The Crownlands
Kings Landing, on the River Blackwater
The Seven Kingdoms of Westeros
The Seven Kingdoms of Westeros
Rhaegar Targaryen, Prince of Dragonstone and Heir to the Iron Throne of Westeros
OOC- viewtopic.php?f=31&t=377880
It was a long ride from Dorne.
Yet now, with Kings Landing in sight, Rhaegar Targaryen, son of King Aerys II of Westeros, could feel the journey coming to an end. He had ridden hard, so swift in fact that a portion of his retinue were still only at Tumblestone, working their way up the Rose Road. The Prince had dashed ahead, with his private guard of some ten Targaryen knights, their black armour gleaming in the summer sunlight. The haste was called for, Rhaegar believed, particularly in light of his father most recent actions. He had still been in Dorne, with Lyanna, when the raven arrived from the Spider, telling of the burning of Lord Stark and the strangulation of his son and heir, Brandon. The royal decree calling for the heads of both Eddard Stark and Robert Baratheon had not helped things, and the Vale, North and Stormlands were now in open revolt against the crown. As hard as it was, as much has Rhaegar loved Lyanna, he had a duty to his family, and his country, to protect it from the would be usurpers.
The Prince and his party continued down the road, receiving affectionate bows and awed stares from many in the peasantry. Rhaegar, even in his simple black riding clothes, looked every inch a king. His tunic was emblazoned with the arms of his house, the red three headed dragon of House Targaryen, and his fine red riding cloak fit across his horse regally. The Prince's silver hair fell to his shoulders, tumbling from the braid he had set while still at camp in the Reach earlier in the day. His strong jaw and purple eyes were evidently Targaryen in origin, and the sword that hung by his side glittered with gold and precious stones. He looked king. Yet, he was not. His father, the Mad King they called him, held that honour.
An honour that must be addressed, Rhaegar thought.
Breaking from his reverie as his party approached the Gate, the Prince noticed a small line of people standing outside the walls, with a block of golden soldiers glittering behind them.
My royal welcome
"Hail Prince Rhaegar," the first man in line called, bowing his bare head as the Prince approached. "Welcome home your grace, the city his made brighter by your presence."
"Lord Varys," Rhaegar replied, his tone steely and firm. He surveyed the remaining people in line. "Lord Chelsted, Lord Velaryon, Grand Maester. Thank you for the welcome."
Where is the Hand? Where is Merryweather?
Varys continued, before any of the other Lords might interrupt.
"Your grace, you must be very tired from the journey, it is a long way to Dorne. I presume you received my raven?"
"I did, otherwise i might no have hastened my return to the Capital."
"The events of recent months have lead to some, unfortunate circumstances." The eunuch was smirking, his self assured air and soft hangs wringing in front of his rounded belly. "I hoped you might be of help to us."
"Speak plainly my Lord, I have no time for riddles."
Grand Maester Pycelle spoke up, hunched back quivering under his own weight.
"What Varys is... trying... to say, is that... we had hoped..."
"We hoped that your return to the Capital might reinforce royal authority and support for the crown," Lucerys Velaryon sighed, waving away Pycelle's dithering. As a loyal bannerman of Dragonstone, Lord Velaryon paid homage to the Prince directly, a privilege that made him one of the few in the capital Rhaegar trusted. "The King's execution of Lord Rickard Stark and his heir have created a firestorm... poor choice of words... one that the small council cannot extinguish. Lord Arryn has called his banners, and even now the Lords of the North and Stormlands are preparing for war."
Rhaegar pursed his lips. His father had gone too far this time, and none of his sycophants had the spine to tell him so, for fear of the royal wrath, the the wildfire that came with it.
"My Lords," Rhaegar said, spurring his horse towards the gate. "I will deal with this matter personally."
The Prince had known what he had to do before he had left Dorne. His father was a nightmare, and he could ignore it no longer. He had ten loyal knights with him, Lord Velaryon's retinue contained about twenty or so men at arms, and the guards of House Brakken maintained a barracks near the Red Keep. With enough men, the coup might even be bloodless. The Kingsguard was weakened ,with the Lord Commander and two of his sworn brothers still with Lyanna far to the south, the remaining four could be distracted, while the Gold Cloaks were hardly loyal to anyone. If he was going to strike, now was the time.
The Prince continued along the streets of the capital, drawing interest from the common folk who worked all day on the rotten sidewalks, from fish mongers to weavers and carpenters. Before long, the Red Keep was looming in the distance, the red brick and iron battlements looking as imposing as the Conqueror himself.
"Open the Gate!" A call went forth from the Keep, "Open the Gate for the Prince of Dragonstone!"
The great wooden doors that barred the interior courtyard of the castle swung slowly open with a groan, framing Prince Rhaegar and his party as the trotted across the cobbled ramp, and into the dragons den.
