meaning of this, my prince?" Nyaros demanded, his voice tightening.
Rhaegar looked at him, the humorous grin still plastered across his face. "The meaning?" Rhaegar huffed another dry laugh, leaning back in his chair. "The meaning, Belmoro, is that while I genuinely appreciate a good mummer's play, you have no talent for it. You must think incredibly low of me to believe that would be enough to fool me."
Nyaros's face flushed violently. The desperation evaporated, replaced instantly by the towering, insulted pride of the Old Blood. He slammed his fists down onto the table.
"This is highly disrespectful, Prince Rhaegar!" Nyaros spat.
In a fraction of a second, every ounce of humour vanished from Rhaegar's face.
The transition was so sudden, so violently abrupt, it felt as though the temperature in the room had plummeted below freezing. The laughing prince was gone.
"Disrespectful?" Rhaegar hissed, his voice dropping to a terrifying, gravelly whisper. "Oh, no, my lord. What is disrespectful is what an absolute imbecile you must take me for."
Rhaegar rolled his shoulders and cracked his neck.
"A Volantene tiger does not betray his city, abandon his wealth, and cross half a world to hand his empire to an Andal polluted Valyrian out of spite and some... ancient lingering deference," Rhaegar stated, his violet eyes pinning Nyaros to his chair. "So, if you wish to leave this room with all your fingers and limbs still attached to your body... I suggest you start speaking of your true motive. You may begin by telling me who exactly sent you."
Nyaros's face twisted in rage. He shot to his feet, his chair careening backwards and crashing violently against the stone floor.
"PRINCE!" Nyaros roared.
Behind the Volantene lord, the two massive guards instantly drew their steel, the metallic shing ringing sharply in the hall.
Behind Rhaegar, Ryon's blade cleared its scabbard in a heartbeat.
Rhaegar did not so much as blink at the drawn steel. He looked up at Nyaros with cold, dead eyes.
"Careful now," Rhaegar murmured, entirely unbothered. "At least two dozen men surround this manse as we speak. One more outburst from you, and I may decide this hall is far too crowded."
Rhaegar tilted his head, his gaze sliding past the trembling lord to the two guards standing with their swords raised.
"Actually," Rhaegar corrected softly. "On second thought... I believe it already has."
Rhaegar did not raise his voice. He simply looked up at his knight. "Ryon."
Ryon's eyes flashed. "KILL THEM!" the knight barked, and the heavy doors of the hall violently burst open.
Ten armed men flooded into the room from every available entrance, moving with terrifying speed and simply descended upon the Volantene's guards like a pack of starving wolves.
The two men, startled, swung their heavy blades desperately to meet the onslaught. The first guard deflected one strike, then a second, but there was no room to maneuver. The third blade hooked under his guard, slicing cleanly across his throat in a spray of bright crimson.
The second guard managed to parry a thrust, but a heavy kick smashed into the side of his knee, buckling his leg. Before he could fall, a longsword punched straight up through the underside of his chin, the steel point bursting sickeningly through the top of his skull.
It was over in less than five heartbeats.
As quickly and silently as they had barged in, the men seized the armoured collars of the dead and dragged them backwards. They pulled the bleeding corpses out of the hall, the heavy oak doors slamming shut behind them, leaving a thick, glistening smear of blood across the stone floor.
The hall was dead silent once more. Only Rhaegar, Ryon, and Nyaros remained.
The scent of the candles had already lost its fight to the sharp, metallic stench of fresh blood.
Ryon stepped forward, his boots squelching slightly on the stone. He stopped right beside Nyaros and levelled his sword directly against the side of the Volantene lord's neck. The cold steel pressed against his pulse.
Rhaegar remained seated, his posture entirely relaxed. He gestured politely toward the overturned chair with an open hand.
"Please, my lord," he offered gently.
Nyaros was breathing heavy, his pale eyes wide with absolute terror as he stared at the smear of his guards' blood on the floor. Trembling so violently he could barely stand, the Old Blood noble reached back, righted his chair, and collapsed into it in a suffocating, horrified daze.
Rhaegar leaned forward, resting his forearms on the heavy table. He looked at the trembling Volantene lord, his violet eyes devoid of even a sliver of mercy.
"Now, if you would," Rhaegar said softly. "Why are you actually here? What is your true motive?"
Nyaros did not answer immediately. He slowly turned his head, his wide, pale eyes tracing the thick, glistening trail of blood his guards had left across the stone floor. He stared at it in a suffocating daze. For a long, agonizing moment, the only sound in the room was his ragged, uneven breathing.
And then, something behind the old man's eyes seemed to snap.
The fragile veneer of terror shattered, replaced by a sudden, manic determination. His hands, still resting on the table, trembled violently, but his jaw locked.
"I refuse," Nyaros whispered.
Rhaegar drew in a slow, measured breath. "Do you truly wish to die in a foreign land, Lord Nyaros? Forgotten?"
Nyaros looked at him. The aristocratic pride flared one final time, burning through his fear. He leaned across the table and spat.
The wet glob of saliva struck Rhaegar squarely on the chest of his dark tunic.
Rhaegar looked down at the spit, his expression utterly blank.
Beside the Volantene, Ryon moved quickly. The knight's heavy, steel-gauntleted fist smashed brutally into the middle of Nyaros's face. The sickening crunch of bone echoed through the hall as two shattered teeth clattered onto the wood, accompanied by the dripping blood.
Nyaros collapsed sideways in his chair, clutching his ruined face. He screamed into his hands, a wail of agony. But as the blood poured from his broken nose and split lip, the scream began to warp. It twisted and morphed until the Volantene lord was howling with manic, unhinged laughter.
"HAHAHA!" Nyaros cackled, spitting blood onto the floor. "You would have killed me anyway! So I care not!" He looked up at Rhaegar, his pale eyes wild with a suicidal defiance. "But know this, Rhaegar Targaryen... you are a dead man! Your house is dead! Your grand army is dead! You will all burn! So do as you please, you cur of the Azure!"
Ryon snarled, raising his sword high, ready to cleave the old man's skull in two.
"Wait."
Rhaegar raised a single hand. Ryon froze instantly.
Rhaegar stood up. He drew a cloth from his pocket, wiping the spit from his tunic, and tossed the soiled cloth onto the floor. He stepped around the table, walking slowly toward his knight. He held his hand out, palm open.
Ryon looked at the outstretched hand, his brow furrowing in confusion.
"The sword," Rhaegar said quietly.
"My prince," Ryon hesitated, glancing at the bleeding lord. "I can do the deed-"
"The sword, Ryon," Rhaegar reiterated, his voice perfectly calm.
Ryon swallowed hard, reversing his grip and placing the heavy hilt of the longsword into Rhaegar's waiting hand.
In that brief exchange, believing his hosts to be distracted, Nyaros made his final, desperate play.
The Volantene lord surged to his feet with a feral scream. He grabbed the heavy wooden back of his chair and hurled it directly at the prince. Rhaegar braced his stance, dropping his shoulder to absorb the impact. The heavy wood slammed against his left side, glancing off his body and clattering to the stone.
But Nyaros had not stopped moving. He had drawn a concealed knife from his sleeve, and he charged wildly at the prince.
Rhaegar did not even raise the longsword.
As the old man lunged, Rhaegar pivoted sharply on his heel, driving his boot straight up and kicking square into the center of Nyaros's chest. The force of the kick lifted the Volantene lord clean off his feet. Nyaros flew backwards, crashing onto the stone floor with a heavy, bone-jarring thud.
A sharp, sickening snap echoed in the hall as several of the old man's ribs gave way under the impact.
But the manic adrenaline pushed the pain away. Nyaros scrambled back to his feet, gasping for air, his silk doublet stained dark with his own blood. Screaming a raw, wordless battle cry, he gripped the knife tight in his right hand and charged a second time.
Rhaegar stood perfectly still, letting him approach.
A fraction of a second before Nyaros entered striking distance, Rhaegar moved. He ducked fluidly underneath the wild, slashing arc of the old man's knife. With a practiced grace, Rhaegar stepped into the opening and swung the heavy longsword in a smooth upward arc.
The steel bit through silk, flesh, and bone without resistance.
Nyaros's right arm was severed clean at the shoulder.
The old man's scream was one of absolute agony as the realization of his missing appendage hit his brain. He stumbled, his momentum carrying him forward as his legs gave out, beginning to collapse toward the stone.
But Rhaegar was already moving. Using the momentum of his upward swing, the prince seamlessly reversed the blade's trajectory.
Before Nyaros's knees could even hit the floor, the longsword whistled through the air in a horizontal strike. The blade cleaved cleanly through the Volantene lord's neck from behind.
A massive fountain of arterial blood sprayed across the dark stone as Nyaros's head tumbled from his shoulders. The headless corpse hit the ground in a grotesque, kneeling slump, its left hand reflexively clutching the stump of its right shoulder for a second before the body finally collapsed into the growing pool of crimson. The smell of death flooded the room as the contents of the body violently poured out.
A few feet away, Nyaros's severed head came to a rest. The old man's pale eyes were wide, his face frozen forever in a twisted, horrific mask of pain, rage, and absolute terror.
Ryon stood entirely shaken, his breath caught in his throat. He watched as his prince stared down at the decapitated corpse for a long, silent moment. The blood dripping steadily from the tip of the longsword, pooling on the stone.
Finally, Rhaegar turned away. He walked back to the table and tossed the blood-slicked sword onto the wood, the heavy steel landing with a loud, ringing clatter.
Exhausted, Rhaegar collapsed heavily into the chair where the man he had just butchered had been sitting only moments ago. He rested his elbows on his knees, burying his face in his hand.
Ryon stood in the oppressive silence, staring at the headless corpse of the Volantene lord, and then at his prince.
The manic energy of the combat had left, leaving behind only the heavy, metallic tang of slaughter and the sickening smell of evacuated bowels. Knowing the men stationed outside had undoubtedly heard the commotion, Ryon turned toward the shattered oak doors.
"Take him away," the knight commanded, his voice rough.
At his word, four men filed back into the hall. Two of them grabbed the old man by his boots, dragging the headless body backwards across the stone, while a third grabbed the severed head by its thinning silver hair. In a matter of moments, the remains of Lord Nyaros Belmoro were removed from the room, leaving behind only a thick, glistening smear of crimson and the overwhelming stench of blood.
Ryon turned his attention back to his prince.
Rhaegar remained exactly as he was, slumped in the dead man's chair, his face buried deep in his hands.
Ryon walked slowly toward the table. He grabbed the heavy wooden chair Rhaegar had originally been sitting in, dragging it around the edge of the table. The legs scraped harshly against the stone floor before Ryon placed it adjacent to his prince and sat down.
Between them, the longsword lay flat on the table, its steel smeared with still warm blood.
Ryon looked at his prince. He opened his mouth to speak, closed it, and debated whether he should intrude upon the boy's silence. Rhaegar was a mastermind, a dragonrider, a prince of the Blood, but he was still young.
Finally, the veteran knight decided to speak.
"A man's first is never easy, my prince," Ryon said gently, his voice softening into something resembling paternal comfort.
Rhaegar did not answer. He did not move.
Ryon paused, letting the silence hold for a few moments before trying again. "You... did not have to do it yourself. I am your sworn shield. I could have killed him."
For a long, agonizing moment, Rhaegar offered no response. The only sound in the room was the faint crackle of the flames.
"I needed to see," Rhaegar finally spoke, his voice muffled by his hands, sounding infinitely tired. "I needed to see what I would feel when I... when I killed a man."
Ryon looked at the silver-gold hair spilling through Rhaegar's fingers. He debated whether it was his place to ask and decided to ask anyway.
"And what did you feel?"
It took him a long moment to answer.
"Disgust."
Ryon gave a firm, reassuring nod. "That is completely normal, my prince. The taking of a life goes against the nature of decent men. I can assure you, you need not feel conflicted over that feeling."
Rhaegar let out a low, breathy chuckle.
It was a dry, hollow, utterly broken sound that made the hairs on the back of Ryon's neck stand up.
"I felt disgust at the bile and the shit that poured out of his headless corpse, Ryon," Rhaegar whispered.
Slowly, Rhaegar lowered his hands from his face. He leaned back into the chair, and Ryon felt a sudden, icy chill wash over him. The prince's face was not stained with tears. His violet eyes were not wide with trauma or haunted by the ghost of the man he had just butchered. They were perfectly clear, terrifyingly calm, and endlessly dark.
"Not the act of killing him," Rhaegar finished.
"You... wanted to see if you would feel disgust at taking a life?" Ryon asked slowly.
Rhaegar rolled his head against the high wooden backboard of the chair, turning his gaze to look at his knight. A rueful, melancholic smile touched the corners of the prince's mouth.
"I wanted to confirm something," Rhaegar murmured softly.
"Confirm what?" Ryon asked, his voice entirely unsure.
"What I have suspected for a very long time," Rhaegar replied, looking down at the blood-stained sword resting between them. "That I am monstrous, Ryon. That I am evil."
Ryon looked at the young prince for a long moment, unsure of what to say.
"That is not true, my prince," he finally brought himself to say.
Rhaegar looked at the veteran knight for a long moment. Then, slowly, the tension bled out of his shoulders. He offered a wry, exhausted smile and let out a deep, heavy breath, exhaling the dark thoughts that had been clouding his mind.
"Forget it," Rhaegar murmured, waving a hand dismissively.
Sensing the prince's desire to step back from the matter, Ryon wisely decided to change the subject, steering them back toward the tactical reality of their situation.
"How did you know he was lying, my prince?" Ryon asked, glancing toward the bloody smear on the floor where Nyaros had perished.
Rhaegar leaned his head back, his violet eyes tracing the ceiling. "I suspected it was a trap the moment you told me a Volantene lord had crossed a blockaded sea just to find 'The Patron.' That is precisely why I ordered the manse be surrounded before I even walked through the door." Rhaegar's gaze drifted to the dark stain on the floor. "The rest confirmed it. The story he told me twice over, in two narratives that could not both be true."
Rhaegar brought his gaze back to the table. "Beyond that... it was the way he behaved. The poorly acted shock on his face when I first entered the room."
"He was startled to see a Prince of the Blood," Ryon noted.
"Completely normal, perhaps, for a man who had just accidentally uncovered my identity," Rhaegar agreed. "That is why I applauded his poor performance. He was an absolute buffoon to believe a momentary look of shock would be enough to blind me. There were simply far too many tells."
"Was that all?" Ryon asked.
Rhaegar actually laughed. It was a genuine sound this time, shaking his head at the sheer audacity of the dead man's ploy.
"Of course not," Rhaegar said. "The moment he asked me to conquer his city, I knew exactly what he was. Ryon, I assure you... No Old Blood Volantene will ever ask a Targaryen to rule them. Their pride is entirely tied to the belief that they are the pure, unbroken heirs of the Freehold. They are far too arrogant and conceited to ever bow to us. Especially not after Aegon the Conqueror burned their fleets at Lys."
Ryon hummed thoughtfully. "Still, desperate men do desperate things. It is not entirely impossible for a man like that to exist."
Rhaegar took a deep breath, the faint smell of copper still lingering in the air. "Perhaps not. But Nyaros Belmoro was far too poor an actor to make me believe he was that man. I have learned that the eyes tell a lot about a man. And his were bleeding with disdain with every word he uttered."
The prince's face grew cold again. "Though... not everything he said was a lie."
Ryon raised a brow in confusion.
Rhaegar offered a grim, knowing smile. "After all, Ryon, every decent manipulation is simply a bundle of warped truths wrapped tightly in a lie."
Ryon's eyes widened slightly in understanding. "So, you believe the threat is real. The Volantene armada is truly sailing for the Isle of Cedars."
"Yes," Rhaegar replied, his voice devoid of all humour.
"But what is the trap?" Ryon asked, leaning closer to the table. "If their goal is to destroy our legions, why not simply lay siege to the island in silence? Why go through the monumental effort of sending a man here to try and provoke you into flying there?"
"That," Rhaegar said, his voice dropping to a harsh whisper, "is the one thing I do not understand. It is what I wanted to extract from our late friend, but alas... he chose to die a martyr."
Rhaegar rested his hands flat on the table, pushing himself up to his feet. He stood tall, the exhausted boy vanishing.
"But regardless of the specifics, Ryon, whoever this unseen enemy is... they are elusive," Rhaegar admitted, a dark respect in his tone. "Volantis explains the gold. It explains the ships, the sellswords, and the crown Drahar wears now. It does not explain how anyone found and killed a woman of Melisandre's ilk, or how they cut through our intelligence in so little time without a single warning reaching us first. Volantis is not clever enough for that."
"And even though I saw through their mummer's play and killed their pawn, they have still accomplished what they meant to."
Rhaegar looked at his knight. "I have to fly to Cedars either way. If I go, their motive for sending Nyaros is complete, and I walk straight into whatever snare they have set. If I don't go, my army is starved to death and slaughtered without me offering a shred of resistance. Either way, they get exactly what they want."
Ryon looked at him, the grim reality of the situation settling over them. "Do you have to go?"
Rhaegar paused for a long, heavy moment. He thought of the men training in that ruin, the gold he had spent, the people who trusted that they would be called upon one day by him.
"I have no other choice," Rhaegar answered finally.
He stepped away from the table, meticulously adjusting the collar of his tunic.
Ryon remained seated. "What is the plan?"
"I need to speak with Viserys," Rhaegar said, his voice hard. "And then with my grandfather."
Ryon looked confused. "Prince Viserys?"
Rhaegar offered no explanation. He simply gave a sharp nod and started to walk toward the heavy doors, his boots echoing sharply in the quiet hall.
Ryon quickly stood up. Rhaegar had just reached the doors, pushing them ajar, when the knight called out.
"My Prince."
Rhaegar stopped, his hand resting on the iron handle. He turned back, his silver hair catching the flickering candlelight.
Ryon looked around the blood-stained room, his eyes lingering on the empty space where Nyaros had died, before finally bringing his gaze back to Rhaegar.
"If... if I may overstep," Ryon said, his voice unsure.
Rhaegar stood perfectly still, raising his silver brow. "I have told you countless times, Ryon. You are free to speak your mind to me whenever you wish."
Ryon gave a slow, respectful nod. He stood up a little straighter, squaring his shoulders as he looked his prince directly in the eye.
"I have stood by your side for what feels like a decade now," Ryon began, his voice steady, carrying the weight of a man who had seen some of the darkest things in the world. "And it is true... You are monstrous. In certain regards. Your plans, your quiet manipulations, the terrifying coldness with which you approach war and conflict... it goes against the nature of everything a knight is taught to honour."
Ryon stopped. He stared at Rhaegar, waiting for anger, waiting for a reprimand. But the prince did not move. He did not speak. He merely listened.
So, Ryon braved to continue.
"But I have also seen how you treat the men and women in the Keep," Ryon said, his voice softening. "With genuine respect and dignity. In all these years, I have never once seen you dismiss a lowborn man or woman simply for the circumstances of their birth. You do not ignore the plight of the smallfolk. You have quietly made sure the beggar children in the gutters of this capital stay fed and clothed. You have paid from your own purse to help people rebuild their homes after fires, without asking for a single word of praise or return."
Ryon took a step forward.
"You treat your family with love. And I can tell you that is rarer than dragons amongst the highborn. You treat the men who work for you with genuine respect. In all these years, through all the dark machinations, the hidden schemes, and the bloody errands I have carried out in your name..." Ryon placed his hand over his heart. "...I have not, for a single moment, regretted my decision to pledge my sword to you."
Rhaegar simply watched him, his expression completely unreadable.
Ryon let out a long, shuddering breath, releasing the tension in his chest. "All I wish to say, my prince, is that... you are not as evil as you think you are."
Ryon finished his speech, his words hanging in the scented air of the manse.
Rhaegar kept staring at the knight for a long, quiet moment. He absorbed the words, letting them sink.
Slowly, the corner of Rhaegar's mouth twitched.
A small, quiet smile broke across the prince's face. It was neither the predatory grin nor the polite mask of a courtier. It was a true, genuine smile.
But as quickly as it appeared, Rhaegar made sure to wipe it away and turned back toward the doors, pushing them open.
"Let's go," Rhaegar said, his voice crisp and full of purpose. "We have work to do."
He walked out, disappearing into the corridor.
Ryon smiled faintly. He quickly reached down and picked up his steel longsword from the table. He roughly wiped the drying Volantene's blood from the steel, slid the blade back into his scabbard, and jogged out the door to follow his prince.