Moonsong

'So it ends.'

-Taken from The Lost Fragments, though the validity of the documents is highly contentious.

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Doosh-doosh-doosh-doosh-doosh!

The bash of boots and steel echoed through the vast Dragonpit.

Prince Rhaenar marched down the line, soldiers flanking him on either side, at attention, saluting.

"Today," Rhaenar began, his voice steady and commanding, "we take this city, once and for all. Every inch, every street corner, will be ours."

"RAHHH!"

The soldiers didn't raise their spears, as was typical for the Rhaenari legion. Instead, they lifted crossbows fitted with bayonet-like spikes. These crossbows, lightweight and easier to reload, were made for swift, efficient urban killing.

"Make no mistake," Rhaenar continued, turning to face them, "our efforts today are for a brighter future. For you, for your families, and for the realm. That greatness begins with us, today!"

"HOAHHHH!!!"

Crazed loyalty filled the air. Rhaenar licked his lips.

"Now go! March and take your city! Execute all evil. And remember…"

They all shouted in unison, "Take no prisoners!"

With that, the Rhaenari legion, disguised as common thugs, poured out of the Dragonpit and into King's Landing.

What followed was a systematic purge of the underworld — what remained of it, anyway.

 Ninety Rhaenari officers led squads of King's Landing gangsters through the streets, house by house, rooting out every last remnant of resistance.

Soldiers breached homes, crossbows ready, quick to stab anyone who got too close. Quick to shoot any who resisted.

 By the time the sun was high in the sky, the operation was over.

During that time, Rhaenar had found a quiet spot atop a rooftop on Rhaenys Hill, where he could see the Red Keep — a perfect view for his painting.

His work was interrupted by Dirty Douglas, who dragged a bruised and battered man up to the roof, tossing him at Rhaenar's feet.

"That's the last of 'em," Douglas said.

Rhaenar didn't look up from his painting. "Marvelous work, Captain."

The man on the ground, beaten and broken, struggled to understand. "What is this? Why have I—"

"You've done well to make it this far," Rhaenar said, adding the final strokes to his painting. "Honestly, I'm impressed. A street urchin from Flea Bottom, clawing his way to the top of the underworld? Remarkable."

 The man's eyes widened as he recognized the platinum hair and violet eyes. "Prince Rhaenar? I-I don't understand…"

"Hush now." Rhaenar set down his paintbrush and picked up Blackfyre, which rested against the stool beside him. "You should have known this day would come."

"My prince?" The man's eyes went wide in horror. "Don't tell me… you're... Don Kiwi?"

Rhaenar simply raised his blade and said, "Don't take it personally. You just happened to be in my way."

The last thing the man saw was the swift arc of Valyrian steel before his head rolled to the ground.

Rhaenar wiped the blood from Blackfyre before sheathing the blade. In the distance, smoke billowed — his men must have burned down a manor or two.

"Your report," Rhaenar said.

Douglas saluted. "Assets seized. All loose ends executed. As you thought, some of the families tried to flee through the sewers."

"Excellent. Send the children to Dragonstone — Eldric will be pleased. And notify our checkpoints on the Rose Road. If any rebels escaped, that's their best option."

Douglas hurried off to carry out the orders.

Left alone on the rooftop, Rhaenar gazed over the city now his in all but name. He sighed.

"Well then," he murmured, "Now that that nasty business is over, I suppose it's time to celebrate."

He returned to the Dragonpit, where a banquet had been prepared. Long tables groaned under barrels of mead, and fires roasted pigs on spits.

Rhaenar took his seat at the makeshift dais, raising his drink to toast each Rhaenari soldier as they returned from their mission. One by one, the pit grew warm with merriment.

You would never have guessed these men had just participated in a purge. They hooted, hollered, and every few minutes someone rose to toast Prince Rhaenar.

It wasn't long before the whole crowd was drunk, laughing at failed attempts to get Sari to dance on the table.

Eventually, the scholars arrived. Brien sat next to Rhaenar at the dais.

"So, the city is yours," Brien said.

"Seems that way," Rhaenar replied.

"What does it even mean?" Brien asked. Lately, he had made a point to not get too involved in the strategy meetings.

"Not much," Rhaenar said. "In theory, it means I control all the eyes and ears on the street. All the kickbacks and hush money find their way to me, one way or another. But we both know that's wishful thinking. For now, we have a semblance of control."

"Or the illusion of it," Brien muttered, unwilling to fully confront the depths of Rhaenar's malice. Ignorance, after all, could be bliss.

"Isn't all control an illusion?" Rhaenar mused. "Even the smallest man can cast the largest shadow, depending on how the torchlight is set."

Brien shook his head. "Such tricks are easily dispelled by those who with the eyes to see."

Rhaenar chuckled. "How rare that is. People see what they want, Brien. When the dust settles, and the historians write of my deeds using the ink I give them, on the parchment I provide, they'll see exactly what I want them to." 

"Is it all worth it?" Brien asked, his voice softer. "Things were simpler when all we wanted was to uncover the mysteries of this ancient land."

"I can't say. You were there when my father was crowned. You saw the lords and ladies. To them, it's all a game."

"Maybe we saw what we wanted to believe," Brien quipped.

Rhaenar smirked. "Keep telling yourself that. Maybe one day, it'll be true."

"And what of the peace your father and King Jaehaerys sought?"

"Oh, Brien," Rhaenar sighed. "Sometimes I forget how much your head is in the clouds. That might be your most endearing trait. There is no peace. Never has been. As far as illusions go, peace is the greatest shadow of them all."

Brien drained his cup of strong Dornish wine. "How dire our situation is."

Rhaenar patted his friend on the back. "Cheer up, old friend. If endless war is our fate, we might as well make peace with that fact."

"Are you not worried our actions will catch up to us?"

That amused the prince. "Oh, please. The system is already a tangled mess. We'll sow so much confusion, create so many factions contradicting each other, that no one will know what to believe. By the time anyone realizes the chaos, they'll already be conquered. Divide and prosper, dear Brien."

Rhaenar rose to his feet, raising his cup. The room fell silent.

"The day is ours, and not a single casualty!"

"Hoahhhh!" The soldiers roared.

Rhaenar raised a finger, quieting the room again. "As we speak, our operatives tighten the grip we've fought so hard for. Thanks to us, our families are safer than ever. A glorious day! A red day!"

"A'oo! A'oo! A'oo!"

As Rhaenar continued, naming each soldier and offering personal congratulations, nothing seemed capable of erasing the smile on his lips.

Until something did.

A messenger arrived, urgently whispering in his ear.

It took only a few words for the prince to go pale. His cup slipped from his hand, crashing to the floor and spilling wine in a dramatic splash.

"The Queen, she…"

Rhaenar bolted from the Dragonpit.

"Sundance!"

There was no time to waste. He mounted his dragon and flew the short distance to the Red Keep. The halls were eerily silent. Those he passed avoided his gaze, their eyes downcast.

'No!'

Then he saw it. The royal chambers, crowded with anxious servants. Grandmaester Mellos cradled a crying newborn. Blood soaked the sheets. His father sat, weeping, clutching Queen Aemma's hand. Her belly had been cut open, the light long drained from her eyes.

'No, no, no!'

Rhaenar let out a roar of anguish, so thunderous that Sundance, outside, joined him, shattering windows across the Red Keep.

A rain of shards. But no matter how loud they cried out, it didn't change the truth.

The Queen was dead. His mother, dead. The last glimmer of light Rhaenar had clung to, snuffed out.

No, there was no light to begin with.

Numbness set in. Everything moved in a haze as Rhaenar held his mother's body. Never had she felt so cold.

He should have been strong. He should have taken command, barked orders, seized control.

But he couldn't. All he could do was battle the nausea swelling inside him. Were it not for Ser Otto's composed presence, nothing would have happened. Viserys, too, was paralyzed with grief.

The Queen was dead.

The news spread quickly.

Bells tolled, but not to celebrate the newborn prince. How could they?

Rhaenar needed to get out. The walls of the Keep felt suffocating. He couldn't stay to hear the endless condolences.

And Rhaenyra… how could he stand by and watch as his sister learned the news? He knew he should, that he should be there for her. But he couldn't do it.

He needed air. Fresh air.

That night, no one dared walk the streets of King's Landing. The city mourned in silence. Even the poorest of families scraped together enough to buy a candle. Flames flickered from every window.

The full moon hung alone in the sky. So lonely. No clouds, no stars to keep it company.

A lone voice howled at it — a sad melody. Rhaenar, astride his noble white stallion, wandered the city in a daze. He rode through the night, his song as haunting as it was beautiful.

Historians would later agree that this was the night the Prince's legendary steed earned its name.

And that name was Moonsong~