King's Landing ― Refugee camp…
Aemma dedicated herself to caring for the refugees who flocked to King's Landing, mostly comprised of women and young children. The ongoing civil war had left many homes and families in ruins, with loved ones being separated or lost to various causes - from disease and hunger to friends taking opposing sides: the Blacks and the Caltrops. The princess remained dutifully loyal to her family, but Aemma couldn't turn a blind eye to those seeking refuge and safety. "Here you go, little one," she said, preparing a bowl of warm soup for a small child.
"Thank you, princess," the child said gratefully.
Can't be more than six or seven. Poor thing. I hope her mother comes for her soon. "One of our septas will see that you are cared for, young one. We'll find your family. I promise." Aemma quickly glanced at the gathering crowd, eagerly awaiting their turn for an audience. "Please maintain a steady, respectful line as we prepare more."
"My princess," one of the smallfolk from the Riverlands approached his eyes, almost pleading, "the war… my harvest in our field has been so poor this year. I… I can't even feed my family. My wife and children are starving."
"I'm sorry to hear, ser. I'll cut your taxes." If the Master of Coin encounters an issue, Lord Celtigar can bring it to me or my brothers. "You might need to consider visiting the local King's Counter in the Street of Sisters to inquire if you are eligible for an emergency loan. Get enough food from the Street of Flies to feed your family if approved. You will be taken care of."
"Oh! Thank you, princess! Seven blessings!"
"Seven blessings, ser."
"Good Princess Aemma," an elder approached, "my granddaughter… is to be married. But she has nothing to wear on her wedding day."
"Ah, congratulations to you both! I'll arrange something for her, fear not." Aemma surveyed the small gathering around her. "Fear not, good people. We in House Targaryen will do everything we can to care for our people." She watched as they steadily dispersed, one by one. Every day, the young princess faced a new and increasingly exhausting challenge. She was doing everything possible to tend to those who came for help. As more reports from the field come, the more desperate the people get. Aemma looked up at Silverwing, who stayed near her rider. "Riña sȳz, Gēltīkun. (Good girl, Silverwing.)" The princess gently scratched beneath the elder dragon's jawline, eliciting a low, approving growl.
"Giving heed to the people. How popular you are, niece," a voice called out.
Aemma quickly heard footsteps approaching and turned to see her uncle, Ser Gwayne Hightower, leading a group of gold cloaks toward her. She recognized his silhouette as he got closer. "Uncle Gwayne," she acknowledged. "I only do what I can. Yet there are times where it feels like it's not enough."
"That's your mother talking, not you. Dragonrider or no, we're all human, princess," Gwayne said with a dismissive hand. "I must say, it is quite remarkable," he nodded. "These people are more inclined to engage in idle chatter with you and your brothers than with even the king himself." He directed his attention towards her. "I have been made aware of the recent events that have transpired. The lads back in the barracks love sharing rumors and gossip."
"Too much gossip can easily reach the wrong ears, uncle. How long did it take for the City Watch to have forgotten that my father was both Master of Whisperers and Hand of the King for years before ascending the Iron Throne? Regardless of whether the rumors are true or not, what if they do reach him? It's a recipe for disaster."
"No one has forgotten your father's skill as a spymaster, Aemma. The ballad 'A Thousand Eyes, and Two' was composed to honor your father's victory over the Triarchy long before you were born, and the memory of it is still fresh in people's minds even all these years. We are taking appropriate measures to keep things under control. Still, some of the recruits have an unrealistic view of warfare: idealizing and glorifying it, which can be a dangerous combination unless they experience the harsh reality of the front lines as the others are."
Aemma was blatantly aware of the harsh realities the civil war had brought, a plague upon her house. Ever since Aemond killed Daeron over Shipbreaker Bay, the Blacks were up in arms, demanding blood be spilled for the blood they lost. And her father… Aeonar was rumored to have succumbed to the Targaryen madness and resorted to more cruel yet calculatingly ruthless measures to inflict punishment on those he perceived as traitors to the realm. No matter how much she, her mother, grandfather, or brothers tried to make Aeonar see reason, it only riled him up even further. Aemma loved her family just as much as her father did and wanted to protect them, but how he went about it felt wrong. "Has there been any word from Daemon? Or Jaehaerys?" she inquired.
Gwayne's face twisted with disgust. "None yet, and I'd rather keep it that way. Daemon hasn't changed a bit since we last met. He's still the same bloodthirsty cur who'd eagerly jump at any opportunity for a fight, no matter the consequences," he spat out, scoffing with disdain. The memory of the Rogue Prince toppling his mount during the jousting competition twenty years ago was seared into the Hightower knight's mind, a dishonorable maneuver that left Gwayne with a mangled countenance and nearly incapacitated him permanently. As a result of this devastating incident, he was delegated to serve as a lieutenant in the City Watch, dedicating his life to upholding justice and enforcing the law. "But your brother…" he sounded more calmer. "Listen to them, and you'll understand," he pointed to the crowd.
Aemma felt perplexed by her uncle's statement. It left her with a sense of uncertainty that she couldn't shake off. In an attempt to understand his motive, she took a deep breath and cleared her mind of all thoughts. As she focused on achieving a state of inner peace, a serene silence enveloped her, and she became more in tune with her surroundings. Despite the bustling crowd of refugees around her, she could pick out a few distinct voices among the masses. The princess's unique approach allowed her to hone her sense of hearing, giving her an advantage over others in deciphering the words of the populace.
« …Madness…! »
« …Why should…?! »
« …He was never like this… »
« …The king has fallen… »
« …It's a curse from the gods… »
« …I know the Young Dragon was methodical, but I never thought he'd be this ruthless…! »
« …He's not the king we thought he'd be… »
« …Viserys the Peaceful… gods forgive him; he'd be rolling in his grave if he saw what his son had become… »
« …He should be the one to rule…! »
« …Prince Jaehaerys should be the one… »
Aemma's serene state was disrupted as her body involuntarily twitched, interrupting her meditation with a sudden jolt.
« …Yes, he has what it takes to get the job done…! »
« …Look at Aenys, or Maegor…! They say when a Targaryen is born, the gods flip a coin… »
« …We know how the Young Dragon's coin landed, but I'm more than certain about which side his heir's is… »
« …Yes, he will rule wisely and well, while his father… »
« …Jaehaerys should be king, like his namesake…! »
What? N-No, this can't be… Already? Aemma's eyes flew open in an instant, her heart racing. She looked at her uncle with concern and asked, "Is it true, uncle? Are the rumors of discontent really that bad? Are they that widespread?"
Gwayne expressed his deep sympathy, fully comprehending his niece's distress. "I'm afraid it's true, Aemma," he said regretfully. "Although your mother and grandfather are working hard to alleviate the situation, your father walks a dark path." He gazed upon the refugee camp. "The City Watch has been rationing supplies to preserve our limited resources and patrolling the most vulnerable areas likely to be impacted should the civil war find its way here. They're calling it 'the Dance of the Dragons.' Sadly, most of them blame House Targaryen for this whole mess - regardless of allegiance to the Blacks or Caltrops."
"But… we didn't do anything. We stopped Beatrice's coup attempt and are doing all we can to protect the kingdom and its people from this madness. Yet, is it still somehow not enough? Do they hate my father that badly they'd prefer my brother?"
"I wouldn't say 'hate,' Aemma. It's more like… the people fear your father. They respect him, sure, but they fear him. They're worried His Grace is slowly becoming another Maegor the Cruel."
"My father… is notMaegor!" Aemma shook her head. "He did not approve of the plan for what happened to those children. That was horrible! As a mother, I understand what raising a child is like, and I dread what might happen to Saena if our positions were reversed. I'd feel the same way if I lost my daughter, but…" Aemma was struggling internally with her thoughts. Growing up, Aeonar doted on her with affection and attention, and she had him wrapped around her finger by the time she was born. Aemma deeply loved her father, but after Daeron's death, she noticed changes in Aeonar, analytically observing his descent into madness and paranoia. "Uncle Gwayne, I know there's still good in him… I swear!"
"I know, dear. Your mother feels the same, though not everyone sees it that way," Gwayne said sympathetically, placing a hand on his niece's shoulder. I knew Beatrice was trouble when she and her kin showed their faces in the Red Keep. He only had a faint memory of how Beatrice's political maneuvering led to his father, Ser Otto, being dismissed as Hand of the King and he himself being removed from his position in the City Watch. Both were sent away to Oldtown along with the rest of his brothers. It wasn't until Aeonar became Hand that they were all brought back to King's Landing and became part of the Blacks' inner circle. "Listen, Aemma. I'll report back to your grandfather. And I'll vouch for your statements as best I can. Perhaps the council can do more than keep his… outbursts in check."
Aemma, burdened with restoring peace between the people and the crown, found herself at a loss. Despite her relentless efforts, the Targaryen madness had taken hold of Aeonar, corrupting him and transforming him into someone unrecognizable to her. Aemma knew her father better than anyone, and the thought of losing him to the madness was unbearable. Despite the odds being stacked against her, Aemma clung to the sliver of hope that remained. She knew the risks involved, but like her mother and brothers, she was convinced there was still a chance to save her father from the Targaryen madness. As Aemma watched her uncle pass the city gates, she noticed a strange individual approaching her.
"Sorry, princess," a scout bearing the colors of the Blacks faction approached Aemma. Based on his clothing, it appeared that he was posing as a regular villager, but she suspected he was one of the Master of Whisperers' covert operatives. "A message from the Lykirī Mēre," he handed a sealed scroll.
With a tinge of suspicion, Aemma hesitantly received the scroll from the messenger. Breaking the wax seal deliberately, she unveiled the parchment and began to peruse its contents slowly and meticulously. It soon became apparent to her that the message was written in the form of High Valyrian that had not been seen since the Doom of Old Valyria. Fortunately, Aemma, like her brothers, had been well-educated by her father in the ancient history of House Targaryen, and her proficiency in reading, writing, and translating the old Valyrian language proved invaluable in deciphering the enigmatic text into the modern dialect. "Qrimpālekio idañī se ēza rhaenas… (The traitor twin has been found…)" she read silently. As she continued to read, the fragmented pieces of the message gradually fell into place with a silent click of realization. "Aegon!" she called out to her brother-husband.
Aegon the Younger, who had finished helping the City Watch arrest a rowdy bunch of would-be warprofiteers, maneuvered his way through the other refugees to his sister-wife. "Yes, Aemma?" he asked. He then noticed the troubled look on her face. "Aemma, what's wrong? What's the matter?"
"Where's Viserys?"
"He's still in the Red Keep. Somewhere in the castle gardens, gathering more herbs for the septas. Why?"
"Look. Read this."
As Aegon gazed upon the parchment that Aemma clutched in her hands, his eyes carefully scrutinized each of the ancient High Valyrian runes inscribed upon it. He silently mouthed the words as he read the message, his heart racing with concern at its cryptic message. Suddenly, he halted in his tracks, realizing with a jolt that his twin was in grave peril. "Oh no…" he turned to the castle. "Hurry! We have to get to Viserys!"
Without hesitation, Aegon and Aemma swiftly maneuvered through the bustling crowds, determined to reach the city gates immediately. The gravity of the situation was evident - someone had tipped off the Lykirī Mēre, indicating an imminent threat, and every second counted as the Targaryens raced against time to locate their brother Viserys before the assassins could carry out their deadly plan.
Hold on, Viserys! Hold on! We're coming!
Red Keep ― Castle gardens…
Viserys entered the gardens with a purpose with a basket in his hand. His goal was to collect a variety of herbs that the septas could use to treat minor injuries and ailments at the refugee camp. Knowing that supplies were running low, the young Targaryen prince willingly volunteered his time and effort to assist in gathering more. He was careful to avoid the Iron Square market, as he knew of fraudulent merchants who often preyed on unsuspecting customers. Though he was not a maester or healer by profession, Viserys possessed a wealth of knowledge regarding which plants were safe for recreational use and which were toxic. He carefully plucked each herb with great attention to detail as he walked through the gardens. However, he was suddenly drawn to something unexpected, which he approached with caution and curiosity. "What's this?" he murmured under his breath. Following the trail, Viserys dropped to one knee and touched the wet, thick, warm red coloring. Blood… Whoever this belongs to, it's still fresh. With his senses on high alert, Viserys was aware that something was amiss. Someone's in here.
With utmost caution, Viserys carefully placed the basket on the ground and investigated the unsettling situation before him. As he surveyed the area, he couldn't help but wonder why the household guards were nowhere to be seen, mainly because there had been a murder in the castle. Their duty was to discover and report such incidents to the small council or the king. However, if the Lykirī Mēre had found something, they likely would have informed one of the Targaryens by now. It was no secret that the ancient assassin's guild was already facing a shortage of members due to the civil war that was currently escalating. However, there must still be a strong contingent in King's Landing, where their Grand Master ruled the Seven Kingdoms.
As Viserys turned the corner, he was taken aback by the gruesome sight before him. Five dead guards bearing the sigil of House Targaryen on their breastplates and two Lykirī Mēre agents were strewn across the ground. It was clear that whoever had committed this heinous act must have been highly skilled. However, amidst the chaos and carnage, Viserys noticed something that caught his attention – someone was holding onto his leg with bloodstained fingers. As he looked down, he saw the person wearing the distinct Kingsguard armor and white cloak. The realization hit him hard - this was no ordinary attack, and whoever was responsible must have had a deep motive.
"Ser! Are you all right?" Viserys approached.
"Ngh! Prince Viserys, ooh! Forgive me. They came out of nowhere," the Kingsguard knight groaned.
"What happened here?"
"Assassins. Disguised as household guards. The… Your father's people discovered them and tried to intervene, but… unfortunately, they killed each other."
Viserys arched his eyebrow skeptically, indicating that he was unconvinced. A single Lykirī Mēre agent is worth the skill of 10 men. He examined the dead bodies gathered in the yard. No… these guards looked like they were ambushed from behind, taken entirely by surprise. Not enough time to draw their blades to defend themselves. "Has word been sent to the king?" he questioned.
"I… I think so."
"How deep is that wound on your leg?"
"Just a scratch, my prince. I… I can still walk."
Viserys remained silent as he inspected the lifeless bodies, sensing that something crucial had eluded his initial observations. Suddenly, the faint sound of a sword being drawn caught his attention despite the assassin's attempts to remain stealthy. Trained by the elders of Lykirī Mēre, the Targaryen prince's ears and eyes were alert, and he quickly glanced over his shoulder. How deceitful. I thought something was off. As the knight raised his sword, Viserys quickly anticipated the attack and executed a swift side aerial flip to evade the strike from behind. With his agility and keen reflexes, Viserys spun around with finesse to face his opponent. He drew two intricately designed, deeply curved, double-edged 16-inch daggers from his back leather belt in a flash. Prepared for any eventuality, Viserys stood poised and ready to defend himself. "Ser Arryk Cargyll," he revealed. "I had a feeling you'd show up again."
Arryk's face betrayed his inner turmoil as he reluctantly accepted the Caltrops' assignment. The Cargyll knight seemed torn, struggling with the weight of his past mistake. "I understand the gravity of my actions, my prince, but I have no choice. Queen Beatrice would have me executed if I dared to return," he confessed.
"There is always a choice, Arryk. Lay down your sword, and all your crimes will be forgiven if you take the black."
"It is not something I can come to terms with. Death here, death at Starpike, or death at the Wall… I've come to terms with the fact that my fate was sealed. Forgive me, Viserys, but I ask that you make this quick." Mother Above, forgive me for what I'm about to do. Raising his sword, Arryk prepared to strike.
Viserys, fully aware there was no turning back, braced himself for what would come. The sound of approaching footsteps caught his attention, and he saw a heavily armored knight charging towards him. Just as the sword was about to strike, another knight appeared and deflected the blow. To his left, Viserys could see that it was none other than Ser Erryk Cargyll, Arryk's identical twin brother, who had come to his aid. "Ser Erryk!"
"Thank the Mother, I made it in time!" Erryk sighed with relief. "Your father's men tipped me off and told me where you were." He turned to face his twin. "Go, my prince. Warn your father. I'll… Let me take care of Arryk. He might be a traitor, but… he's still my brother."
It is difficult for Viserys to fathom the depth of emotional turmoil the Cargyll brothers must be experiencing, having once stood side-by-side as comrades-in-arms and now having to confront each other as enemies in battle. The internal conflict they must be grappling with is undoubtedly immense. It is heartbreaking, and no one deserves to be put in such a position, regardless of their past transgressions. "Just… Try to stay alive, Ser Erryk. I'll go get help!" he rushed off.
As Viserys urgently made his way to inform the guards, Erryk and Arryk were struck with a profound sense of foreboding. It was clear to them that fate had dealt them cruelly. The fact that one of them had infiltrated the Red Keep pretending to be his twin – and that the Kingsguard had sided with the Blacks – seemed like a cruel joke played on them by the gods. To make matters worse, their identical features made it nearly impossible for anyone, even their fellow Kingsguard, to tell them apart. Standing face to face, the Cargyll twins exchanged a sad and knowing look.
"I love you, brother," Erryk said as he unsheathed his sword.
"And I you, brother," Arryk reciprocated as he gripped his own.
In a split second, the two Cargyll twins engaged in fierce one-on-one combat, displaying impressive swordsmanship skills. The clashing of their steel swords echoed through the air with a bone-jarring clang as both knights showed no mercy and refused to yield any ground. Erryk sprang up from his position and swiftly charged at his opponent with his longsword, which seemed to come alive in his hands as he skillfully swung it with precision and agility. Arryk quickly evaded his twin's attack by jumping back, but Erryk relentlessly followed, pressing the assault.
With no time to recover from one cut, the next was already upon him. The swords kissed and sprang apart, only to meet repeatedly in a continuous cycle of high, low, and overhand strikes. Arryk and Erryk showered each other with a cascade of steel, delivered through left and right slashes, backslashes, and swinging movements so intense that sparks flew every time their swords collided. Their upswing, side-slash, and overhand strikes were executed with such speed that it was challenging to keep up with their movements.
They kept attacking relentlessly, moving closer and closer to each other with each strike while constantly stepping and sliding, striking and stepping, hacking and slashing until their movements became almost too fast to follow. The intensity of their combat was palpable, as they both seemed to be in a trance, their eyes focused only on each other, their minds set on one goal: victory. Despite the ferocity of their battle, they both exhibited remarkable control, their movements calculated and precise, their breathing measured and steady. It was a clash of titans, a conflict that would go down in history as one of the most remarkable displays of swordsmanship ever witnessed.
Their swords clashed against each other with a deafening sound. The intensity of the fight was such that they lost all sense of time. It could have been minutes or hours, for all they knew. They were utterly absorbed in the fight, with their every move calculated and precise.
As they fought, Erryk found himself being pushed back, step by step, by his twin. His feet stumbled once on a root he never saw, and for a brief moment, he thought it was the end for him. However, his warrior instincts kicked in, and he quickly regained his composure, going down to one knee instead of falling. His sword leaped up to block a down-cut that would have opened him from shoulder to groin, and he never lost a beat. Erryk fought back with all his might, striking his twin with his sword again and again. Despite being pushed back into the bushes, he fought his way back to his feet stroke by stroke. The battle tested their strength and skill, with each brother determined to emerge victorious. The sound of metal clashing against metal echoed through the forest as the two brothers continued their epic battle, their determination unwavering.
Lurching to their feet, both Erryk and Arryk were exhausted. Gripping their longsword tightly, both charged at each other, ready to strike. However, in an instant, both Cargyll twins thrust forward and ran each other through the gut. Erryk and Arryk spat out blood as each dealt the other a mortal wound, slowly collapsing to their knees, their chins resting on each other's shoulders, tears running down their cheeks.
"Wh… Was it… worth it?" Arryk gasped.
"N… No…" Erryk answered.
As Arryk's consciousness sluggishly faded away before meeting his end, Erryk's wound was causing him unbearable suffering. In the final moments of his life, Erryk caught a glimpse of Aeonar Targaryen and the entire court investigating the commotion. Despite the gradual dwindling of his life, Erryk clung on tenaciously as Aegon, Viserys, and Aemma made valiant efforts to treat his wounds and nurse him back to health. However, their attempts were soon proved futile.
Four days later, Ser Erryk Cargyll of the Kingsguard died of his wounds.
Aemma, adorned in a somber black ensemble, meticulously composed a sad ballad of remembrance with Luceon of Tarth, paying tribute to the valiant knights Ser Erryk and Ser Arryk who tragically lost their lives – "Farewell, My Brother."
Chapter End
Author's Note: As we delve deeper into the Dance of the Dragons, we see more work Aemma has been doing as well as including an interaction between her and her uncle, Alicent's brother Ser Gwayne Hightower. Apparently, Aemma learns the people are developing a whole new perspective on their father and realized the the rumors of discontent had already begun to spread, yet approve of neither faction. Although they fear Aeonar, more are starting to prefer Jaehaerys to govern instead of the Young Dragon. But nonetheless, Aemma reiterates her belief that her father can be redeemed. While that's going on, we witness the duel between the Cargyll brothers, Ser Erryk and Ser Arryk. What was your view on the duel? Let me know.
XavierWright: Discontent amongst the people. No doubt Aeonar will get word of that soon, and it'll most likely make him angry.
The question is; how long before he turns that anger on his family?
―No one knows.
roggerlopez99: The fight between Cargyll brothers was heartbreaking two twins fighting to the death, they choice their side and belief but then it wasn't worth for the brothers killing each other. This war not only affected House Targaryean but everyone else to
Be honest you had a tear coming out when writing this scene with the brothers fighting
randomdude24: Loved the duel, I was really hoping for a different outcome but enjoyed the duel anyway. Seems the dance is starting to get bloody, at this point whose right and wrong no longer matters now it's just war. I guess Aemma, her brothers, and Alicent are clinging to the hope Aeonar can be redeemed, I would like to see that happen, but I think it's too late for him.
Question about a possible future event, I know the dance is still early, but will there be any battles at Kings Landing? I know in canon the blacks took it, but do the Caltrops even have a chance of taking it?
―No, the Blacks have too many dragons and King's Landing is heavily defended from all sides. Plus, the Lykirī Mēre have like eyes of a hawk - they're watching everyone closely. We might see something down the road, but we're quite a long way there.