RHAEGAR | DENYS
Drizzle fell from the grey and swollen sky, as if the clouds themselves could not bear the weight of the day's sorrow. Cold droplets of water fell wetting the scorched earth, mixing the ash of the fire with mud and blood, creating a disgusting black slurry beneath Rhaegar's feet.
Rhaegar Targaryen stood silently in the middle of the outer courtyard of the Dun Fort, which now resembled a mass graveyard more than a fortress of pride. His silver hair, usually gleaming like moonlight, was now soaked, falling flat and messy, covering part of his pale face. There was no majesty there, only an exhaustion so deep it felt as if it penetrated the bone.
Before him, kneeling in the cold mud, were the remnants of House Darklyn.
They had been dragged out of their hiding holes, past the rubble of the destroyed gate and the corpses of their own soldiers. Lord Denys Darklyn, Lady Serala, uncles, cousins, and other kin. Their hands were roughly bound behind their backs, their silk and velvet clothes torn and stained with filth.
Rhaegar stared at Lord Darklyn with a hollow gaze.
There was no fiery anger in his chest. Strangely, that fire had been extinguished when he saw his father's broken body earlier. What remained was a gaping hole, a cold and dark void. He saw the kneeling man not as a monster, but as a pathetic creature who had gambled everything and lost utterly.
Denys trembled violently, not just from the cold rain, but from pure terror. His face was now wet with a mixture of rainwater, snot, and tears. He did not dare look Rhaegar in the eye; his gaze was fixed on the Prince's mud-splattered boots.
"What were you thinking?"
Rhaegar's voice was quiet, nearly swallowed by the sound of the rain and the hiss of the dying embers.
"What were you thinking," Rhaegar repeated, his tone flat, emotionless, "when you decided to take my father captive? When you decided to betray your oath to a King who came to your home in friendship, without an army, with only trust?"
Denys flinched, his shoulders shaking with suppressed sobs. He lifted his face slightly, his eyes red and swollen.
"Forgive me, Prince... Your Grace... Mercy..." Denys babbled, his voice breaking. "Sorry, sorry, sorry. I did not mean... I did not know it would be like this..."
"You did not know?" Rhaegar tilted his head slightly, looking at him as one looks at a strange insect specimen.
"I just wanted His Grace to listen to me!" Denys wailed, trying to justify his madness. "That is all! I wanted that charter. I wanted my rights. I thought if I could speak to him, just the two of us..."
"And you killed him?" Rhaegar cut in coldly. "You killed your King for a charter?"
Denys's face paled even further, if that were possible. He shook his head frantically, rainwater spraying from his wet hair.
"I did not kill him! By the Seven, I did not touch him!" Denys denied weakly. "He fell... it was an accident... Ser Barristan! He was the one who did it! He came sneaking in like a thief, he killed my men, he tried to take the King away, and the King fell! It was his fault! Not mine!"
"DO NOT SPEAK THAT NAME WITH YOUR FILTHY MOUTH!"
The shout came from beside Rhaegar. Ser Gerold Hightower, Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, stepped forward. His face was flushed red with wrath, his hand gripping the hilt of his sword so tight his leather glove creaked.
"Do not dare insult my sworn brother because of your own doing!" Gerold snapped, his voice booming with grief. "Barristan Selmy died with honor you will never possess in your entire life! You took the King captive, you let him rot, you cut off his finger and threw it before us like garbage! And now you blame the man who tried to save him?!"
Gerold raised his hand as if to slap Denys on the spot, but Rhaegar stopped him with one raised hand. Gerold stopped, his breath coming in gasps, his chest heaving to contain his explosive anger.
"Prince..."
Another voice sounded, soft and trembling. It came from the woman beside Denys. Lady Serala of Myr. She crawled forward a little on her knees, looking at Rhaegar with pleading eyes.
"Please spare us, Prince..." Serala begged, tears streaming down her cheeks. "We... I and the other kin... we had nothing to do with this madness. I am an obedient wife, I have no power. I tried to stop Denys! I begged him to release the King, but he would not listen!"
Denys turned to her quickly, his eyes widening in disbelief. The betrayal seemed more painful than the threat of death.
"Silence, you! You whore!" Denys shouted, his voice hoarse with hatred. "How dare you?! You whispered that in my ear every night! You said Aerys was weak! You said Tywin would not dare attack! This was all your idea!"
"No! That is a lie!" Serala screamed back, her voice shrill with hysteria. She looked at Rhaegar again, shaking her head. "He is mad, Prince! My husband is mad! He hallucinates! He hit me! Look!" She tried to show a bruise on her cheek, though it was hard to see under the dirt. "Do not punish us for the sins of one madman!"
"You viper! You poison!" Denys tried to lunge at his wife, but a Lannister soldier kicked him back into the mud.
Rhaegar watched the scene with deep disgust. A husband and wife tearing each other apart on the brink of death, trying to save their own necks at the expense of the other. No dignity. No honor. Only naked and revolting fear.
Behind Rhaegar, the Lords watched with hard faces. They had seen the King's corpse. They had seen the severed finger. Their hearts had turned to stone.
"Enough."
Rhaegar's voice was not loud, but it killed the pathetic argument before him instantly.
He looked at Denys, then Serala, then the row of trembling Darklyn kin behind them.
"I feel none of you are sane," Rhaegar said quietly. "You let this happen. You supported it. You were silent when your King was mutilated."
"Yes!" shouted Lord Rosby from the crowd. "Traitors! All of them!"
"Burn them!" cried another voice, perhaps Lord Velaryon. "Burn them as they burned the stables! Let them taste dragon fire!"
"Hang them!"
"Flay them!"
The shouts of the Lords grew louder, demanding blood, demanding suffering. They wanted to see a spectacle. They wanted to see pain commensurate with the fear they had felt for the past month.
"No, Prince! Please!" Serala screamed again as she saw Rhaegar's expression harden. "I beg you! I—"
Rhaegar did not listen anymore. He opened his eyes and turned his head to the side, looking at Tywin Lannister.
The Hand of the King stood, silent and expressionless, observing this makeshift court with cold pale green eyes. He said nothing, offered no advice, yet Rhaegar knew Tywin was judging him. Judging if Rhaegar had the stomach to do what needed to be done.
Rhaegar straightened his back. He took a deep breath, inhaling the air that smelled of rain and death.
"Prepare the gallows," Rhaegar commanded. His voice did not tremble.
Silence fell on the courtyard.
"I do not wish to let this linger," Rhaegar continued, his eyes returning to stare at Denys and Serala who were now frozen in horror. "Bring them. All members of House Darklyn. Cleanse this stain from my kingdom."
His voice was round, his decision absolute. And as he spoke it, Rhaegar realized one terrifying thing.
This decision, the decision to end the lives of dozens of people, felt far easier than he had thought.
He turned, splashing a little mud, and walked away without looking back at the desperate screams, which sounded like a hollow melody.
…
The world narrowed into a single, deafening rhythm.
Denys Darklyn's heart beat fast, hammering his ribs with painful force. The sound of its beating was like a war drum beaten right inside his skull, so loud he could hear nothing else. The voices from outside, the jeers of the soldiers, the sobs of Serala being dragged behind him, the crackle of the remaining fire, all were drowned out under the thumping of his own blood. He only heard time running fast towards the end.
He was going to die. And all his kin too. House Darklyn, which had ruled Duskendale for so long, would be extinguished today like a candle blown out by a storm wind.
They were not wrong, he swore in his frozen heart, trying to maintain the remnants of his sanity. They, Tywin, Rhaegar, they were doing what had to be done according to the iron laws of war. Denys knew the laws. He knew the price.
A rough shove on his back forced him forward, a wordless command that could not be refused.
Denys stumbled forward. He was forced to walk up the rough wooden stairs to the makeshift execution platform that had just been erected in the middle of the muddy courtyard. The wood beneath his feet creaked, a sound that sounded like breaking bones to his sensitive ears. Every step took him higher, above the crowd, above the life he had once known.
He wanted to close his eyes. He wanted to squeeze his eyes shut tight and find himself having a nightmare in his warm bedroom, then wake up in a cold sweat, finding Serala sleeping soundly beside him and the morning sun shining on a peaceful Duskendale. He wanted to wake up and realize that mad ambition had never happened.
But this was no dream. The cold air piercing his skin was too real. The smell of smoke, filth, and blood was too sharp for an illusion.
Something wet and heavy hit his face hard. Denys staggered, his vision blurring for a moment. He touched his cheek with his shoulder.
His face was dirty from something thrown by the mob below. Denys didn't know who threw it, maybe an angry soldier, maybe a commoner who hated him for bringing war to their home, and he didn't care either. His dignity was long gone, left in the dungeon cell along with the King's severed finger. He was no longer a Lord; he was just meat waiting to stop breathing.
His legs trembled so violently, his knees knocked against each other. He wanted to fall, wanted to kneel and beg once more to the void, even though he knew it was futile. But a strong push on his shoulder forced him to stand straight, forced him to face destiny.
He reached the center of the platform. And then he saw the object in front of him.
A slightly dirty white rope, hanging from a sturdy wooden beam. The knot was large and thick, swaying gently in the breeze. It looked so ordinary, an object he often saw at the docks to tie ships, a simple tool for everyday work. But soon, that ordinary object would wrap around his neck, crush his windpipe, and separate his soul from his body.
He couldn't imagine what it would feel like. Would it hurt? Would it be quick? Or would he kick the air for minutes while his lungs burned seeking breath? The ignorance was more terrifying than death itself.
Cold sweat ran down his back, soaking his torn tunic. He looked up at the grey sky that seemed to press down on the earth.
He prayed to the Seven in the silence of his mind. Not the formal prayers taught by Septons, but the chaotic mute pleas of a frightened soul. He asked for a miracle. He asked for a dragon to descend from the sky. He asked for the earth to swallow him whole. Anything but this.
But when he looked down and saw the thousands of people below, the sea of faces full of hatred, the armor gleaming coldly, and Prince Rhaegar's violet eyes staring at him without mercy, Denys knew that was impossible. The sky remained grey, and the earth remained silent. The Gods had abandoned Duskendale.
A large figure in a black hood stepped forward, blocking his view. Rough and calloused hands held the rope. With efficient, emotionless movements, the rough noose was placed around Denys's neck.
The rough fibers of the rope rubbed against his neck skin, itchy and painful. Denys held his breath. The knot was tightened, biting into the flesh, choking off a little air flow even before the floor opened.
Someone down there might be waiting for final words, a plea or a curse, but Denys could only open his mouth soundlessly. His throat was bone dry. His tongue was stiff. No words were enough to explain, no words could change what had happened.
He just shook his head weakly, surrendering to total despair.
A cold wind hit his face once more, bringing the strong scent of salt from the sea not far away. The scent triggered something inside him. Bringing a deepening silence to Denys's mind, muffling the shouts of the mob, muffling the beat of his own heart.
Denys closed his eyes.
And in that moment, the world changed.
Everything before him became different. The darkness behind his eyelids faded, replaced by a blinding light. He didn't see the people screaming for his blood. He didn't see the grey and oppressive sky. And of course, he didn't see a dull rope.
He saw the sea.
The sea was crystal blue, shimmering under the warm summer sun. The harbor of Duskendale stretched before him, not a harbor blockaded by warships and full of smoke, but a peaceful harbor, smelling of salt, fresh fish, and tar. Seagulls cried cheerfully overhead, dancing in the free wind.
His father was there in front. Old Lord Darklyn, still dashing and strong, stood at the end of the pier. He did not speak, but his smile was wide and warm, his arms outstretched in welcome. He looked so proud, so alive.
Denys felt himself shrink. He was no longer a failed lord, no longer a traitor. He was little Denys, just seven name days old, barefoot on the warm wood of the pier.
His feet were light, unburdened by sin or ambition. He ran there, towards his father. He ran full of silent laughter as the sunlight washed over his face, feeling pure freedom. He wanted to show the seashell he had just found. He wanted to hug his father and never let go.
He ran faster, his hand reaching out to grasp that image.
Almost there. Just a little more. The hem of his father's cloak was right before his eyes.
But then, the floor beneath his feet disappeared.
The sensation of falling was sudden and absolute.
Suddenly he couldn't breathe. His chest was tight, as if the entire ocean had fallen upon him. A violent jerk at his neck stopped his fall brutally, breaking the illusion and the bone at once.
He couldn't reach his father. The image of the sea, the pier, and the smile shattered like glass struck by a stone.
His eyes closed tight, then opened again reflexively due to the pure panic of a dying body.
Dark clouds swirled above him, faded and distant. Thin cracks of sunlight were there, but unreachable. Crows flew at the edges of his narrowing vision, waiting for their feast.
And it seemed Denys was flying too, for he couldn't feel the ground beneath his feet. His legs kicked at empty air, seeking a foothold, seeking the earth, but couldn't find it. He hung between the sky and the earth, rejected by both.
His chest was incredibly tight, his lungs screaming for air that couldn't enter through the crushed windpipe. Heat spread across his face as blood was trapped, his head felt like it was going to explode. His neck stung, burned by the rope that was the only support of his existence.
The final shame came preventably. He felt the bottom of his trousers wet and warm, his muscles giving up in final defeat. A foul smell came from there, mixing with the smell of his own death.
But it was only for a moment.
The pain began to drift away, as if happening to someone else. The sound of drums in his head slowed... slowed...
Then stopped.
The void came to welcome him, cold and eternal. His vision narrowed to a black dot, swallowing the clouds, swallowing the pain, swallowing the regret.
Denys drifted in the air, like a leaf swept away by the wind.
...
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