The Stone Drum, Dragonstone
Rhaegar, of House Targaryen
Prince of Dragonstone, Rightful Heir to the Seven Kingdoms
It could be heard all through the castle.
A strange sound.
Melancholic, wistful, the quiet strum of harp strings were dissonant against the muffled sobs of numerous ladies hiding among the twisted gargoyles of Dragonstone. The Stone Drum was aptly named, its massive walls served to provide unrivaled acoustics, proven by the slow echo of the harper's lament. Even from his perch in the Chamber of the Painted Table, the sadness eminating from Prince Rhaegar Targaryen could be felt, as if the very stones were imbued with his nature, and mourned alongside the stricken Prince. As he continued to play, the women, those few that called Dragonstone home, cried. The Prince had always been known for his musical talent, capable of rousing crescendos and deep melodies. Today, however, his fingers moved slowly, as if turned to lead, and the notes rang hollow, and sad.
Prince Rhaegar only stopped playing when he heard a small rap on the heavy oak door that served as the only portal to the Chamber of the Painted Table. Before him, the massive carving of Westeros was sprawled, illuminated by a few flickering candles. It was here, nigh three centuries prior, that Rhaegar's ancestor, Aegon the Conqueror plotted the glorious invasion that brought House Targaryen to power, and united Westeros through Fire and Blood. And it was here, now, 283 years after that conquest, that the scion of that same House now sat, mourning his children, his wife, murdered as they were by his very own father.
Rhaegar looked up at the door, as the rapping came a second time, then a third. Seated as he was on the large chair overlooking the Table, the Prince looked as though he might be the Conqueror himself. His long silver hair was loose on his shoulders, and his strong features may have been carved from the very stone of the island. He was lithe, and tall, wearing black leather riding boots, and a simple black doublet with a high collar, fastened with obsidian buttons. Upon his hit sat a pale longsword, sheathed in its scabbard, and on his brow he bore a simple diadem of darkened steel, unadorned by finery.
The rap came a fourth time before Rhaegar muttered a reply, and a fifth before he finally responded truly.
"Come in," the Prince said, laying his beloved harp at the foot of his throne, and standing to greet his guests. Maseter Crymun was the first through, a wise, if sour, old man, hunched and grey, with not a hair on his head. Behind him strode Albin Massey, Lord of Stonedance, sworn to Dragonstone, a middle aged man, stout, and tired. Succeeding him in their questionable parade, Ardrian Celtigar thundered his approach. Large, with silver hair, the Lord of Claw Isle was a reputable warrior, though his sour nature and obvious disdain for anyone but himself were clear. The final person in their unlikely foursome was Septon Kyl, a young, pious, and incredibly fiery young member of the faith.
"My Prince," they all said in unison, with a bow, despite Lord Celtigar's barely being passable as a nod.
The Prince held forth a small scroll, its seal, clearly that of the King, was broken, and the document itself had clearly been subject to much crumpling. The four men passed it between them. If they were unsettled by its contents, they hid it well. Only Septon Kyl grimaced when he came across the end of the letter.
To those it may concern,
In light of recent events, it is the judgement of his Grace, Aerys of House Targaryen, Second of His Name, King of the Andals, Rhoynar and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdom's and Protector of the Realm, and his Small Council, that his son and heir, Rhaegar, Prince of Dragonstone, is hereby charged with high treason, conspiracy, murder, and oath breaking. Similarly charged are, Elia Martell of Dorne, and their issue, Aegon of House Targaryen, and Rhaenys of House Targaryen.
For their conspiracy to overthrow their liege lord, and inflict harm upon, these aforementioned traitors are hereby attainted, stripped of all land, title, privilege, rank, and hereby sentenced to death.
Any and all men so misguided as to offer aid, or shelter to the fugitive Rhaegar Targaryen, you shall be subject to the same judgement that awaits all those that betray their oaths to the Crown.
Signed,
His Grace, Aerys of House Targaryen, Second of His Name, King of the Andals, Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm.
"This arrived in the morning by raven," Rhaegar began as he leaned back against the painted table, one hand on the edge of the hard oak, another clutching the wooden peaks of the Vale. "Alongside a handful of ships fleeing the capital. Maester Crymun has assured me of its authenticity, and to hear the sailors below speak of the events in the capital..."
The Prince grew quiet, and a darkness crossed his face as he continued.
"It would appear that my father has not only attainted me of my lands and titles, but also deprived me of the love of my family. Princess Elia, slit in twane, and..."
Maester Crymun's reedy voice interjected.
"These are but the rumours of seamen, my Prince, tales must not be taken as true until we can verify them."
"... and my children.... little Aegon, and Rhaenys... doused in Wildfire at the very foot of the Iron Throne. Tell me, Maester, does that sound like something that my Lord Father would find beyond his inhibitions?"
A silence hung through the chamber, as though the Strange himself had appeared. Rhaegar breathed heavily, but resolved himself, wiping a tear from his eye.
"What would you have us do," Lord Celtigar said bluntly. Rhaegar could see it in his eyes, the fear. He was scared, scared of the Mad King's wrath, though the Lord of Crabs would never admit it. Now, merely being in the same room as the Crown Prince was excuse enough for Aerys to unleash the full might of the Throne. "We cannot avenge the Princess, nor your children by strength of arms. We are not Aegon the Conqueror," the Lord gestured to the Painted Table, "We have no dragons, and what men we do have are more like to die of fright than wage a war against the entirety of the Seven Kingdoms."
"You forget, my Lord," Kyl interjected swiftly, "Dorne too suffered far too great a humiliation. Let sleeping dragons lie, aye, tis a good motto to live by. But the Martell's of Dorne have never been frightened by dragons. They will want revenge, the same as our Prince."
"You mistake me, Septon," Rhaegar said, a steely tone entering his voice. "I am not interested in revenge. No one is as accursed as a Kinslayer, and I do not intend to join my father in taking on that title. I do not desire revenge, nay, It has become clear that we needs must save the Realm from further harm, not to say rescue my Mother, and Brother from the wretched King."
Maester Cyrmun shifted uncomfortably, running a gaunt, skeletal, hand along his polished head.
"What are you thinking, my Prince? Rebellion is an awful sin, even if those rebels are in the right."
"Take a note, my good Maester," the Prince said, dicatating a letter. "I want every raven you have to fly to every City, Castle, Holdfast or village bearing this message. And Septom Kyl, ensure the Faith hears of this too."
The old man nodded dutifully, and removed a piece of parchment from his robes, and copied down the Princes every word.
The the people of Westeros, Great and Small,
By now you have heard of the slanderous accusations leveled at me by my Father, the King. Surely as well, whispers have reached you of the heinous crimes committed against my family, and the family of my lady wife.
Now, my Lords, you know me as I am. You know I am not one for plotting, nor conspiracy, nor treason of any manner. My entire life has been devoted to the Crown, to preparing for the day I may wear my rightful inheritance, and to ensuring the health of his Grace, and my House. I deny any wrongdoing accused of me, and I denounce the heinous executions of both my loving wife, and my dear children. No man is as accursed as the Kinslayer, and now I fear my father has borne that title willingly. He will surely desire my capture, my death, and the continuation of his reign of terror.
But My Lords, I impeach you, to restore the rule of law and the rights of the noble families and smallfolk alike to their rightful place. It goes without saying that we must curtail the abuses the realm has been subject to for these past many moons, and that I, as the Rightful Prince of Dragonstone, and Heir to the Iron Throne, declare that I will not release my rightful inheritance as the eldest son of the King.
To all the leal Lords still remaining, those that honour their vows to the Throne, and the rule of law, laws codified in the contract between Lord and vassal for centuries, I beseech you to support me in the restoration of my place as rightful inheritor of the Throne, and to have justice for the tortuous deaths of my family.
May the Seven Bless You,
Rhaegar of House Targaryen, Prince of Dragonstone, and Rightful Heir to the Iron Throne.