The grand hall of Veldrith Keep was bathed in the glow of flickering torches, their flames casting long shadows across the towering stone walls. At the far end of the chamber, beneath the immense banner of House Crowne—a crimson wolf wreathed in black fire—Prince Rhaegar Crowne sat upon the throne, his fingers curling against the armrest. His father, King Aldric Crowne, stood beside him, his presence as imposing as ever, yet age had begun to weigh on his once-mighty form.
Tonight was supposed to be a night of celebration, a feast marking the victory against the rebels of Eldermere. Instead, tension poisoned the air, thick as the iron chains that once shackled prisoners in the dungeons below.
Rhaegar's gaze swept across the lords and nobles gathered before him. They feasted and laughed, their goblets brimming with wine, yet their eyes gleamed with something else. Ambition. Greed. Betrayal.
He had always known the court was a den of vipers, yet he never imagined the fangs would sink into his flesh so soon.
"My son," the king's voice broke through the noise, "the time has come for you to prove yourself worthy of the crown."
Rhaegar turned to his father, studying the man who had shaped him into the warrior he was today. King Aldric had ruled with an iron fist, carving his name into history through war and bloodshed. But strength alone was not enough to keep the throne.
"I am ready," Rhaegar said, his voice calm, controlled.
The king nodded and raised his goblet. "Then let all bear witness—Rhaegar Crowne, my blood, my heir, shall be the next ruler of Veldrith!"
A cheer erupted through the hall, but Rhaegar saw the truth hidden behind their smiles. Not all rejoiced at this proclamation.
Then, the first sign of treachery struck.
A servant approached, head bowed, carrying a golden goblet filled with wine. Rhaegar's instincts, honed by years of war and training, whispered a warning. He had seen this trick before. Poison.
He did not reach for the goblet. Instead, he looked into the servant's eyes and saw it—fear.
Rhaegar grabbed the servant's wrist before the man could step back. The hall fell silent as all eyes turned toward them.
"Who sent you?" Rhaegar's voice was ice.
The servant trembled, eyes darting toward the gathered lords. He opened his mouth to speak—then convulsed. A sickening gurgle escaped his throat as blood trickled from his lips. His body hit the floor, a dagger buried in his back.
Rhaegar's head snapped up. The real betrayers had silenced him before the truth could be revealed.
Then the doors to the hall burst open.
A wave of armored soldiers stormed in, their weapons gleaming under the torchlight. At the forefront stood Duke Varian Dorne, the king's most trusted general—and the man who had taught Rhaegar the art of war.
But there was no loyalty in his eyes now.
"Seize them!" Varian's voice rang out.
Betrayal.
Rhaegar barely had time to draw his sword before the first blade swung toward him.
Rhaegar twisted, trying to evade, but the blade found flesh. A sickening tear, sharp and unforgiving, carved into his thigh. Pain exploded through him, white-hot and blinding. Blood poured freely, pooling beneath the chair, the scent thick in the damp air. The wound was no mere warning—it was a promise of what was to come.
wo guards grabbed his arms before he could react, yanking him off the throne and forcing him to his knees. More rushed toward the king, but Aldric fought like a beast, slashing through one before another buried a sword into his side.
"Father!" Rhaegar struggled, but the grip on him tightened.
Aldric staggered, blood seeping through his robes as he was forced to his knees beside Rhaegar.
Varian stepped forward, sword in hand, his expression grim but unwavering. "It did not have to be this way, Rhaegar."
Rhaegar snarled, straining against the guards' hold. "Traitor."
"Not a traitor," Varian corrected, kneeling before him. "A realist. You were never fit to rule. You are reckless, dangerous... a man destined to drown this kingdom in blood."
Rhaegar bared his teeth. "And yet, you spill blood before I ever had the chance."
A muscle twitched in Varian's jaw. He turned to his men. "Take the king to the dungeons. As for the prince..."
He exhaled sharply. "Break him."
Rhaegar's world spun as a mailed fist crashed into his stomach. The pain flared like fire, but he refused to give them the satisfaction of a reaction. Another blow followed, this time across his face, snapping his head to the side. He tasted blood.
The guards dragged him down the long corridors of the keep, their boots echoing through the stone halls. The torches flickered, their dim light casting shadows that danced along the walls like ghosts of the condemned.
Finally, they reached the dungeons. The scent of damp stone and old blood filled the air. This was not a place of justice—it was a place of suffering.
Rhaegar was thrown into a chair, his arms bound behind him. Across from him stood Varian, flanked by two cloaked figures.
"Let's make this simple," Varian said, pulling off his gloves. "Tell me what you know about the king's hidden alliances, and I'll spare you the worst of it."
Rhaegar chuckled darkly, spitting blood onto the floor. "You act like I have something to lose."
Varian sighed, nodding to one of the cloaked men.
A sharp, burning pain tore through Rhaegar's side as a blade cut into his skin—not deep enough to kill, but enough to make him feel it.
He gritted his teeth, refusing to make a sound.
Varian leaned closer. "This can end quickly. Just tell me where your father sent the last of his loyalists."
Rhaegar lifted his gaze, meeting Varian's eyes with a cold smile. "You'll have to carve it out of me."
Varian exhaled. "Very well."
The next blade struck deeper.
Got it. I'll continue from "The next blade struck deeper" and push the scene further into psychological and physical torment, building up the tension before the inevitable escape or shift in power.
---
Chapter 1: The Crimson Throne (Extended)
The next blade struck deeper.
A sharp breath escaped Rhaegar, but he refused to give them anything more. Pain flared through his side, hot and wet, as blood soaked into the fabric of his tunic. He had endured worse. This was nothing.
Varian watched him carefully, waiting for a crack in his resolve. When none came, he sighed and nodded toward the torturer.
A gloved hand grabbed Rhaegar's hair, yanking his head back. Cold metal pressed against his throat, the promise of agony hanging in the air.
"You misunderstand, Rhaegar," Varian said, his voice almost regretful. "This isn't about making you talk. It's about breaking you."
The blade traced a slow, deliberate path down his skin—not deep enough to kill, just enough to remind him that he was at their mercy. Another slice followed, this time along his collarbone. A shallow wound. A taste of what was to come.
Still, Rhaegar refused to make a sound.
Varian's eyes narrowed. "No scream? No plea? Perhaps I was wrong about you. Perhaps you are your father's son after all."
Rhaegar chuckled, the sound raw in his throat. "I don't break for cowards."
The amusement in Varian's face vanished. He nodded once. The torturer moved again.
A searing pain erupted across Rhaegar's ribs as the blade pressed deeper this time, carving into flesh with slow precision. His muscles tensed, breath ragged, but still, he refused to cry out.
The room was silent except for the distant dripping of water from the dungeon ceiling.
Varian stepped forward, crouching so he was eye level with Rhaegar. "You think this is strength?" he murmured. "This is pride. And pride is the downfall of men greater than you."
Rhaegar smirked, blood trickling from his lips. "Then what's your excuse?"
The slap came hard and fast, snapping his head to the side.
Varian inhaled sharply, shaking his head. "Foolish boy. You're wasting what little mercy I have left." He motioned to the torturer again. "Break his fingers."
The guards grabbed Rhaegar's left hand, forcing it flat against the arm of the chair. He tensed, knowing what was coming but refusing to show it.
The first crack of bone echoed through the chamber.
White-hot pain shot through his hand, his fingers bent at unnatural angles. His body jerked, but still, he did not scream.
The second break came slower, more deliberate. His breath hitched, sweat beading on his forehead, but his lips remained sealed.
"Still nothing?" Varian mused, watching him with fascination. "Perhaps you are stronger than I thought. But even the strongest men have limits."
The third snap came with a sickening crunch.
Rhaegar exhaled sharply through his nose, body trembling. The pain was unbearable—but pain meant nothing. Pain was a reminder that he was still alive.
Varian studied him for a long moment before shaking his head. "You are a stubborn one, Rhaegar. But even you will break. It is only a matter of time."
He stood, brushing the dust from his tunic. "Lock him in the lowest cell. No food. No water. Leave him to rot."
The guards yanked Rhaegar to his feet, dragging him toward the darkness beyond the torches' reach.
Varian's voice echoed after him.
"This is only the beginning."
Got it. I'll expand on Rhaegar's attempted escape, his struggle against the dungeon's cruel conditions, and his ultimate failure, reinforcing his desperation and setting up his transformation.
---
Chapter 1: The Crimson Throne (Extended)
"This is only the beginning."
The words followed Rhaegar as he was dragged deeper into the belly of the castle, the torchlight fading behind him. The stone walls grew colder, the air damp with rot. The scent of mold and old blood clung to the air, thick enough to choke on.
He was thrown onto the wet floor of a narrow cell, his body hitting the ground with a sharp jolt of pain. The heavy clang of iron followed as the cell door slammed shut.
Darkness swallowed him whole.
The footsteps of the guards faded. Then silence. Only the distant drip of water remained, rhythmic and hollow.
Rhaegar lay still for a moment, his breaths coming in slow, measured inhales. Pain surged through his broken fingers, through the gashes on his side, through his ribs—each breath a struggle, each movement a reminder of his failure.
He pushed himself up, leaning against the cold stone wall. He couldn't stay here.
No one was coming for him.
His father was likely dead. His so-called allies had either been slaughtered or bent the knee to Varian. There was no one left.
Only himself.
And he was not going to rot in this pit.
The Attempted Escape
Rhaegar let his vision adjust to the dark. The cell was small, barely enough room to stretch out. A single iron-barred window sat too high to reach. The only way out was through the door.
Slowly, painfully, he pushed himself onto his knees, feeling the slickness of blood still damp on his skin. He examined the door. Thick iron. Reinforced hinges. No weak points.
But the lock.
The lock was old. Rusted.
His heart pounded as he forced himself to move. His broken fingers screamed in protest as he reached down, feeling along his belt. They had stripped him of his weapons, his armor—but not everything.
His lips curled into a grim smile as his fingers brushed against the small, thin metal shard tucked into the inner lining of his sleeve.
A hidden lockpick.
Varian's men were thorough, but not thorough enough.
He pulled it free, biting back a groan as pain flared in his fractured hand. With gritted teeth, he moved to the lock, slipping the thin piece of metal into the keyhole.
Click.
He turned it, feeling for the mechanism's give. The rust made it difficult, the metal groaning as he twisted, his movements slow, calculated.
Click.
His breathing steadied, sweat dripping down his face despite the cold.
Click.
Almost there.
A shadow shifted outside the cell.
Rhaegar froze.
Footsteps.
He barely had time to yank his hand away before a heavy boot crashed against the bars, rattling them with a sharp clang.
A low chuckle followed. "You really thought it would be that easy?"
The torches flickered, illuminating the guard's face.
Captain Aldric.
A man Rhaegar once trusted—a veteran of his father's army, a soldier who had trained alongside him since his youth. Now, he stood there, grinning like a wolf who had found a wounded deer.
Rhaegar clenched his jaw, masking his frustration.
"If you're here to gloat, get on with it," he muttered.
Aldric smirked. "Oh, I just wanted to watch you try. You looked so… determined." He knelt, gripping the bars. "You were always too arrogant for your own good."
Rhaegar said nothing.
Aldric leaned closer. "Did you really think Varian would leave you a chance? This cell—this entire dungeon—is built for men like you. Men who don't know when they've lost."
He pulled out a key.
The key to the cell.
He held it up between his fingers, twirling it as if it were a toy.
"I could open this door right now," he mused. "Let you out. Let you run."
Rhaegar's eyes narrowed. "Then do it."
Aldric's smirk deepened. He lifted the key—and then, with deliberate slowness, dropped it just out of reach, behind him.
Clink.
A cruel game.
Rhaegar tensed, fury burning through him.
Aldric stood, brushing off his hands. "That's the closest you'll ever get to freedom." He turned away. "Enjoy the darkness, prince."
Rhaegar lunged at the bars, but Aldric was already gone.
The cell door remained locked.
The dungeon swallowed him once more.
---
Trapped in the Dark
Time passed. Hours. Days. Maybe longer.
Rhaegar lost track.
His body ached, the wounds on his side burning with infection. Hunger gnawed at his stomach. His throat burned for water.
The walls whispered to him.
Not real voices. Just the echoes of his own thoughts, stretching, twisting.
Was this how it would end?
Alone. Forgotten. Buried beneath stone while Varian sat on his father's throne?
No.
No, this was not the end.
He would not be broken.
He would not die in chains.
Rhaegar's head lifted, eyes gleaming in the dim torchlight.
Varian thought he had won.
He was wrong.
This was only the beginning.
The darkness gnawed at Rhaegar's mind.
He had no way of telling how long he had been trapped here.
Time lost meaning in this prison of stone and silence.
His wounds burned. His body ached. His stomach twisted with hunger, and his throat felt like sandpaper.
The dungeon was designed to break men.
But he was not like other men.
He had spent years training to fight, to command, to endure—but this… this was different. This was not a battlefield. This was slow, deliberate destruction.
He leaned his head back against the damp stone wall, staring at the ceiling, waiting for the inevitable.
And it came.
Heavy footsteps echoed down the hall.
The sound of keys clanking.
The iron door groaned open, and torchlight spilled into the cell.
Aldric entered first, followed by three guards.
More than before.
Rhaegar smirked. "Afraid I'll slit your throats with my bare hands?"
Aldric chuckled. "Afraid? No. I just don't like cleaning up messes."
He stepped forward, arms crossed. "Tell me, Rhaegar… what would your father say if he could see you now?"
The smirk faded from Rhaegar's face.
He knew exactly what Aldric was doing. Trying to unravel him.
So he did not answer.
Aldric continued, his voice smooth and calculated. "Once a prince, now a traitor. Once the heir to the most powerful kingdom, now rotting in a cell." He tilted his head. "Your father fought like a lion when we took the throne. But even he fell. So tell me, was his death worth your rebellion?"
Rhaegar's fists clenched. "You don't get to speak of my father."
The punch came fast.
Aldric drove his fist into Rhaegar's gut, knocking the air from his lungs.
He doubled over, gasping, but refused to fall.
Aldric leaned in. "Still so proud. Even when you have nothing left."
"I have more than you," Rhaegar spat. "I still have my soul. Can you say the same?"
Aldric's eyes darkened.
Another punch. This time to the face.
Blood dripped from Rhaegar's split lip, but he smiled through it. "Hit me all you want. It won't change what you are."
Aldric let out a slow breath, regaining his composure. He turned to the guards. "Chain him up. Let's see how long his pride lasts."
The Fight
The guards advanced, metal shackles clinking in their hands.
Rhaegar moved first.
His foot shot out, slamming into one guard's knee. The man screamed, stumbling back.
Another lunged with a baton. Rhaegar ducked, catching the man's wrist and twisting it until he heard a sickening snap.
A third guard grabbed him from behind, locking an arm around his throat.
Rhaegar drove his elbow into the man's ribs—once, twice—but the grip tightened.
A brutal kick to the back of his knee sent him collapsing.
The guards swarmed him, forcing him down.
A steel boot crushed his face into the stone floor.
Blood pooled beneath his cheek.
Aldric crouched beside him, shaking his head. "Still so stubborn. But it doesn't matter." He gestured to the guards. "Chain him up."
The cold bite of iron snapped around his wrists and ankles.
They hoisted him up, forcing him against the wall, arms stretched above his head. Shackles pinned him in place.
Aldric leaned in, voice low. "You're going to die tomorrow, Rhaegar. Publicly. Painfully."
Rhaegar lifted his head, eyes burning. "I'll make sure you die before me."
Aldric smirked. "You won't even make it past sunrise."
He stepped back, signaling the guards.
They left him hanging there.
Drained. Bleeding. Trapped.
The cell door slammed shut.
The darkness welcomed him once again.
The Night Before Execution – Memories of a Lost Life
The chains dug into his wrists, rusted metal biting into flesh, the weight of his own body a slow, unrelenting torment. He had long since stopped struggling. Not because he had accepted his fate—but because there was simply no point.
His cell reeked of blood, damp stone, and rot. Water dripped from somewhere beyond his sight, the faintest, most maddening sound in the suffocating silence. His own breath rasped in his ears, every inhale reminding him of his broken ribs, every exhale a ghost of the pain that had carved its way into his very bones.
Sleep should have come by now. He wished it would.
Yet his mind would not grant him that mercy.
Tomorrow, he would die.
Not in battle, where he belonged. Not with a sword in his hand. Not as a warrior, but as a traitor.
But it was not the thought of death that held him in this waking nightmare. No, what truly tormented him was the past—the echoes of a life that had once been his. The weight of every decision, every betrayal, every moment that had led him to this cold, dark cell.
Regret. Bitterness. Hate.
And somewhere, buried beneath it all—sorrow.
A Prince Once Loved
A strange warmth settled over him, the sensation so foreign in this pit of suffering that it almost startled him. A memory.
Not of war. Not of blood.
But of laughter.
A garden.
Rhaegar could almost feel the sun against his skin, the warmth of midday spilling over lush green fields. The scent of roses and citrus trees filled the air. He was running, feet pounding against soft earth, his breath coming in excited gasps.
"Faster, Rhaegar!" A boy's voice rang out ahead of him, filled with playful arrogance. "You'll never be a knight if you can't catch me!"
Alistair.
His older brother—his first rival, his first friend.
Rhaegar pushed himself harder, arms pumping at his sides as he chased after the figure sprinting ahead. Alistair was taller, stronger, always ahead—but Rhaegar never stopped running. Never stopped chasing.
A hand reached out. He could almost touch him.
Then—
Pain.
A sudden impact against the ground, breath stolen from his lungs as he tumbled, dirt and leaves scattering around him.
Alistair's laughter echoed through the air, bright and victorious. Mocking, but never cruel.
"You're too reckless," he said, reaching down with a grin. "That's why you fall."
Rhaegar scowled, smacking his hand away before pushing himself up. "I almost had you."
"Almost isn't enough."
Those words had meant nothing back then. Just another tease, another lesson from an older brother who had always been better, always been ahead.
But now, in this cold, rotting cell, they held a deeper truth.
Almost wasn't enough.
And that was why he was here.
A King's Expectation
The garden faded. The warmth disappeared.
Fourteen years old.
The training yard stretched before him, a brutal arena of steel and dust. A dozen men stood in a circle, watching in silence. The scent of sweat and blood clung to the air.
A sword lay at Rhaegar's feet, its edge dull with sand, his grip weak from exhaustion. Across from him, a seasoned knight loomed, his stance effortless, his blade still clean.
The match had already been decided.
From the edge of the yard, his father watched.
King Vaelor Crowne. A man as unshakable as the mountains, his gaze colder than the northern winds.
Rhaegar forced himself to pick up the sword again. He would not fall. Not this time.
The knight moved. Faster than he could react.
A blur of motion—a strike to the ribs. Pain exploded through his side.
Rhaegar gasped, his knees hitting the dirt.
Failure.
A heavy silence hung over the yard. He dared to glance up at his father, seeking something—anything.
Approval. Disappointment. Even anger.
Instead, Vaelor only spoke three words:
"You know why?"
Rhaegar gritted his teeth, swallowing his frustration. "Because I was weaker."
A shadow fell over him as his father stepped forward. The king's grip landed on his shoulder—firm, but not gentle.
"No. Because you hesitated."
His fingers tightened.
"A true king does not doubt. He does not hesitate. If you want to rule, you must learn to kill."
---
The First Kill
A battlefield.
The snow beneath him was no longer white.
It was red.
The man at his feet was dying. Rhaegar's sword was in his chest.
The soldier's lips moved, but no sound came. His hands clutched at the wound, as if trying to hold his life inside, as if trying to keep death at bay for just a few more moments.
Rhaegar's breath came in quick, uneven bursts. His first kill.
He had expected to feel something. Triumph. Pride. Glory.
Instead—
Nothing.
Just the cold.
And the blood.
His father's voice carried over the battlefield, distant yet clear.
"Well done."
The words should have meant something.
But in that moment, all Rhaegar could do was stare into the eyes of the man he had killed.
And watch the light fade away.
The Love He Let Go
Eighteen years old.
The royal ballroom glowed with candlelight, laughter and music filling the air. Silk and velvet swirled in elegant dances, and goblets overflowed with wine.
Yet Rhaegar saw none of it.
He saw only her.
Selene.
Her dark curls framed her face, her lips curved in a knowing smile. A noble's daughter, but not one meant for a prince.
They danced in the hidden corridors of the palace, whispering of dreams that could never be.
"Run away with me," she had whispered one night, her hands clasped in his. "Leave all of this behind."
His heart had screamed yes.
But his duty had already answered no.
A week later, she was gone. Married to another.
And Rhaegar never let himself feel again.
---
The Betrayal
Twenty-two.
Aldric's voice rang in his mind.
"You really thought you could win?"
The council had already turned against him. The generals had already signed his fate.
Blood coated the throne room floor, his loyal men lying lifeless at his feet.
"Traitor."
"Murderer."
"Execution at dawn."
The memory faded.
And Rhaegar was left once more in the darkness of his cell.
Tomorrow, he would die.
But if the gods thought he would go quietly, they were mistaken.
This was not the end.
This was only the beginning.
The Night Before Execution – Shadows of the Past (Continued)
This was only the beginning.
The thought echoed in Rhaegar's mind, a bitter promise to himself.
The damp air pressed against his skin, chilling him to the bone. His wrists throbbed from where the chains bit into his flesh, but the pain was distant now. He had endured worse. He had been broken and rebuilt too many times to crumble on the eve of his death.
Still, the weight of exhaustion pulled at him, and in the cold embrace of the dungeon, his mind wandered again. More memories surfaced—ones he had buried deep, ones he had sworn never to revisit.
Memories of the people he had lost.
Memories of the choices he had made.
Memories that, in the end, had led him here.
---
A Mother's Promise
A warm glow from a dying fire. The scent of lavender and aged parchment.
Rhaegar was only six, nestled beneath thick furs as his mother brushed her fingers through his hair. The storm outside howled, rattling the windows of his chambers, but he felt safe.
She was beautiful—Regina Crowne. The queen of the empire, but more importantly, his mother.
"You will be a great man one day, Rhaegar," she murmured, her voice soft as the wind. "Stronger than your father. Kinder than him, too."
Rhaegar frowned, shifting beneath the covers. "Father says kindness is weakness."
A small, sad smile curved her lips. "That is because your father has never known love. But you, my son... you will be different."
Her fingers trailed down his cheek, wiping away a smudge of ink from where he had spent hours practicing his letters.
"Promise me something, my love."
He met her eyes, deep pools of warmth and sorrow. "What is it?"
"When you wear the crown, do not let it turn your heart to stone."
He had nodded then, not understanding the weight of her words.
Years later, when he sat in the war chambers, signing orders that sent thousands to their deaths, he wondered if he had already broken that promise.
---
A Blood-Soaked Oath
A battlefield once more. The clash of steel, the screams of the dying, the banners of House Crowne snapping in the wind.
He was nineteen. Young, but already hardened by war.
The rebels had attacked at dawn, thinking the empire weak after the king's illness. They were wrong.
Rhaegar had led the charge himself, his blade carving through enemies with ruthless efficiency. Blood had soaked into his armor, into his very soul.
By the time the sun set, the fields were red.
He stood amidst the carnage, his breath heavy, his heart pounding. The rebels were dead, their bodies scattered like discarded dolls.
All except one.
A boy, no older than fifteen, lay before him.
Wounded. Terrified. Alive.
Rhaegar raised his sword.
The boy's lips trembled. "Please..."
His fingers tightened around the hilt. His father's voice echoed in his mind. "Hesitation is weakness."
The blade came down.
A single, clean strike.
The boy's body collapsed.
The silence that followed was deafening.
For the first time, Rhaegar felt nothing.
---
The Woman in Red
A moonlit balcony. The scent of jasmine and spiced wine.
Rhaegar leaned against the stone railing, his armor replaced by soft silks, his usual sharpness dulled by the haze of alcohol.
"Brooding again, my prince?"
The voice was smooth, teasing, laced with a familiarity that sent a shiver down his spine.
He turned.
She stood in the doorway, bathed in silver light. Her crimson gown clung to her curves, her dark eyes holding a glint of amusement.
Seraphina.
A noblewoman. A spy. A traitor.
The only woman who had ever come close to understanding him.
She approached, placing a goblet in his hand. "Drink."
He took a sip, the warmth of the wine spreading through his veins.
Her fingers traced his jaw, feather-light. "Tell me, Rhaegar... what is it that you truly want?"
He should have lied. Should have given her the answer she expected.
Instead, the truth slipped from his lips like a confession.
"To be free."
She smiled then, something almost sad in her expression.
"Then why do you wear chains, my love?"
He never answered. And the next time he saw her, she had betrayed him.
---
The Birth of a Monster
The palace dungeons were not unfamiliar to him. He had sent many men here—some deserving, some less so.
But tonight, he was the one in chains.
And the memories would not stop.
The choices he had made, the people he had killed, the things he had sacrificed in the name of power, duty, and survival... they all led to this moment.
His father had told him that a king does not hesitate. That a ruler must make impossible choices.
But he had never warned him of the weight.
The unbearable, suffocating weight.
His head fell back against the cold stone wall, breath slow, measured.
His past had been written in blood.
His present was drowning in betrayal.
But his future?
His lips curled into a faint, almost imperceptible smile.
His future was unwritten.
And if he had to carve his way out of hell to reclaim what was his...
Then so be it
The hours crawled by, measured only by the slow dripping of water from the dungeon's ceiling. The torchlight flickered, casting restless shadows across the damp stone walls. Rhaegar sat motionless, his body aching, his mind a battlefield of memories.
He had not slept. He dared not.
In the quiet of the dungeon, memories were his only company. Some came in whispers, others in screams. And still, he let them come.
The Crown Prince's First Kill
The scent of iron and damp earth clung to the air. The training yard was silent, the usual chatter of knights and squires absent.
A boy stood before him, barely older than Rhaegar himself. Seventeen, perhaps. His hands trembled around the hilt of his wooden sword.
"Again," barked the weapons master.
Rhaegar exhaled, stepping forward, his own blade steady. They had been at this for hours. The boy, a noble's son, had been chosen to train alongside him. A mistake.
His strikes were clumsy, his form weak.
Rhaegar dodged easily, knocking the wooden sword from the boy's grasp.
"Again," the master repeated, his voice laced with impatience.
The boy retrieved his sword, his eyes pleading. "I—I'm not a soldier. My father only sent me here to—"
"You are standing in the presence of the Crown Prince," the master snapped. "Act like it."
The boy swallowed.
Rhaegar tightened his grip.
This was a lesson. This was what it meant to rule. There was no room for softness. No room for hesitation.
"Fight me."
The boy lunged, his attack desperate.
A misstep.
A single mistake.
Rhaegar's blade struck true.
The boy staggered, clutching his side. His knees buckled, and he fell to the dirt, gasping. Blood stained his tunic, pooling beneath him.
Silence.
The weapons master gave a nod of approval.
"A king must never falter."
Rhaegar turned away, his expression unreadable.
But that night, when the castle halls were silent, he sat alone in his chamber—staring at his own hands.
They were still stained with blood.
The Last Time He Saw His Father
The throne room had never felt colder.
King Aldric Crowne sat upon the towering seat of power, his face carved from stone, his gaze as sharp as the sword at his side.
"You disappoint me, Rhaegar."
The words were delivered without emotion, yet they cut deeper than any blade.
Rhaegar clenched his fists, his nails digging into his palms. He had returned victorious from battle, the rebel forces crushed beneath his command. And yet, it was not enough.
"I did what needed to be done," he said evenly.
His father rose, slow and deliberate. "You were merciful."
Rhaegar's jaw tightened.
"You spared the women. The children." The king descended the steps, his boots echoing in the vast chamber. "Weakness."
Rhaegar met his gaze. "Mercy is not weakness."
His father's hand lashed out, striking him across the face.
A crack of thunder in the empty hall.
Rhaegar did not flinch.
"You are not fit to rule," the king murmured. "Not yet."
That was the last conversation they ever had.
His father died two weeks later.
Rhaegar never mourned him.
But sometimes, in the dead of night, he still heard his voice.
The Betrayal of A Brother
A banquet hall, golden chandeliers casting a warm glow over the revelry. Goblets clinked, laughter filled the air, and the scent of roasted meats drifted through the corridors.
Rhaegar sat at the head of the table, his goblet untouched. Across from him, his younger brother—Valen.
The golden son. The favored prince.
"You should drink, brother," Valen said, a smirk tugging at his lips. "Tonight is a celebration, is it not?"
Rhaegar said nothing. His grip tightened around his goblet.
Valen leaned forward, his voice dropping to a whisper. "You know, don't you?"
The blood in Rhaegar's veins ran cold.
He had known something was wrong. He had heard whispers of treason, of plans being made behind closed doors. But he had not wanted to believe it.
Not from his own brother.
"When?" Rhaegar asked quietly.
Valen only grinned. "Tomorrow. At dawn."
A dagger in the dark. A betrayal written in blood.
And yet, despite everything, Rhaegar could not bring himself to kill him.
Perhaps that was his first mistake.
The Silence of The Dungeo
Rhaegar's breath came slow and measured.
The dungeon around him was quiet now. The echoes of his past had faded, leaving only the weight of the present pressing down upon him.
His body ached, his wounds raw, but his mind burned with something stronger than pain.
Rage.
Tomorrow, they would drag him before the crowd. They would brand him a traitor, strip him of his name, and spill his blood for all to see.
They thought this was his end.
But Rhaegar knew better.
The fire inside him had not been extinguished. It had only been buried beneath the ashes.
And when the time came…
He would rise again.