- The Red Keep -
It had been two harrowing weeks since the battle at Rook's Rest. Each day for Alicent stretched out in a torment of helplessness and sorrow. She remained by her eldest son's side, his groans a constant reminder of the agony that consumed him. Her prayers to the Mother became more desperate with each passing hour, seeking some divine mercy to heal her beloved child.
The sight of him, broken and twisted, pierced her heart. His once proud armor, now melded grotesquely to his flesh, was a cruel testament to the violence he had endured. Orwyle's painstaking efforts to remove the armor while dosing him with mixtures and milk of the poppy to numb the pain did little to ease her torment.
In her tortured mind, Alicent saw this as divine retribution, a curse from the Gods for her own and her House's ambitions. Memories of her uncle Hobert's urging and her own desires, birthed the moment she laid eyes on her firstborn, haunted her thoughts. Her father's voice echoed, condemning their choices. They had bet on the wrong son, Baelon should have been their focus. Yet, she clung to her husband Viserys' final words—his dying declaration that Aegon was his lawful heir.
The hours blended into one another as Alicent sat vigil, her mind drifting back to the days of relative peace before the storm. She recalled her youth, filled with dreams and aspirations, many of which had been crushed under the weight of duty and expectation. Her marriage to Viserys, though politically advantageous, had not been without its trials. Still, she had found solace in the role of a mother, pouring her hopes and dreams into her children.
As she sat by Aegon's side, her thoughts turned to her other children. Aemond, her second son, had always been a complex enigma—brilliant and ambitious, but with a darkness that frightened her. She worried about the path he was on, the choices he might make in the power vacuum left by Viserys' death. She prayed that he would not be consumed by the same ambitions that seemed to have cursed their family.
The door creaked open, pulling Alicent from her reverie. She turned to see Aemond stride into the room, his presence commanding attention. His hands rested on the end of the bed, a twisted smile playing on his lips as he surveyed his brother's pitiable state. At his hip hung Viserys' valyrian dagger—a weapon she swore Aegon always had on his person.
"Will he make it, Grand Maester? It has been weeks." Aemond's voice, though calm, carried an undercurrent of impatience. Orwyle, meticulously cleaning his instruments, responded without meeting his gaze.
"It is still too early to say, My Prince." Aemond made a soft, dismissive sound, straightening as he did so.
"Jaehaerys is too young to lead, Maelor even more so... A Regent must be appointed in the meantime." Alicent's heart tightened at his words. She rose, letting go of Aegon's hand, and addressed her son.
"I had meant to call the Small Council. I served as such for your father before—" Aemond cut her off, his tone cold and unyielding.
"We are at war, Mother. I am the senior Targaryen, and I will be the Regent until my brother recovers or, in the event of his death," Aemond paused, his smile growing more sinister, "I will be my nephew's Regent until his sixteenth name day."
"Aemond, you are young and brash. I don't think you—"
"I will handle things from now on, Mother. We will be well." He turned to leave, but Alicent, fueled by a sudden fury, grabbed him, forcing him to face her, and slapped him hard. The force of her anger stunned him.
"Your brother is mortally wounded! Both of your dragons are injured, all for the sake of wounding Meleys and killing Jacaerys and his dragon." She gripped his chin, forcing him to meet her eyes. "Perhaps it would be prudent to bring grandfather back as Hand. Criston knows only war, not statecraft."
Aemond's gaze was icy as he raised his hands, pushing her back. "Perhaps you should focus on more domestic pursuits, Mother, and leave the rest to me."
The tension between them crackled like a storm, leaving the air thick with unspoken threats and unresolved conflicts.
Alicent watched as her son exited the room, his footsteps echoing down the hall. She felt a cold sense of dread settle in her chest. Her mind raced with the implications of Aemond's words and actions. If he were to seize control, the delicate balance of power could tip dangerously, plunging their realm into further chaos.
She returned to Aegon's side, her fingers gently brushing his hair. His face was pale, his breathing shallow. She could see the toll the battle had taken on him, both physically and mentally. Her heart ached for the boy he once was, now reduced to a shadow of himself.
As night fell, Alicent found herself unable to sleep. She paced the room, her mind racing with thoughts of the past and the uncertain future.
In the stillness of the night, she made a silent vow. She would not let her family be torn apart by ambition and greed. She would fight for her children, for their future, and for the realm they were meant to protect. She would stand against the darkness that threatened to consume them.
With renewed determination, Alicent sat down at her writing desk, her quill poised over a blank sheet of parchment. She began to write, her words a testament to her resolve and her love for her family. She wrote to Oldtown, to her allies, to anyone who might lend their support.
As dawn broke, she sealed the letters and called for the Maester. She watched as Orwyle took them, carrying her hopes and fears with him.
As the sun rose higher in the sky, Alicent looked out the window, her heart full of resolve. The road ahead was uncertain, but she would face it with courage and strength. She would fight for her family, for her realm, and for the future they deserved.
"Mother?" she looked from her window and smiled.
Helaena entered with her twin children, they ran to her side and Alicent hugged them tightly. Helaena's lady from Tarth sat down, handing her the quilt blanket she was making for Maelor.
"Helaena?" she called after telling the children to play with their toys. "How are you feeling, after the fighting weeks ago I know I was distant."
"I was fine, the children too... I worry for us."
She gripped her daughter's hand despite her tensing at her touch, "I am so sorry, for everything, for the foolish ambitions of your mother." she smiled, the weight being lifted somewhat.
Helaena stopped and looked up, "The ink is dry, Mother. The stone set." Alicent didn't understand, "That's what should have been, anyway, but too much has changed and more is still to come."
"What do you mean, my girl? And why are you so worried? Even wounded, Vhagar is enough to deter Rhaenyra,"
"I don't fear the dragons... I fear the shadows."
- Dragonstone -
Rhaenyra sat alone in her dimly lit chamber, the weight of loss crushing her spirit. The once fierce and determined warrior was now a shadow of her former self, her heart shattered by the devastating events of the Battle of Rook's Rest.
For days, she had been consumed by anguish and sorrow, the pain of losing her son and heir, Jacaerys, a wound that would never heal. The memory of his disobedience haunted her, the image of his lifeless body and the charred remains of his dragon, Vermax, etched into her mind. She resented him for defying her commands, yet her heart ached with the unbearable grief of a mother who had lost her child.
How they paraded her son and his dragon through the streets of King's Landing, they beheaded Jace and nailed a green cloak on his body. She was never so consumed with rage that she wanted them all dead, every one of Alicent's children and grandchildren.
Rhaenyra's thoughts turned to the gods, and she found herself bargaining, wishing that she could have taken his place. "Why him? Why not me?" she whispered, her voice breaking as tears streamed down her face. The gods remained silent, offering no solace or answers to her desperate pleas.
The news of Meleys and Rhaenys' injuries only added to her torment, a cruel reminder of the cost of war. Her faith in her Small Council had been shaken, the trust they had placed in her ruptured like a fragile thread. She felt betrayed, isolated, and utterly alone.
She named Corlys the Hand, he does what she could not at the moment, and all the while she misses her sons, she misses Daemon... She misses her father.
As nightfall descended, the stillness of the chamber was broken by a knock on the door. Rhaenyra wiped away her tears, trying to compose herself. Ser Harold entered, his expression solemn. "Prince Lucerys is here to see you, Your Grace," he announced.
Rhaenyra's heart clenched at the mention of her son's name. Lucerys, her youngest- Now her oldest was a reminder of the family she still had, and her other sons too, the reason she had to keep fighting. She nodded, her voice barely audible. "Send him in."
As Lucerys entered the chamber, Rhaenyra's eyes met his, and for a moment, the weight of her grief lifted. She embraced him tightly, the warmth of his presence a small comfort in her darkest hour.
Luke wiped away tears from his eyes, but a small smile broke through. "Lady Arryn sends her condolences... And she says that Lord Leowyn Corbray is preparing to lead ten thousand men to the Riverlands to join Daemon at Harrenhal."
Rhaenyra's heart lightened at the news, the best she had received since Daemon brought the Riverlands under control. They should have more than enough forces to contend with the Greens. "And your brothers?" she asked.
"They are aboard the Gay Abandon, heading to Pentos as you instructed in your last raven."
Relief washed over her. She didn't want them to come to harm, and Daemon had assured her they would be well protected by the Prince of Pentos. She had considered keeping them on Dragonstone or the Vale, but assassins had a way of reaching even the most secure places. She couldn't risk endangering them.
"For the journey, I've sent Baela and Rhaena to protect the ship. Aegon's dragon, Stormcloud, is also aboard, nearly the size of a large dog now," she added.
Lucerys's eyes blazed with anger. "What are we going to do about Jace? I want Aemond dead for what he did."
Rhaenyra cupped her son's cheek tenderly, stroking it. "And he will be. Daemon promised that Aemond would pay for killing Jacaerys." She sighed and hugged him again, her eyes cold and filled with thoughts of revenge. The fire in Lucerys's eyes mirrored her own, fueling her determination to see justice served.
- King's Landing -
Daemon moved through the shadowed streets of King's Landing with an air of quiet confidence. The city was on edge, tension crackling in the air like an approaching storm. The alleys and corners that once felt familiar now seemed foreign, but Daemon knew he still had allies hidden in plain sight.
Among the ranks of the City Watch, Daemon had trained many to lead. They were skilled, disciplined, and loyal to him. Yet, since Aegon had claimed the Iron Throne, his loyalists had replaced these men with Hightower supporters. But bonds forged in the heat of battle do not break easily. Daemon knew he could count on them now, more than ever.
He turned a corner, entering a dimly lit tavern where whispers of rebellion seemed to linger in the smoke-filled air.
Some spoke of the battle at Rook's Rest, of seeing the dragon Vermax and a headless prince being paraded about. It's started to stir the people against the current regime, even though he could sense it.
The quicker the army finally pushes to seize King's Landing, the sooner things should return to normal.
There, in a secluded booth, sat Mysaria—the Mistress of Whispers, having arrived a few days before he did, on order from Rhaenyra.
She had been his lover once, but now her allegiance lay with the secrets of the realm. Her dark eyes glimmered with a mix of cunning and familiarity as she beckoned him to sit.
"Mysaria," he greeted her, his voice low but firm. "We have much to discuss."
She nodded, sliding a parchment across the table. "I've gathered the men you asked for, Daemon. They're rough, but they will follow orders without question."
Daemon leaned back, his mind racing with the gravity of the task ahead. "Good. I need them to eliminate Aemond and Aegon. The children must be spared. Rhaenyra said their deaths would do more harm than good."
Mysaria's gaze sharpened, sensing the weight of his words. "This will certainly plunge the realm into chaos. With Aegon and Aemond out of the fight, all threats would be well and away from King's Landing." Yes, Baelon in Dorne and Daeron in Oldtown.
Daemon's eyes hardened, a steely resolve settling over him. "The Hightowers have taken too much, we must strike now, while they lick their wounds from Rook's Rest."
Mysaria nodded slowly, her expression unreadable. "Very well. I will see to it that your orders are carried out."
As they parted ways, Daemon felt a flicker of victory, his lips curling into a subtle smile. The death of Jace, his beloved nephew, had not been in vain. It had ignited a fire within his wife, Rhaenyra, a fire that no longer allowed her to stand idly by.
A handful of men garbed in dark clothes, hoods pulled over to conceal their faces as they moved with calculated precision through the hidden tunnels beneath the Red Keep. Their leader, a hulking brute of a man with a scarred visage, led the way with a torch held high. The flickering flame cast eerie shadows on the ancient stone walls, their footsteps echoing softly in the confined space.
The Commander's whore had whispered the secret path to the King's chambers, and they were determined to follow it to the letter. The brute shined his torch on an ancient mechanism embedded in the wall, its design cunning and intricate. With a grunt of effort, he pulled the lever back, and a hidden doorway groaned open, revealing the dimly lit room beyond.
The leader stepped through the doorway, his eyes immediately locking onto the groaning figure of King Aegon sprawled on the bed. The King, in a state of disarray, seemed oblivious to the intrusion. The leader turned to his men, his voice a low growl. "Go back down that way, follow them to the big dragon's master. I will deal with the crippled King."
Nodding in silent agreement, three of the men retreated back into the tunnels, their mission clear. They moved with stealthy determination towards the Prince Regent's chambers, leaving their leader alone with the vulnerable monarch.
The brute stalked closer to the bed, his eyes glinting with malice as he unsheathed his sword. The moonlight streaming through the narrow window caught the blade, casting a cold, silvery light on the weapon. Aegon's eyes fluttered open, panic flooding his features as he realized the danger. He tried to call for help, but the brute's hand clamped over his mouth, muffling his cries.
With a swift and brutal motion, the brute brought his sword to Aegon's neck, slicing through flesh and sinew. The King's blood gushed forth, staining the bed and sheets in a macabre tableau. The brute watched, impassive, as the life drained from Aegon's eyes, the once mighty King reduced to a lifeless, blood-soaked figure.
The deed done, the brute stepped back, his chest heaving with the exertion of the kill. The room was eerily silent, the only sound the steady drip of blood onto the cold stone floor.
A sawing motion sounded the alert of Kingsguard, Ser Martyn Reyne. He crept inside the dimly lit chamber, the sight that greeted him a ghastly horror. The brutish assassin stood over the bed, holding the decapitated head of King Aegon aloft, blood dripping from the severed neck.
"Sound the alarms!" Martyn's voice rang out, sharp and urgent. He shouted to a passing servant who bolted away to raise the alarm. Determined to catch the murderer, Martyn lunged forward, but his white cloak caught underfoot. He stumbled, falling to the ground. By the time he regained his footing, the killer had vanished back into the tunnels, carrying his grotesque prize.
Elsewhere, in the Prince Regent's chambers, the other three assassins slipped in silently, catching Prince Aemond deep in conversation with Ser Criston Cole, the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard. The trio, eager and overconfident, believed they could easily dispatch the prince and the old warrior.
Criston, who had just settled down to rest, was caught off guard. He reached for his blade, as did Aemond, and the room exploded into a fierce melee. The clanging of steel and the grunts of exertion filled the air.
Criston, despite his age, moved with the precision of a seasoned fighter. He dispatched one of the assassins with a swift, lethal stroke, though not without suffering minor wounds. Aemond, however, struggled against his assailant. He managed to kill one, but the final assassin fought with relentless ferocity. A dagger slashed across Aemond's cheek, and another stabbed deep into his leg, causing him to stagger.
The assassin loomed over Aemond, ready to deliver the fatal blow, but Criston acted swiftly. With a powerful thrust, he drove his sword through the man's back, the blade piercing his heart. The assassin collapsed, lifeless, leaving Criston and Aemond standing amid the chaos, bloodied but victorious.
As dawn would break, the bells would toll for the death of King Aegon II Targaryen, the Second of his Name.