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After The Dragons Danced (A Rhaena Targaryen SI) -- 03. Penance and Damnation
🕑 Added 2024-08-04 09:00:00 +0000 UTC9th Day, Fourth Moon, 131AC | The Dungeons of The Red Keep - King’s Landing
LARYS STRONG
The Clubfoot paced his cell frantically from one end to the other. He was barefoot, so none of the guards could hear the pittapatta of his steps. Something was wrong, very wrong. He still felt the presence of the one he had been ordained to destroy. Like he had done in his previous life, he was to make an envious younger brother slay his older sister. Again like last time, the entire world would slowly descend into divine darkness afterwards. He had walked the right steps, followed every action that he was ordained to do. The problem was that he could not see anymore. He could not see his people, those who had given him another life and another mission. He was blind, as blind as the darkness he served.
“It was meant to end this way” he muttered, trying to calm himself, “the sacrifice was done and he who gave his force to the fires shall die.”
“Then why can I still feel them? Why are they still here? He was supposed to be dying and his strength fading,” he mused to himself in frustration as he took his head into his hands and he sat on the bed.
Everything had gone perfectly; the way he had been told it was supposed to go. The sun, the moon and the bleeding star had fought each other and from there only the moon had risen from the ashes of their battle. Then the fire had plunged its flaming sword into the sapphire orb of the moon, and the sword broke. The fire was drowned and the moon shattered. When they fell, the sun rose once more, albeit briefly, to drive its sword into the egg to unleash the demons of divine darkness upon the world. After that, the sun was meant to set, and the divine darkness would begin its reign for another lifetime. He had done his part, like he had done in his previous lifetime, slaying the little stars that the sun had birthed with the sword of fire.
Her words came back to his mind unbidden. “The sun has never failed to rise, and with it, Morning comes.” No, no, no. That would only be a false dawn. All had gone perfectly; the darkness would reign and the next servants of the divine would come after him, after his time was done. He knew their names; The Raven of Blood and The Crow With Three Eyes. He had seen it everyday when he closed his eyes in dreams as vivid as memories.
He sat down and with the practice of several lifetimes, felt his feet step into the eyes of the rat and scurried to the home of the children of the one he was destined to destroy. He saw both of them speaking the ancient tongue, the foreign one that belonged to the children of his master’s greatest enemy. He did not understand that tongue. His god-emperor forbade his servants from learning it, therefore it remained foreign to him. He stayed a few moments all the same, but caught nothing with his ears. With his nose however, he smelled the two of them, to see for himself whether the scent of his enemy still lingered on them. When he did, it felt wrong. His children did not smell like this; most of them had the scent of fire, fire which soon destroyed them from the inside, but with one of these two he was watching, her scent was strange, foreign, otherworldly. Suddenly, before he could see further, he was devoured in one bite by the pink creature bonded to her. He broke free of the rat a split second before he too was no more.
The sun had set when he heard the stomping of boots approaching his cell, lifting him out of his trance. It was time for his last meal. Tomorrow, his life would come to an end. He wondered whether his master would give him the honour of being one of the servants to follow him. No, he discouraged himself of the thought immediately; that was being greedy, a sin of lesser men. He had already done his work, the world would descend into divine darkness, that was what mattered.
He sat on the simple bed in his cell. He smirked at the thought. He was a lord in his own right, and thus the accommodations even in his captivity had slivers of luxury; like a bed. He twisted his left foot, feeling the bones break for the thousandth time. The pain was sweet, it always was. It was what gave him reprieve from the onslaught of visions granted by his master. It served a purpose as well. The Clubfoot would be a part of who he was in this life, and like always, he played the part perfectly, making sure none suspected of the power he wielded. The knight, a Northman from his appearance and style of dress, put the tray on the small table near the bed. “Your last meal, traitor. Eat up.”
The Ratcatcher did as he was told. He thought of trying to step into the eyes of the northman; he had done it once or twice, but it took much strength from him, strength he currently did not have. Then again, this was his last day, he might as well do it, purely for the pleasure of feeling his mind impose itself on another. As he prepared himself to do it, the knight guarding his door gave two knocks and announced, “Lady Rhaena Targaryen.” The Northman left, and the guard let the lady in and then shut the door.
He immediately felt his anger rising. The child of his master’s enemy; his enemy, was here. The tamer of that creature that almost devoured him when his mind had seized that of the rat. The strange scent of her mind wafted to his nose one more. It was very foreign, and the otherworldly nature of it made his mind squirm.
“Lord Strong,” she addressed him.
“Lady Rhaena, or should I call you Princess now. You’re the king’s sister after all.” he replied, with the normal oily slickness that was ever present in his voice.
“Platitudes are useless to a dead man.” Lady Rhaena retorted, sitting on a stool on the opposite end of his bed.
“What do you wish to know?” he asked her, going straight to the point.
“I’ve racked my head everyday since the war ended,” the Lady began, “you were Lady Alicent’s confidant for a better part of two decades, meaning you believe your brother was the true father of my betrothed. In that case, why war against your own nephews? Then, when the king you pledged your loyalty to won the war, you plotted with my grandfather to poison him and support my brother’s ascension to the throne. You are the lord of your own castle, the largest castle in the realm at that, yet you did nothing with its vast resources during the conflict to aid your cause.”
The Ratcatcher scoffed, what did this simple child know of the god-emperor he served? What did she know of the unfathomable primordial forces at work in the vast expanse? Although she was the daughter of his god’s mortal enemy, she was still only flesh and bones, ordained to live once for a miniscule amount of time and then die and be forgotten soon after. These simple creatures played their childish games to determine who would seize an iron chair, and all they obtained from it was only a sliver of the power he had commanded in countless lifetimes.
“Humour me, My Lord. At least before you die, satisfy my curiosity. You will die and be forgotten anyway.” the Lady continued. Her scent was overwhelming to him now. Foreign, otherworldly, different. The voice in his head that told him something was wrong, was returned with a vengeance, screaming at him. He felt a head coming on. He held the veins temple, trying to calm himself.
“Something has changed within you.” he told her.
To her credit, she was only unsettled for a split second before she regained her usual smoothed expression and replied, “You are going mad now as well. It is good you shall die soon.”
“Even if I tried to explain, you could not even begin to comprehend.” the Ratcatcher told her as he all but inhaled his food. His last meal was oddly tasteful. Mutton chops served with bread and elk soup. The voice in his head came back stronger. It kept shouting, “Something is wrong, something is wrong.” He ignored it, his mission was done and admittedly, he was tired. Very tired. Fighting his master's enemy had always drained him. He had already won his battle. He needed to die, to drown in the darkness once more and regain his strength for the next mission. The lady sitting across him crossed one leg on top of another and sat up with poise.
For his own humour, he decided to unsettle her one last time. He repositioned his foot and felt the bones setting with tiny cracks and then he stood up, walking confidently to approach her where she sat. He was surprised by her once more, her face remained still. He walked back to his bed to finish his food.
Lady Rhaena only shrugged before replying casually, “I always suspected.”
The Ratcatcher decided to indulge her. What could she do with the secrets he shared? The darkness would descend upon the world soon enough and this life was over for him anyway. His treason was already discovered and he would still be executed.
“I served your mother’s cause my lady,” he then proceeded to confess with his voice barely above a whisper, “my nephew was slain, and your father demanded a son in his stead. I obliged him. The boy was slain by a butcher and a Ratcatcher, was he not? Curious, the Ratcatcher was never found.” The Clubfoot smirked in his victory.
The realisation seemed to hit her then but she quickly recovered before confronting him once more, “My father willed it that the Kinslayer be the one to die.”
“Aye, he did, but the fate of the sapphire moon had already been determined,” he replied casually, “so I killed the one they called Cheese and took his place, and the butcher was small of brain, so he followed whatever his Ratcatcher friend told him to do.”
“Then why help the usurper escape? He murdered my mother and made my brother watch,” The Lady asked him once more, with consternation clear in her voice.
“It had been ordained since beginningless time.” The Ratcatcher replied.
“Speak clearly, Ratcatcher.” Lady Rhaena retorted.
“As I told you before, you cannot even begin to comprehend the truth,” he replied.
The lady looked thoughtful. The Ratcatcher knew exactly what she was thinking so he addressed her once more, “The war is over, the usurper is dead, my treason has been discovered. Even if you wish to tell the world that I am responsible for Jaehaerys’ death, it will do naught to wash out the sins of your parents. Your father commanded the death of a son, and a son died, his original intent matters not. Your mother’s reign killed more than a hundred thousand in King’s Landing alone, saying nothing of those across the rest of the realm. This is my last night alive, content yourself with that.”
Lady Rhaena stood up to leave the room, seemingly satisfied with the confession she had pried from him. She opened the door to walk out only to stop upon seeing the pitiful dowager queen.
“You killed my grandson as well!” the dowager queen shouted. The shift of the guard was changing, it would take half an hour for the new guard to take the place of the old for the night. Queen Alicent rushed at him, only being stopped by Lady Rhaena.
“He will die for his treason,” Lady Rhaena tried to assure her, “his life is forfeit. Justice will be served for their deaths.”
The Ratcatcher only laughed softly to himself. He had enjoyed using the pitiful queen, breaking her and letting her shame herself to the false gods she supposedly revered. Oh, how he wished that his seed had taken and her womb quickened in one of the several times they lay together. Strongs on both sides fighting for the Iron Throne; the thought amused him.
Soon, the pitiful queen’s ruckus ended and he was once more left alone. Good. He was done with those of this world. He finished his last meal. Night had settled in now. With a smile on his face, he climbed on his bed and quickly fell asleep, reminding himself that tomorrow he would descend into the divine darkness once more; that he would rest in knowing his work was done.
He awoke when he heard the clanging of metal right next to the bed. “Get up, you worthless traitor. Today is the day you die.” In his bed, the Ratcatcher remembered to twist his leg once more. Even on his final day they would not know. He limped, following the guard to the castle courtyard. His eye came upon the wolf then, with his greatsword sheathed behind his back. The sword that would take his head. Two scores of his fellow criminals stood with him, together with the royal family and a gaggle of lords and ladies who resided in the castle. His crimes were the greatest, therefore he would be the first to die, Lord Stark announced.
He was asked his last words, replying that he wished his clubfoot be removed and buried in a pauper’s field. As he knelt, and placed his head in front of the executioner's block, ready to leave this world, the voice in his head came back once more, “Something is wrong! something is wrong!” That was when he saw it, that was when he saw her. He remembered her words once more, “the sun has never failed to rise, and with it, Morning comes.” He had known what he meant when she said those words to the wolf of Winterfell. She was talking about her dragon. He turned to look at the creature once more; the pink beast still in its infancy. He had seen that it would die soon, barely grown from the size it was now. The rising of the darkness would kill it. He was wrong. He was so very wrong, he realised. He saw it, he saw her. She was supposed to have died. Her death was supposed to bring The Divine Darkness. Her brother had slain her by commanding his mangled dragon to eat her. How was she here? If she was here, it meant that his work was not done. His mind raced. He had to remain alive. He had to kill the creature.
Before he could seize the mind of some random lord standing in front of him to continue his work, he felt the cold, sharp touch of Valyrian Steel upon his neck before it all went black. And Larys Strong’s last thoughts were of failure.
As Lord Cregan Stark went to call the next convict, Morning pounced at once, burning the Ratcatcher’s body and devouring him in his entirety, even The Clubfoot.
The Night Before the Executions
CORLYS VELARYON
The scent of pouring rain was refreshing as it reached him through the window he liked to keep open and stare out of. For once, it even overshadowed the stench of shit that forever riddled this city. It was not as cold as he remembered it being during his voyages to the frozen lands and Ib and Mossovy, but it was cold nonetheless, so he won his overcoat, ten days dirty by now. He did not mind it. He had been stuck in the Black Cells for far longer, and he was almost at the point of death when he was released the last time; he could bear a dirty overcoat for one more night. On the morrow the Stark boy would be taking his head anyways, an he would be done for good and all.
With the support of his cane, he slowly walked back to his bed and lay there, staring at the ceiling of his cell. Sleep would not come to him; no, he would not be granted the blessing of a good-night’s sleep before he was decapitated, and his headless remains sailing out to the sea for the final time, never to return. That was somehow better, Corlys knew. If he slept, the nightmares would begin once more, and with how horrifying they had been getting these days, he couldn’t bear it. He would have eternal rest after all.
The opening of his door broke him out of his hopeless musings. What could it be now? He wondered. In walked Rhaena, dressed in a lovely red gown, made of samite, embroidered in silver with the mosaics of dancing dragons. Her platinum hair reached her waist and was almost shining in the scant light that reached the dreary cell. Unbidden, the memory of his lovely daughter, her mother, came back to his mind, dressed in aquamarine silk instead of red, bejeweled in pearls and seashells instead of silver. He shook the memory from his mind before the guilt clawed its way to his throat once more, and the happy Pearl of Driftmark was turned into a pile of ash, choosing to face dragonfire when her last babe could not come.
“Rhaena,” he called out. She would be regarded a princess soon enough, if not already. At least that was a thing to be proud of, her granddaughter would be a princess.
“Grandfather,” she replied, “it is very good to see you whole.”
Corlys chuckled dryly, “as I was yesterday, and the day before that, and the one before, when you came to visit on all of them.”
She smiled in return as well, “Doesn’t make it any less good to see you whole.”
She took a seat on the small table that was in front of him, the table he used to place his plates. She sat down, with a courtly poise, one leg clasped above the other, her hands in front of her. The smell of her perfume reached him then. It was the most wonderful thing he smelled in the few minutes of every day she or her twin came to visit; wildflowers, mixed with roses; although in the most delightful way. Corlys resisted looking into her eyes as he gathered his wits to speak; they were a light lilac, just like her grandmother’s, just like his wife’s.
“To what do I owe the pleasure, granddaughter. Have you finally come to accept that this old man will be joining your grandmother in the great beyond? And where is Morning? She is usually perched on your shoulders at all hours of the day.”
“Like I told you grandfather, you would not die. And it seems that I was correct. I convinced Lord Stark to spare you, on account of all you did to end the war, and surprisingly, he agreed.” Rhaena told him, her eyes dancing with the same mischief he had seen on Daemon Targaryen’s many, many times.
His own eyes widened in surprise. How had she done it? Of course, he knew that there was no way that she had managed to convince Lord Stark. The boy lived up to the reputation of the Northmen, grim and stubborn. But, he was not one to pry. It seemed like life was not yet done with him. He would not be drowning in the waters of the coast of the ruins of High Tide just yet, as he had requested of his grandchildren once was beheaded.
“Thank you, Rhaena. Truly,” he managed to say, his gratitude true and honest, “I am truly grateful for pleading for my case so earnestly.”
She smiled and nodded, before her face turned serious once more, “I have one thing to ask of you, however. It would be a fine way to show your sincere thanks.”
“Go on.”
“Troubled times for my house and the realm are ahead of us. There’s only three of us Targaryens remaining now, and with only one dragon, a hatchling at that. It will take time and considerable effort for us to set the realm to rights. And as always, lords with ambition on their minds have knives pointed at our backs, some of them doubtless thinking that the Dance has broken our power for good and all.”
“Aegon is young,” she continued, “there’ll be a regency that shall rule the Seven Kingdoms for the next five and a half years, before he comes of age and takes rule into his own hands. I would ask you to be part of this regency. You are one of the only men we can trust with such a task. You were loyal throughout the war, despite the wrongs and slights that the queen did to you. Your loyalty has not been taken for granted, grandfather.”
Corlys tore his eyes away from the girl in front of her, staring at the ceiling once more, not knowing what to think. The knowledge that of his only remaining kin valued him made his heart squeeze with a feeling he could not explain. That he had been an adventurer, a warrior, a prince, a kingslayer, a man enshrined in legend for all time. All that had been amounted to nothing, washed away by the waves he had sailed aboard The Sea Snake, and turned into ash beneath the heat of dragonfire. It would all mean nothing in the end. He had failed as a father, a husband, as a leader of his family. But, perhaps, perhaps he could do right by his grandchildren.
“Very well, I accept,” he said, with conviction.
