Cannibal had been spoken of in hushed tones for decades, a shadow, a horror, a whisper of Valyria's wrath that had survived on the cliffs of Dragonstone. And now the stories had stepped from smoke into flesh. The beast had been roused, not by Daemon's madness, nor by Viserys' command, but by a boy of ten summers.
The door creaked.
Rhaegar stepped inside. His silver hair caught the glow of the torches, his violet eyes fixed with a calm far older than his years. He closed the door behind him without bowing, without waiting for his father's leave.
Viserys halted. "You frightened the court today," he began, voice heavy, like a man who wished to sound stern but could not. "Half the smallfolk near soiled themselves at the sight of Cannibal circling above the city. Do you grasp the danger of what you've done?"
Rhaegar's tone was even,
his violet eyes fixed with a calm far older than his years. He closed the door behind him without bowing, without waiting for his father's leave.
Rhaegar's tone was even, almost cold. "Not here. Not like this."
Viserys blinked. "Not,what do you mean, boy?"
"You speak too freely when the walls still listen."
Viserys' lips curled. "Seven hells, you sound like your uncle plotting treason in shadows."
"Not treason," Rhaegar said. His hands rested behind his back. His words carried no tremor. "Truth."
"You're ten," Viserys said, the cup of wine sloshing in his hand. "Old enough to chase cats, not play at council with grown men."
Rhaegar took a step closer. His voice lowered, but it cut sharper for it. "Old enough to know that eyes and ears whisper in every stone of this keep. Old enough to know some truths are too heavy for an open hall."
Viserys felt a chill, though the room was warm.
"What would you have me do, then?"
"Summon the Kingsguard," Rhaegar said. "Every man sworn to your service. Bid them scour this room clean. No servant, no scribe, no bird of Otto's may linger. Then seal the door."
The king nearly laughed, but the sound caught in his throat. The boy's expression did not change.
"You command much for one so young."
"I do not command, Father. I beg. If the truth I carry is to be spoken, it must be spoken in silence.
The Cleansing of the Solar
A bell rang. Boots echoed. The White Cloaks entered in a line of steel and discipline. Harrold Westerling at their head, broad-shouldered, his graying beard stiff as wire. Criston Cole followed, helm tucked under his arm, his dark eyes darting between king and prince.
"Your Grace," said Westerling, "you called for us?"
Viserys sighed, gesturing weakly toward his son. "Not I. The boy. He would have us turned out like thieves in our own hall."
Rhaegar stepped forward before the silence could stretch. His small frame seemed to carry command without effort.
"You guard the king's body well," he said evenly. "But who guards his words?"
A murmur passed among the cloaks.
Westerling's brow furrowed. "Your Grace, is this truly needful?"
"It is needful," Rhaegar said. His eyes flicked from knight to knight. "You will scour this chamber. Empty it of all save your swords. Seal the door. And once sealed, no matter what sound you hear, none may enter."
Criston Cole spoke, his tone edged with challenge. "Shall the Kingsguard now take orders from a boy?"
Viserys opened his mouth but Rhaegar's voice cut sharper, louder.
"Not from a boy. From a prince of the blood, sworn to the same flame you swore to protect."
Cole stiffened. Westerling glanced at the king.
Viserys, after a long pause, lifted a shaking hand. "Yes. From this boy, you shall."
The White Cloaks bowed stiffly.
One by one, the solar was stripped bare servants dismissed, the tapestries checked, even the shutters thrown open to prove no spy lurked in shadow. When at last the chamber was declared clean, the Kingsguard stood waiting at the threshold.
Rhaegar's voice was calm, yet it held an edge that stilled the room.
"Once the door is barred, no matter what sound you hear, none may enter. Not for wine, not for scrolls, not even for blood."
Westerling frowned. "Even if the Keep burns?"
"Even then," Rhaegar answered. "If you falter, the realm falters."
Cole muttered, "A prince should not speak of doom."
Rhaegar's violet eyes fixed on him. "A prince who has seen it must."
Viserys' voice broke the silence, harsh with sudden anger. "Do as he commands!"
The door groaned shut. The iron bar dropped across it with a finality that rang like a sword drawn in a silent hall.
The silence broke with another creak. Daemon entered, a long chest in his arms. His pale hair was damp with the salt air of Blackwater Bay, his lips curled in that familiar smirk that always carried both mockery and pride.
"Your son plays his game well," he said, setting the chest upon the table with a thud. "He reminds me of me."
Rhaegar met his gaze without flinching. "No, uncle. I remind you of the man you never became."
For a heartbeat, Daemon's smirk faltered. His eyes narrowed, studying the boy as if searching for weakness and finding none. Then, with a low chuckle, he turned on his heel and left, the door slamming behind him.
The king and his son were alone.Inside the Sealed Solar
Rhaegar stood before the chest, hands clasped behind his back like a maester at lectern. His eyes gleamed in the candlelight.
His first question came quiet but deliberate, spoken in High Valyrian.
Rhaegar: "What do you think of King Maegor the Cruel?"
Viserys stiffened, nearly choking on the wine he'd just swallowed. The word struck harder than any blade.
Viserys: "King? King? Gods be good, boy, do you know what you say? Maegor was no king, he was a butcher who seized a crown not his own. He murdered, he bled the realm. He…"
His words faltered, as though a fog of old memory pressed upon him.
Viserys (softer): "And yet… yes, they called him king. His reign was written into the annals, his decrees obeyed, his throne unchallenged. Even Jahaerys himself ruled from the ashes Maegor left behind. That is truth, though I despise it. Why would you name him king so easily?"
Rhaegar tilted his head, as if studying his father the way a master studies a puzzle.
Rhaegar: "So you admit him a king — not only a usurper. You see both the shadow and the crown."
Viserys felt the air grow heavy. "Why are you asking me this? What madness is this lesson?"
The boy did not relent. His second question came without pause.
Rhaegar: "Did you ever hear the name Maegor from King Jahaerys… or from Queen Alysanne?"
The king blinked. For the first time in years, he saw his grandsire's face — cold, stern, unyielding upon the Iron Throne. And his grandmother, gentle, fierce in her counsel, yet never speaking the name of Maegor without a shudder.
Viserys: "Rarely. They seldom spoke of him. Jahaerys… he would purse his lips and change the subject. Alysanne said once only, 'There are names better left to rot with the bones of their bearer.' Why?"
Rhaegar's voice lowered, as though every stone in the room might be listening.
Rhaegar: "Because silence is a teacher too. They silenced his name, yet could not erase it. Maegor lives in every fear the realm holds of dragons, in every whisper of fire turned upon its own. He is a scar and scars tell us how deep the wound ran."
Viserys pressed a hand to his brow. The boy's words sounded older than his years, heavier than any child should carry.
Viserys: "Enough of Maegor. I will not have his ghost in my solar."
But Rhaegar pressed on. His third question fell like a hammer striking iron.
Rhaegar: "Who are we, Father? Andal? First Men? Or Valyrian?"
The king froze.
Viserys (after a long silence): "We are… we are all, and none. The blood of Old Valyria flows in our veins, yet we rule Andals and First Men alike. Our house was forged in fire across the sea, but it sits a throne built by conquerors here. We are… we are Targaryens."
Rhaegar (sharply): "That is a name. I ask of being. The Andals follow the Seven. The First Men cling to their Old Gods. The Valyrians worshipped fire and blood. Who are we?"
Viserys stammered. "We are kings! That is enough!"
But Rhaegar only shook his head.
Rhaegar: "It is not enough. To rule we must know what we are and what we are not. If we are Valyrian, then fire is our faith and dragons our destiny. If we are Andal, then peace and piety should bind our reign. If we are First Men, then the roots of land and blood matter most. But to be all is to be nothing. Tell me, Father… who are we truly?"
The king sat in silence, the weight of the boy's questions pressing heavier than the Iron Throne itself.