Chapter 144 – How Utterly Foolish You Are, Rhaegar Targaryen
Creeeak—
The Black Cells of the Red Keep.
Buried deep on the third level, the air was thick with the stench of rot, filth, and human waste that had accumulated over years.
The darkness here was not merely the absence of light—it felt heavy, pressing down on the chest, making every breath an effort.
In the coldest, dampest cell, Lyanna Stark was held alone.
The fierce vitality of the she-wolf of the North had been all but crushed by two months of darkness, cold, and isolation.
She curled in the corner atop a heap of mold-reeking straw. Her once-bright grey eyes were dull now, sunken deep in pale sockets. Her thin prison clothes hung in tatters, exposing bruises and abrasions scattered across her skin—marks whose origins were all too easy to guess.
Her thick brown hair, once like a river in sunlight, was now tangled into filthy knots. Her lips were cracked, her throat burned with a dryness so intense it felt scorched.
Moisture seeped from the stone walls, gathering into thin streams that trickled through grooves carved into the filthy floor.
The proud she-wolf of the North dropped to her knees and pressed her face down, desperately sucking water from the channel—water mixed with long-dried urine and filth.
Only after the agony in her throat eased did she lift her head again.
In her eyes still flickered something stubborn—
a spark of hatred and defiance that imprisonment had not quite extinguished.
With fingernails worn nearly to the flesh, she scraped at the stone wall, biting back the pain as she carved another mark. Then she traced the old ones with trembling fingers, counting—
one by one—
until she reached seventy-five.
"Lance Lot…
Logan…
Aerys Targaryen…"
She whispered the names slowly, reverently—
her personal list of those she would one day kill.
There was no heart tree here, but every single day she swore her oath to the old gods all the same:
If she ever walked out of this cell alive, those people would pay.
Ah—
Logan.
A low-ranking jailer of the Red Keep, responsible for this level.
He came daily with food and water—but only barely enough to keep prisoners from dying outright. No more.
Because of that, the hateful jailer ranked above even the king himself on Lyanna Stark's list.
Then—
A dull thud sounded beyond the iron door.
Metal clattered against stone.
Keys turned rapidly.
Click—clack.
Assuming it was Logan again, Lyanna instinctively curled tighter into the corner.
But when the door was thrown open, a blinding light flooded the cell.
Torchlight tore through the darkness.
Lyanna flinched violently, squeezing her eyes shut and raising an arm to shield herself.
This was not Logan.
That bastard never carried a torch—he moved through the darkness like a cat, as if he could see without light.
After more than seventy days in darkness, Lyanna's eyes could no longer tolerate brightness. Even a trace of light made tears spill uncontrollably.
Hearing boots step onto the damp straw, she clenched her shackled hands, muscles tensing, ready to strike blindly at whoever approached.
Then—
"Lyanna…"
The voice trembled.
It was achingly familiar.
Her mind raced, searching memory through pain and haze.
Suddenly—
Her throat tightened.
"Ra… Rhaegar?"
"Is that you…?"
"Lyanna!"
The moment he saw her—
her emaciated body, ragged clothes, the ghost of the girl she once was—
and remembered her former vitality—
Guilt and pity crashed into Rhaegar like a tidal wave.
He rushed forward without hesitation, dropped to one knee in the filth, and pulled her into his arms.
"Rhaegar!!!"
The cold hardness of his armor should have repelled her—
yet to Lyanna, it felt warmer than anything she had known in weeks.
Grief, humiliation, and the sudden shock of hope broke her completely.
She sobbed uncontrollably, eyes shut tight, hands blindly searching his face.
In the flickering torchlight, Rhaegar saw the truth in full:
Her cheeks were hollow, her skin nearly translucent.
A sickly flush burned at her cheekbones.
Dark shadows pooled beneath her eyes.
Bruises marred her arms and legs—signs of cold, confinement, and something worse.
Rage exploded inside him.
"Seven hells!" Rhaegar roared.
"They dared do this to you?!"
"I'll kill them! I'll slaughter those wretches—burn every last one of them to ash with wildfire!"
Before his fury could spiral further, a calm voice cut through it—
"We should leave at once, Your Highness."
"Lord Varys should have the situation fully under control by now," Arthur Dayne said evenly. "We must reach the king's chambers immediately and put an end to this."
"The longer we delay, the more complicated this will become."
Rhaegar drew a deep breath, forcing the rage in his chest down.
He lifted his beloved gently in both arms. She had never been heavy—but now she felt lighter than ever.
"Yes. This ends now!"
"Your suffering, your humiliation—everything you endured ends here!"
He cupped her face, his eyes burning with feverish visions of the future.
"We will walk out of this darkness. I will end my father's madness!"
"I will strip Lance Lot of all rank, expose every one of his crimes, and see him judged!"
"I will pardon House Stark and restore all honors to Winterfell. The North will no longer be an enemy of the Iron Throne—but its strongest ally!"
"And you, Lyanna Stark—"
"The bells of the Great Sept of Baelor will ring for our union. You will wear the most beautiful crown and become my queen!"
His words painted a dazzling dream—one that ignited a fragile spark of vengeance and hope in Lyanna's heart.
She did not know exactly what Rhaegar intended to do, but in her weakness, she still reached back and clasped his hand, nodding with all the strength she had left.
"I… I'll go with you."
Creeeak—
The heavy iron door slammed shut, and the Black Cells fell back into silence.
BANG!
The noise startled Eddard Stark, half-conscious in another cell.
He opened his eyes in confusion, greeted once more by familiar darkness.
Hearing distant footsteps fade away, Ned murmured weakly into the void,
"Wha… what happened…?"
"Did I… miss mealtime…?"
Boots splashed through shallow puddles as Rhaegar strode toward the king's chambers, Arthur Dayne close behind.
The rain had stopped—no need for a cloak now. Rhaegar carried Lyanna forward unshielded.
His steps were firm, driven by boundless anticipation and the resolve of a man who had already burned his bridges.
He would bring his beloved before his father, witness his own ascension to the throne, and personally order that wretched, despicable Lord Commander of the Kingsguard condemned for treason—thrown into the Black Cells to taste endless darkness and despair.
The deeper they went into the Red Keep, the more Rhaegar felt reassured.
The critical corridors leading to the king's chambers—normally guarded by elite Kingsguard or veteran Gold Cloaks—were completely empty.
The few servants they encountered fled at once, heads down, neither daring to stop them nor raise an alarm.
"Look, Lyanna," Rhaegar whispered excitedly in her ear. "The gods favor us. Varys truly has everything under control."
"Soon… very soon, you will witness the birth of a new age—an age for you and me—just like Aegon and Queen Visenya!"
He whispered grand visions of coronation and marriage, of proclaiming their union before gods and men.
Nestled in his arms, Lyanna listened to his powerful promises. The smooth, unopposed path toward the pinnacle of power made the terror of her imprisonment feel as though it were washing away—like the storm that had just passed.
Only Arthur, gripping his sword, watched their surroundings with relentless caution.
A seasoned warrior's instincts screamed that this was too smooth.
Empty posts. No resistance. No alarms.
Everything was effortless—and therefore deeply wrong.
Only now did Arthur realize the most crucial omission in their plan.
Varys had never mentioned Lance Lot…
Nor Barristan Selmy.
How were they supposed to neutralize two knights who rivaled even himself—silently, within the Red Keep?
Unease coiled around Arthur's heart like a cold serpent.
But there was no turning back now.
He tightened his grip on his blade, scanning every shadow with lethal focus.
At last, they reached the ornate, massive doors of the king's chambers.
The guard post was empty.
The gilded door ring gleamed in the lamplight—like a courtesan opening her arms, inviting Rhaegar to claim the Iron Throne just beyond.
Triumph and exhilaration surged to their peak.
Rhaegar took a steady breath, gently setting Lyanna down beside him.
He straightened his cloak, smoothed his armor, and lifted his chin.
Determination blazed in his indigo eyes.
He reached out to grasp the ring—to knock as the rightful heir and end it all.
Even Arthur and the Gold Cloaks behind him unconsciously held their breath, waiting for the final moment of victory.
Then—
"Truly foolish, Rhaegar Targaryen."
The cold, low voice came from the shadows of the corridor.
Not loud—
but like a frozen gale howling out of the Seven Hells.
The excitement froze on every face.
They turned, disbelief etched into their expressions.
From the darkness beside the king's chamber door, a figure stepped forward.
White armor.
The unmistakable silhouette of the Kingsguard.
The voice echoed again, devoid of warmth.
"You lost, old man…"
"I told you he'd be stupid enough to rescue the woman first."