The King of Winters

Chapter-107

He learned what he wanted to learn from the letter brought by the Spider, written by the hand of Ser Barristan. His small council looked at the faces of each other when they were ushered into his presence. Somehow Rhaegar knew the tidings were bad before a word was spoken. One glance at Varys' smooth face sufficed to tell him that. "Stark did it?"

Varys nodded.

His mouth was grim. "How many dead?"

Varys wrung his powdered hands. "Several thousand, your grace. Both on our side and theirs. Foul work it was, and wicked. A dreadful night, dreadful."

Thousands, yet not managed to trouble the King except for the one. His son, his Aegon, his Prince that was Promised. That shook his heart more than anything else did. Every day as the wolf's war was waged anew in his realm, the King spent his nights gazing into the fires of the red wizard hoping for a glimpse of his son. And glimpsed him he did. At no point did he ever thought that he would lose his son and heir. He couldn't... Aegon was the Prince that was Promised, without him the fate of the world was likely to doom.

Rhaegar made a fist. "Has there been any survivors?"

"Ser Richard is leading them back to Stoney Sept. Most had fled the battlefield once the battle was lost and he writes that he is gathering all the ones he could find so that not everything is lost with the Trident."

He should have rather scoured those men who deserted. "Send a raven to Richard and ask him to return to King's Landing with all the men he has with him. We could use them here at the defence of the city."

"It will be done, Your grace," Pylos said. "What about Prince Aegon?"

Rhaegar hesitated. "What about him?"

"Your grace, perhaps we could send a raven to King Andrew to return the Prince's body so he can be laid to rest properly," the maester said.

"And go groveling to the rebel like his servant," Rhaegar growled. "I think not."

The young maester flinched and slid back into his seat. If anyone else from his small council had the same idea none of them dared to speak forth anymore. "We have no word from Jon yet?"

"None, your grace. We beg your pardon."

His fury was a fire in his belly. "I will have no more mine slaughtered. Stark will feel my wrath. Call the maesters and their captains. I wish to speak with them. I mean to pay back Stark in kind and only when I have done it and honoured my son will I sit down to mourn him."

"All of them, your grace?"

"Yes."

Rosby coughed. "My lord, where is the coin to come from to pay wages for so many men?"

"You will find them when the war is done. The slavers yearn for a different type of gold. I will take a blood tax from these rebels when they are defeated."

Rosby was plainly terrified. He nodded bowing his head. "And it's been a while since we heard from Baelish," the King said. He turned to Pylos. "Send word to the Braavosi to see if he's reached there or if he's chanced upon some mishaps on route. Mishaps are taking a liking to those who fight for my cause."

He left the rest unspoken. "Go and do as I've commanded. I have a son to avenge and mourn. Leave me."

As they were leaving the room he stopped them. "And no word of this letter reaches, Lyanna," he told them. "See to it. I will tell her of this myself."

He sat there in his solar for a long time after they left thinking about the war, the rebels, his destiny and his son. Somewhere north of here his son's killers were feasting and drinking to celebrate his son's death. He meant to look at their faces while they die screaming. He was curiously calm. Men were supposed to go mad with grief when their children died, he knew. They were supposed to tear their hair out by the roots, to curse the gods and swear red vengeance. But the dragon never wavered in its strength. I shall do the same. Strangely his thoughts were more on Lyanna than his thoughts were on his son.