Chapter 143 — Forcing the Throne
The small chamber was lit by only a single oil lamp, its flame trembling in the stale air.
Outside, thunder split the night; rain battered the shutters like thrown stones.
A flash of lightning briefly illuminated the room—and Arthur Dayne froze mid-step.
"Perhaps I've come at the wrong time."
"No, Ser Arthur,"
Varys replied with a gentle smile, half his face swallowed by shadow.
"You've come at precisely the right time."
Water streamed from Arthur's helm and white cloak, pooling on the floorboards.
Behind him, the two goldcloaks silently shut the door—locking the three men inside.
Arthur bowed toward the prince.
"Your Grace."
He opened his mouth to speak, but his eyes flicked toward Varys—uncertain, wary, searching for the right words.
He never got the chance.
"My father intends to strip me of my claim to the Iron Throne."
The words crashed against Arthur harder than the thunder outside.
He stiffened—not from cold, but shock.
I haven't even told him yet—
But the veteran knight recovered quickly, voice steady:
"I came to warn you of exactly that."
Again his gaze shifted toward Varys, left hand drifting to his sword hilt on instinct.
"Calm yourself, ser,"
Varys murmured, that serene smile never wavering.
"I was the one who informed His Highness."
Arthur's eyes narrowed to slits.
He turned back to Rhaegar—who gave a small nod of confirmation.
Only then did Arthur's hand loosen.
But his suspicion deepened.
The Master of Whisperers—standing with the prince?
Or has he always been the prince's creature?
---
Bang!
Rhaegar slammed his fist onto the desk, knuckles splitting, blood welling—but he did not seem to feel it.
"Why?" he choked out.
"I am the firstborn!
I have labored for the peace of House Targaryen!
I begged him for mercy—for restraint—with the Starks—
and now that is treason?"**
His voice cracked—rage and heartbreak twisting through every word.
"Why!?"
The prince trembled, pale from weeks of confinement, exhaustion carved into his face.
Now this final blow left him hollow-eyed, desperate—broken.
Silence swallowed the room.
At last, Arthur stepped forward.
"Your Grace…"
He hesitated.
The storm howled outside—
but inside, the only sound was the quiet collapse of a crown slipping from a prince's grasp.
No one knew how long the silence lasted before the Master of Whisperers finally spoke—his voice soft, yet clear enough to cut through the storm outside.
"In Pentos," Varys began, "they say that despair is the womb of opportunity."
"His Majesty's decision will not stabilize the realm—it will shatter what little foundation remains.
It may very well bury the Targaryen dynasty…
but it also presents your chance."
Rhaegar's head snapped up—
a spark of hope flickering to life in his tired violet eyes.
"A chance?"
"Yes," Varys nodded. "Your chance."
"Until the council convenes and the decree is made public, you remain Prince of Dragonstone—the rightful heir to the Iron Throne."
Rhaegar let out a hollow laugh, shoulders sinking.
"And what good is that? Father has already made up his mind.
He'll discard me and put Viserys—"
"Your Highness!"
Varys suddenly stepped forward, voice ringing like steel drawn in the dark.
"Better to seize your fate than wait meekly for execution!"
His tone sharpened, every word a blade.
"History is clear: when the Targaryens replace the elder with the younger, blood flows like wine.
We saw it a century ago—the Dance of the Dragons."
He paused—
and when he spoke again, the words seemed to scorch the air.
"If a storm is inevitable, then let you be the one to call the thunder.
Force His Majesty to abdicate—to yield the throne to a better king."
"Silence!"
Rhaegar's fury snapped like a bowstring.
Even Arthur Dayne—who had listened in rigid stillness until now—took a step forward, hand hovering over his sword.
"Mind your tongue, Varys," Arthur said coldly. "You are inciting rebellion."
Varys met his gaze without flinching—his eyes no longer sorrowful, but burning.
"Rebellion?"
His voice grew quiet, dangerous.
"If you fail, it is rebellion.
If you succeed—it becomes history."
Lightning illuminated the room as he continued—voice rising with the storm.
"The North and Dorne already bleed.
All Seven Kingdoms now see the king for what he is—cruel, broken, consumed by paranoia.
And now he threatens the line of succession itself!"
He lifted his hands toward the rattling windows.
"Listen!
That rain—can you not hear it?
It is the weeping of a kingdom begging for deliverance!"
"The realm does not need a king who rules through terror and wildfire—
but a king who ends war, heals old wounds, and brings back the light."
His gaze locked with Rhaegar's—piercing, unwavering.
"And you, Rhaegar Targaryen—you are the true dragon, the Prince That Was Promised, the protector this realm deserves."
Rhaegar fell still—
as though every word hammered directly against his heart.
Arthur stood in shock.
This was regicide. This was treason.
Each step further was a step into the abyss.
Yet—
"Speak," Rhaegar murmured, lowering himself back into his chair.
His voice sounded suddenly older—almost regal.
"Tell me how. I am a prince under watch, nothing more."
A shadow passed through Varys's eyes—regret, perhaps—but he pressed on.
"I have secured the support of Ser Manly Stokeworth, commander of the goldcloaks.
He resents His Majesty's order granting Ser Lance Lot authority over the city watch."
"I know every hidden passage of the Red Keep."
"Two loyal companies of the goldcloaks await your command.
Once you appear publicly as Prince of Dragonstone, they will follow you.
We seize the gates, seal the keep, isolate the King's chambers, and surround the White Sword Tower."
"And you, Your Highness—"
Varys's voice softened, reverent, almost worshipful—
"—need only face His Majesty and request that he step down due to failing health, to retire with dignity to Dragonstone."
"Afterwards: dismiss Ser Lance Lot, appoint Ser Arthur as Lord Commander of the Kingsguard—
and announce your marriage to Lyanna Stark."
Rhaegar inhaled sharply—his eyes blazing like polished amethysts.
"Marriage…?"
"Yes," Varys said, voice swelling with fervor.
"In the royal sept, before gods and loyal men!
The North becomes your shield, House Stark your spear—
and the Seven Kingdoms return to peace beneath your crown!"
"This is the path to save yourself…
save Lady Lyanna…
and save the very name of Targaryen."
"Tonight—the true dragon takes flight."
A heartbeat of silence—
and then Rhaegar slammed his palm against the desk and rose.
Arthur felt his breath catch in his chest.
The vows he swore as a Kingsguard rang in his ears—
to guard the king, to obey the king, to serve the king.
But when he looked upon Rhaegar's face—
saw hope where despair once lived—
saw resolve replace doubt—
his heart broke.
He knelt.
The sound of armor striking the floor was like the toll of a bell.
"By the name of the warrior," Arthur said, voice trembling yet firm,
"my life, my honor, and my sword—belong to Rhaegar Targaryen, true heir of the Seven Kingdoms, until death claims me."
Rhaegar's hand trembled as he drew Arthur's sword and lifted it high—blade gleaming like lightning.
"One final question, Lord Varys."
His voice was steady now—resolute.
"You are sworn to serve the King.
Why betray him?
Why tell me all this now?"
Varys bowed deeply—his face solemn, eyes filled with a sorrow that seemed almost genuine.
"When every noble claws at power, someone must think of the people of this realm, Your Highness…"
He lifted his gaze—dark, unreadable.
"…and I choose to be that someone."
With that, he stepped backward into the shadows—
consumed by the storm's flickering light.
Outside, the wind howled.
Rain hammered the Red Keep like fists upon a coffin lid.
Arthur rose, drenched cloak heavy with water—but his heart burned with a fire that felt like descent into hell.
He had taken the first step.
And there would be no turning back.
---