The battlefield stretched beyond the horizon, a vast and broken land upon which the fate of kingdoms would be decided. The sky, once a silent observer of mortal struggles, now churned with storm clouds as if the heavens themselves braced for what was to come. A low wind howled through the desolation, carrying with it the scent of steel, sweat, and something far more sinister—inevitability.
Rhaegar stood at the highest vantage point of his war camp, his golden eyes burning as they surveyed the battlefield below. The banners of the great kingdoms fluttered against the wind—kingdoms that had once been his allies, now standing against him in defiance.
Sebastian had gathered an army unmatched in sheer numbers. Thousands upon thousands of men stood in formation, an ocean of steel stretching as far as the eye could see. His forces were composed of knights clad in shining silver armor, hardened veterans, and siege weaponry that could reduce castles to rubble.
But Rhaegar was not afraid.
Numbers meant nothing if their souls were weak.
His army—his legion of nightmares—was not composed of mere men.
They were monsters of his own making.
They did not fear death.
They embraced it.
The Art of War: Strategy and Preparation
The night before the battle, Rhaegar, Lucian, and his generals gathered in the war tent. A massive table stood at the center, a detailed map of the battlefield stretched across its surface. Every valley, every hill, every possible route of attack had been marked and studied.
Rhaegar ran a gloved hand over the map, his mind calculating a thousand possibilities at once. The enemy had the advantage in numbers, but that also meant they were slower, predictable, and easy to manipulate.
Sebastian would be expecting a direct confrontation—he would believe that sheer force would be enough to overwhelm Rhaegar's forces.
He was wrong.
"Lucian," Rhaegar murmured, eyes narrowing on a narrow canyon pass just beyond the enemy's left flank. "How many of our Phantom Blades can move undetected?"
Lucian smirked, arms crossed. "At least five hundred. More than enough to cause a little chaos."
Rhaegar nodded. The plan was forming.
"We won't fight them head-on. Not at first," he said, voice calm but sharp as a dagger. "We bleed them before the real battle even begins."
Phase One: Psychological Warfare
As the enemy forces camped for the night, a chill settled over their ranks. Their torches flickered. The distant hoot of an owl was the only sound.
Then—screams.
The Phantom Blades struck first.
They moved like shadows in the darkness, slicing throats, setting fires, whispering words of doom before vanishing into the void. Tents burned, horses bolted in terror, and fear seeped into the very bones of the enemy soldiers.
By dawn, hundreds had been slain.
The enemy awoke to find heads mounted on pikes, their fallen comrades arranged in grotesque warnings. Whispers of "The Reaper King is coming" spread like wildfire.
Panic took root.
Sebastian, in his arrogance, did not falter. He believed Rhaegar's army was made of mere assassins and mercenaries.
He was wrong again.
Phase Two: The Trap
As Sebastian's forces marched forward, the ground beneath them was not as lifeless as it seemed.
Rhaegar had laid the land with traps—deep trenches covered with brittle wooden planks, hidden pits lined with spears, and narrow pathways filled with tar waiting to be set ablaze.
The moment the first ranks fell into the pits, the signal was given.
Arrows rained from the cliffs above, black-fletched death slicing through the air. Fireballs soared from the Warcasters, igniting oil-soaked trenches that turned the battlefield into a blazing inferno.
Screams filled the air as soldiers burned alive, their armor turning into metal coffins.
Sebastian had no choice but to pull back.
And that was exactly what Rhaegar wanted.
Phase Three: The Charge
"NOW!" Rhaegar roared.
His Reapers surged forward, their dark armor glinting like the specters of death itself. They tore through the weakened front lines, blades carving through flesh and steel alike.
Lucian led the Blackguard, his greatsword cleaving through enemy knights like they were made of paper.
The Abyss Riders crashed into the flanks, their monstrous mounts ripping men apart with savage fangs.
Sebastian, watching from atop his warhorse, finally understood.
He had lost before the battle even began.
The Final Duel
The battlefield had become a graveyard of blood and bodies.
And at its center, Rhaegar and Sebastian met at last.
Sebastian dismounted, his silver blade gleaming under the burning sky. His once-pristine armor was battered, dented, and stained with his soldiers' blood.
"You should be dead," Sebastian hissed, gripping his sword.
Rhaegar smirked, his own black blade resting at his side. "And yet here I am."
Sebastian lunged first, his blade a blur of silver.
But Rhaegar was faster.
Their swords clashed, the force of the impact sending a shockwave through the battlefield. The war around them ceased, as both armies turned to watch the duel between the two kings.
Sebastian fought with desperation, his strikes wild but powerful.
Rhaegar fought with precision, every movement calculated, every step taken with purpose.
Sebastian swung for his head—Rhaegar ducked.
A slash at his ribs—Rhaegar parried with ease.
"You're hesitating," Rhaegar whispered. "You know you've already lost."
Sebastian's eyes burned with fury. He roared, swinging with all his strength—
Rhaegar sidestepped.
His blade flashed.
A deep slash tore across Sebastian's chest.
The false king staggered back, his blood dripping onto the scorched earth.
He fell to his knees, gasping.
The battlefield was silent.
Rhaegar stood over him, his sword poised for the final strike.
Sebastian laughed weakly, coughing blood. "Even if you kill me... they will never stop hunting you."
Rhaegar tilted his head. "Let them try."
And with one swift motion, he buried his sword into Sebastian's heart.
Sebastian's eyes widened. His mouth parted as if to speak, but no words came.
He collapsed.
Dead.
The false king had fallen.
The Throne Bathed in Blood
With their king slain, the remaining enemy soldiers dropped their weapons. Some fled. Others fell to their knees, begging for mercy.
But Rhaegar did not offer it.
"Burn the bodies," he ordered coldly. "Let the world see what happens to those who stand against me."
His army roared in victory.
As the sun set over the battlefield, Rhaegar climbed the steps of the ruined castle. He entered the throne room, his boots leaving bloody footprints on the marble floor.
And there it was.
The throne.
His throne.
Sebastian's corpse had not even cooled, and yet Rhaegar did not hesitate.
He sat upon the throne bathed in blood.
And as his warriors knelt before him, chanting his name, he realized—
He was no longer a fallen prince.
He was the Reaper King.
And the world would kneel before him.
Rhaegar exhaled slowly, his golden eyes sweeping over the grand hall that was now his. The scent of blood, iron, and smoke lingered thick in the air, filling the once-pristine throne room with the remnants of war. The banners that once bore Sebastian's crest hung in tatters, some drenched in crimson, others half-burned, their edges curling like dying embers.
The soldiers of his army, the ones who had survived the brutal battle, knelt before him, heads bowed in both respect and fear. They had fought for this moment, bled for this victory, and now they awaited the command of their Reaper King.
Rhaegar leaned back against the cold throne, tapping his fingers against the armrest. His armor, dark and still slick with the blood of his enemies, felt heavier than before.
Silence stretched between them all, thick with expectation.
Then, Lucian—standing just beside the throne, arms crossed and leaning against a pillar like he owned the place—finally spoke.
"Well, well," he drawled, a smirk tugging at his lips. "I have to admit, watching you stab that pompous bastard in the heart? Best damn thing I've seen in years."
A few of the kneeling soldiers flinched. The rest remained silent, afraid to so much as breathe in the presence of the man who had just slaughtered their former king.
Rhaegar didn't respond immediately. He simply let the weight of the throne settle around him, let them feel the shift in power. Every pair of eyes in the room was on him—warriors, generals, even the surviving nobles who had dared to side against him.
And then, finally, he spoke.
"This throne belonged to me before Sebastian stole it." His voice was smooth, unwavering. "He tried to execute me. He tried to erase my name, my legacy."
He let his gaze fall upon the trembling nobles near the edge of the hall, the ones who had thrown their loyalty behind Sebastian.
"And yet, here I sit." He tilted his head, his smirk slow and sharp. "Remind me—who among you supported my execution?"
The nobles went deathly still.
Rhaegar chuckled darkly. "Oh? No volunteers?"
Lucian, ever the troublemaker, stepped forward with an exaggerated sigh. "Should I start calling names? Because I remember a certain Lord Fendrel who was practically wetting himself with excitement the day they put you in chains."
Lord Fendrel, a balding man with far too much sweat dripping down his face, paled. He opened his mouth as if to protest, but Lucian was faster.
With a flick of his wrist, he unsheathed his dagger and sent it flying—embedding it into the wooden floor right in front of Fendrel's feet.
The man yelped, stumbling backward.
"Who else?" Rhaegar mused, tapping his chin. His voice remained casual, almost bored, as if this was nothing more than a tedious chore. "Who else played a part in my downfall?"
One of the younger nobles—a wiry man named Lord Vance—made the worst decision of his life. He shot to his feet and pointed a trembling finger at another noble. "It was Lord Harren! He pushed for your execution more than anyone!"
Lord Harren's eyes widened in outrage. "You filthy little—"
Lucian burst into laughter. "Oh, I love this part. They always turn on each other in the end."
Rhaegar stood. The simple act was enough to make the nobles flinch.
"You all had no problem sending me to my death." His tone was quiet, but it carried an edge of something dangerous. "So why beg for mercy now?"
He stepped forward, unsheathing his sword with a slow, deliberate movement. The black steel gleamed under the dim torchlight, still stained with Sebastian's blood.
Lord Harren tried to run.
He got two steps before Rhaegar swung his blade.
Steel met flesh and bone, and Harren's head hit the marble floor with a sickening thud.
A collective gasp echoed through the hall.
Blood pooled at Rhaegar's feet.
The silence that followed was deafening.
Lucian whistled. "Damn. That was fast."
Rhaegar ignored him, wiping the blood from his blade. He turned to the rest of the nobles, his golden gaze unwavering.
"Let me make this clear." His voice was eerily calm. "I do not forgive betrayal."
He pointed his sword at Lord Vance.
"You sold out Harren in an attempt to save yourself." He tilted his head. "But tell me, Vance—why should I let a man who betrays so easily live?"
Lord Vance dropped to his knees. "P-Please, my king! I—"
His words ended in a wet gurgle as Rhaegar ran him through.
He withdrew his sword with a slow precision, letting Vance's lifeless body collapse beside Harren's.
The rest of the nobles were too terrified to move.
Rhaegar turned back toward the throne, stepping over the corpses without a second glance.
He sat once more, leaning back into the dark, towering seat of power.
The room remained deathly still.
And then, finally, he spoke.
"Lucian."
Lucian raised an eyebrow. "Yeah?"
"Find the rest who stood against me." Rhaegar's voice was cold, final. "Kill them all."
Lucian grinned. "With pleasure."
And just like that, the new reign of the Reaper King began.
It spread faster than wildfire, a storm of whispers and fearful murmurs sweeping across the kingdoms.
The Reaper King had returned.
And he had won.
The moment Sebastian's lifeless body was dragged through the streets of his former kingdom, his once-loyal soldiers and nobles fell to their knees in terror. His blood painted the castle floors, a deep crimson trail leading from the throne room to the city square where the last remnants of his reign collapsed into dust.
It was poetic, really. The very same people who once cheered for Rhaegar's execution now cowered at the mere mention of his name. The streets were no longer filled with joyous celebrations for a new ruler—now, they trembled beneath the weight of his vengeance.
And Rhaegar?
He enjoyed it.
He watched as those who had conspired against him were dragged from their homes, screaming, begging, pleading for mercy they never intended to give him.
They didn't get it.
His men, the ones who had fought and bled to see him reclaim his throne, were more than willing to carry out his orders. The traitors were rounded up, their wrists bound with iron chains, and one by one, they were brought before him.
"Please, my king—"
Rhaegar laughed. The sound was dark, hollow, filled with a cruel amusement that sent shivers down their spines.
"You did not call me your king when you sent me to die." He tilted his head, golden eyes gleaming. "Tell me, Lord Everrett, did you hesitate when you signed the order for my execution?"
The old noble shook violently, his face pale as death. "I… I was forced! It was Sebastian, he—"
"Ah," Rhaegar interrupted, tapping his fingers against the hilt of his sword. "So now it was Sebastian's fault?"
Everrett opened his mouth to protest, but before he could utter another pathetic excuse, Rhaegar gave a single nod.
And in an instant, the executioner's blade sliced through flesh and bone, severing Everrett's head from his shoulders.
Blood sprayed across the stone courtyard.
A few of the remaining nobles screamed, some collapsed, others vomited.
Lucian, standing at Rhaegar's side, exhaled in disappointment. "You'd think they'd handle this better. They had no problem watching you suffer."
Rhaegar smirked, amused. "Cowards never expect the blade to turn on them."
One by one, the betrayers fell.
The streets ran red.
Some were executed in the city square, their bodies hung as a warning to those who might ever dare to rise against him again. Others were hunted down as they tried to flee, their deaths slow and painful as a message to those who thought they could escape judgment.
But the worst fate was reserved for Sebastian's most loyal supporters—the generals, the advisors, the ones who had laughed the loudest as Rhaegar was dragged to his execution.
They were not granted quick deaths.
They were stripped of their wealth, their titles, their dignity. Their families were cast into the streets, left to rot with nothing but the cold embrace of Rhaegar's mercy, which was none at all.
And as the fires of vengeance burned through the kingdom, as the last remnants of Sebastian's rule were erased, Rhaegar sat upon the throne that had once been stolen from him.
The black steel of his armor gleamed under the dim torchlight. His sword, the blade that had ended kings and betrayed tyrants, rested beside him.
Lucian leaned against the throne's armrest, arms crossed, watching as the last traitor was dragged to the execution block.
"So," Lucian mused. "What now?"
Rhaegar exhaled slowly, his golden eyes scanning the ruined court before him. The fear in the air was thick, almost tangible, but beneath it was something else.
Respect. Submission. Absolute, unchallenged loyalty.
"Now?" Rhaegar's smirk was slow, sharp, dangerous.
"Now, the world kneels."
The war was over. The rebellion had been crushed. The last of the traitors had been executed.
Now, only silence remained.
The fear that had once been his prison was now his weapon. It spread like an unrelenting storm, gripping the hearts of kings and commoners alike. There were no celebrations, no grand feasts to commemorate victory. No one dared.
For though the battle had ended, the Reaper King's reign had only just begun.
The once-great halls of Sebastian's palace now lay in ruins. The golden banners of his house had been ripped down, their once-proud insignias trampled into the dirt. What remained of his court had sworn fealty or been slaughtered, and the nobles who had once mocked Rhaegar's name now bowed so deeply their foreheads touched the marble floor.
The throne room was filled with the weight of unspoken terror. Every breath was hushed, every movement careful, as if one wrong step might summon his wrath.
Rhaegar sat upon the throne of his enemy, the high seat that had once belonged to Sebastian. His fingers drummed lazily against the armrest, his golden eyes scanning the room with the slow, calculating amusement of a predator who had already won.
Lucian stood beside him, arms crossed, his gaze flickering between the nobles who had gathered in submission. He exhaled dramatically.
"Damn. I've never seen a room this quiet before. It's almost peaceful."
Rhaegar huffed a short laugh. "They know their place."
Lucian smirked. "Took long enough."
The nobles tensed at the casual exchange, as if expecting heads to roll at the slightest offense.
And why wouldn't they?
They had watched what happened to those who stood against him.
Word of Sebastian's defeat had spread faster than a wildfire tearing through dry fields. His broken body, once dressed in the finest silks and gold, had been paraded through the streets like a disgraced offering. The people who once sang his praises now spat upon his corpse, the same way they had once spat on Rhaegar when they thought he was nothing more than a doomed traitor.
But the worst part?
The silence.
No one fought back.
No one dared to resist.
The moment they saw him, seated upon the throne of their former king, they knew it was over.
The Reaper King had returned.
And no one was foolish enough to challenge him.
Lucian leaned closer, whispering, "You should say something. Let them know how f—"
"Kneel."
The single word cut through the air like a blade.
The nobles fell instantly, their knees slamming against the cold stone floors, heads bowed so low that their trembling hands pressed against the marble.
"You only bow now?" Rhaegar's voice was deceptively soft, his fingers still tapping against the armrest. His gaze swept across the terrified crowd, taking in every flinch, every drop of sweat, every trembling breath. "Where was this loyalty when you stood behind Sebastian? When you cheered as my blood stained the execution grounds?"
No one dared to speak.
Lucian whistled. "Damn. Tough crowd."
Rhaegar tilted his head, eyes dark with amusement. He slowly rose from his throne, stepping down the dais, each footstep echoing through the massive hall. The nobles tensed further, some shaking so violently they nearly collapsed.
He stopped in front of one of them—Lord Alden, a man who had once laughed the loudest when the execution orders were signed.
"Look at me," Rhaegar commanded.
Lord Alden hesitated, but when a blade pressed lightly against his throat, he immediately obeyed. His gaze lifted, meeting golden eyes that now burned with absolute dominion.
"Tell me, Lord Alden," Rhaegar murmured, voice dangerously low. "Where is your arrogance now?"
The old noble swallowed hard. "M-My king, I—"
"Your king?" Rhaegar chuckled. "How convenient. And yet, when you stood beside Sebastian, you called me a 'disgrace to the throne'—did you not?"
Alden paled, his mouth opening and closing like a fish gasping for air.
Rhaegar's smirk widened. "Speak freely. I enjoy honesty."
Lucian scoffed from behind him. "No, you enjoy watching people shit themselves."
Rhaegar didn't deny it.
The silence stretched, thick with fear and expectation. The nobles remained frozen, waiting for the next move, the next command, the next death.
Rhaegar turned, stepping away from Alden, who nearly collapsed in relief.
"Listen well," Rhaegar announced, his voice carrying through the chamber. "I am not Sebastian. I do not rule through empty words and fragile alliances." He gestured to the bloodstains still marking the grand hall, evidence of the executions that had taken place not long ago. "I rule through action."
He descended further, walking through the crowd of kneeling nobles. "You will not conspire in shadows. You will not whisper treachery behind my back. Because I do not forgive."
His voice grew colder.
"I do not forget."
A ripple of shudders passed through them.
Lucian yawned. "Alright, we get it. You're terrifying. But we still have a kingdom to run."
Rhaegar sighed, shaking his head. "Such impatience."
"Not impatience—boredom. Let's be real, no one here is dumb enough to try anything." Lucian waved a hand at the nobles, half of whom looked like they were about to faint. "They're too scared to even breathe wrong."
Rhaegar considered it for a moment before nodding. He turned back to the throne, stepping up the dais once more. "Then let them be useful."
Lucian raised an eyebrow. "Meaning?"
Rhaegar lowered himself into the throne, fingers pressing together in contemplation. "If they wish to live, they will serve. I need governors, strategists, diplomats. Those who are not loyal will be discarded. The rest…" He smirked. "They will prove themselves."
The nobles visibly relaxed, though none dared to move yet.
Lucian clapped his hands. "Well, there you go. See? Not every day has to end with a massacre."
Rhaegar's smirk didn't fade. "We'll see."
Because peace was a fragile illusion.
And if they so much as whispered one word of betrayal—
He would burn them all
The war was now truly over
Not just the battle, not just the conquest—everything.
For the first time in years, there was peace.
And it was his.
Rhaegar sat on the blackened throne, watching as the city that once burned in defiance now thrived under his rule. The kingdom had once trembled at his name—and they still did—but it was no longer just fear that ruled them.
It was order.
It was balance.
The sky outside the palace windows was a soft shade of golden orange, the last remnants of daylight stretching lazily across the horizon. It was quiet, save for the distant hum of the city below.
Rhaegar exhaled slowly, leaning back against the cold stone of the throne. For the first time in a long time, there was no urgency in his movements, no weight pressing down on his chest.
Lucian, who had taken up permanent residence in the throne room like some overgrown stray cat, kicked his feet up on a nearby table, arms folded behind his head. "So, what now?"
Rhaegar didn't answer immediately. He simply let the silence stretch between them, as if savoring it.
Because for years, his world had been filled with nothing but war.
He had spent every waking moment plotting, fighting, spilling blood to reclaim what was his. But now? Now there was nothing left to take.
Nothing left to avenge.
And for the first time, he wasn't sure what to do with himself.
Lucian arched an eyebrow. "Don't tell me you're bored already. You just won."
Rhaegar smirked, though there was no real fire behind it. "I think I've forgotten what life without war feels like."
Lucian snorted. "Tragic. Maybe I should cause a little chaos, keep things interesting for you."
Rhaegar rolled his eyes. "Try it, and I'll have you cleaning the latrines for a month."
"You wouldn't dare."
"I would."
Lucian clicked his tongue. "Tyrant."
Rhaegar chuckled, shaking his head. It was strange—this ease between them, this casual conversation in a room that had once been filled with screams and executions.
Peace.
It felt foreign, but… not unwelcome.
Outside, the city moved at a slower pace than it once had. Gone were the chaotic riots, the fear of rebellion, the constant tension that had plagued the streets. The people still watched their words, still stepped carefully, but there was something else in their movements now.
A sense of stability.
They had learned that loyalty was rewarded, and betrayal was crushed before it could fester. But most importantly, they had learned that under Rhaegar's rule, life would go on.
Not in endless war.
Not in constant suffering.
But in something resembling normalcy.
The markets had reopened. The once-barren streets were lively again, merchants calling out their wares, laughter echoing between the stone walls of the city.
Even the nobles—what few remained—had settled into uneasy obedience.
No one dared to test him.
No one questioned his authority.
Because they all knew the truth.
Rhaegar had won.
And this time, there would be no betrayals.
No rebellions.
No second chances.
Lucian stretched, standing up with a dramatic groan. "Well, since you're busy brooding, I'm going to enjoy the fact that we're no longer being hunted like wild animals. I hear the taverns have been lively lately."
Rhaegar gave him a dry look. "You're supposed to be ensuring stability, not drinking yourself into unconsciousness."
"I can multitask."
"Somehow, that terrifies me more than war."
Lucian grinned. "Good. Means I'm doing my job right."
He waved lazily before sauntering toward the exit, leaving Rhaegar alone in the throne room.
For a while, he simply sat there, letting the quiet settle around him.
His fingers drummed lightly against the armrest.
No urgent reports.
No war councils.
No bloodstained letters demanding his attention.
Just silence.
For a man who had spent his entire life fighting, it was almost unnerving.
But… maybe it was time.
Maybe it was time to stop looking over his shoulder.
Maybe it was time to stop waiting for the next betrayal, the next battle, the next war.
Maybe, just maybe—
It was time to live.
A small, almost amused exhale left him.
Peace.
He supposed he could get used to it.
And so, as you read the tale of Rhaegar Crowne, remember this: true power is not found in what you can destroy, but in what you can rebuild - within yourself and the world around you.
Yet,
For the first time in his life, Rhaegar looked beyond the battlefield, beyond vegeance - and saw a world waiting to be reborn.