The Queen’s Gambit
Chapter 13:The Queen’s Gambit
The late afternoon sunlight streamed into the royal solar, the mood within was anything but serene. Alicent stood rigidly by the window, her fingers gripping the edge of the sill as if it were the only thing tethering her to composure. Her green gown shimmered in the light.
Across from her, seated at the high-backed chair near the hearth, Viserys looked tired. The weight of the crown and his ailing body etched deeply into his features. He held his goblet loosely, the wine within untouched.
“Aemond is gone,” Alicent said, her voice tight with barely restrained anger. She turned from the window to face her husband. Her hands were clasped in front of her, though they trembled slightly. “My son has been taken from me, and now you expect me to stand idly by while Daeron remains on that… rock, away from his family?”
Viserys let out a long sigh, his free hand rubbing his temple. “Aemond has not been taken, Alicent. He was sent to Winterfell to fulfill his duties as a prince of the realm. He will return when the time is right.”
Alicent stepped forward, her tone growing sharper. “And in the meantime? You would leave me bereft of two of my sons? Aemond, forced into the cold, and Daeron, still fostered with the Celtigars as if he were some minor lordling’s child? He belongs here, Viserys. With his family.”
Viserys regarded her for a long moment, his lips pressing into a thin line. “Daeron is thriving under the Celtigars. Lord Bartimos has written to me many times praising his growth and discipline. It was your own suggestion of fostering him in the first place. I only ensured that he would be closer than Old Town.”
“That was before everything changed,” Alicent snapped, then quickly composed herself. “Before… Rhaenyra and her brood began to undermine this family. Our sons should be here, Viserys. United. Daeron has already been gone too long.”
Viserys sighed again, leaning back in his chair. “Alicent, must you always make everything a battle?” His voice softened, though there was an edge of weariness in it. “Very well. I will summon Daeron to return…for a visit. We will speak with him and hear his thoughts. Then I shall decide if it is best for him to remain at Crakehall or return to the capital permanently.”
“A visit?” Alicent’s expression tightened. “And what if he does not wish to return to them? They have no claim to him—he is ours. His future is here, not among those who know little of the needs of this family.”
Viserys’ tone hardened, his patience clearly wearing thin. “Enough, Alicent. Daeron is still young but deserves the chance to speak for himself. If he wishes to return, I will not deny him. But if he believes he is learning and thriving where he is, I will not tear him away for the sake of your grievances.”
The room fell silent for a moment, the tension between them palpable. Alicent’s jaw clenched, but she forced a small, measured nod. “As you wish, husband,” she said, though the words were laced with bitterness.
Viserys studied her for a moment before speaking again, his tone softening. “Alicent, I know this has been difficult for you. But Daeron is strong, as are all our children. He will make the right choice for his future, and we will respect it.”
Her lips pressed into a thin line, but she did not respond. Instead, she turned and walked toward the door, her head held high. As she reached the threshold, she paused, looking back at him. “Summon him quickly, Viserys. I will not wait long for my son to be where he belongs.”
With that, she swept out of the room. Viserys was left alone with his thoughts and the heavy silence that followed her departure.
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The feast hall of the Red Keep glittered with warmth and opulence. Braziers lined the walls, casting a golden glow over the assembled lords and ladies of the court. The long banquet table was laden with the finest food and wine. Laughter and conversation hummed through the room.
Rhaenyra sat at the head of the table. Her eyes were bright as she surveyed the gathering. To her right, Viserys looked more animated than he had in recent memory. His gaunt face was softened by a rare smile. To her left, Laenor sat with a goblet of wine in hand. His laughter boisterous, as he shared a jest with Lord Beesbury.
The musicians’ song ended and the hall quieted. Rhaenyra rose from her seat, her silken gown shimmering like molten silver in the candlelight. All eyes turned to her, the hum of conversation ceasing.
“My lords and ladies,” she began, her voice carrying effortlessly across the room. “I am overjoyed to be here in King’s Landing once more, among family and friends.” She glanced at her father, her expression softening. “This visit is a reminder of the bonds we hold dear—bonds of blood, of loyalty, and of love.”
The room erupted into polite applause, and she waited until it quieted again before continuing. “I have news to share with you all,” she said, a small smile curving her lips. “Laenor and I are blessed once more. I am with child.”
The announcement was met with cheers and congratulations, the court erupting into joyous chatter. Viserys’ face lit up with delight as he reached for Rhaenyra’s hand, squeezing it tightly.
“Another grandchild,” he said, his voice thick with emotion. “You bring me more joy than I could have hoped for, my dear girl.”
Laenor rose as well, lifting his goblet high. “To Princess Rhaenyra, the light of my life,” he declared. “And to the child who will soon join our family.”
“To Princess Rhaenyra!” the court echoed, raising their cups in unison.
As the toasts were made and the feast resumed, Rhaenyra settled back into her seat, a knowing smile on her lips. She leaned closer to Lady Redwyne, who sat beside her, and began speaking in a lower tone.
“This pregnancy has been… different,” she confided. “More taxing than the others. I have sent for healers from Essos to assist me. Their methods are said to be… unique.”
Lady Redwyne raised a curious brow. “Essosi healers? That is unusual, Princess. But wise if that maester cannot help with the difficulty you’ve experienced.”
Rhaenyra gave a faint smile, her hand brushing over her belly. “These healers are skilled in more than just midwifery. Their knowledge extends to ailments of all kinds. They may even offer relief to my father.”
Lady Redwyne’s eyes widened slightly, but she inclined her head, her expression thoughtful. “Your concern for His Grace is admirable. May their efforts bear fruit.”
As the night deepened, Rhaenyra’s gaze occasionally flicked to her father. He leaned more heavily on his chair as the evening progressed. Though he laughed and spoke animatedly, there was a weariness to him that she could not ignore.
The Essosi healers would arrive soon, she thought to herself. They had been summoned under the guise of aiding her, but their true purpose was far greater. Viserys’ health was deteriorating, and the maesters had proven ineffective. If there was even a chance that these healers could help him, she would take it—regardless of what anyone might say.
For now, though, she played her role, smiling and laughing with the court, all the while keeping her true intentions carefully hidden.
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In his chamber within the Red Keep, Lucerys Velaryon sat at a heavy oak table with its surface littered with maps, scrolls, and ledgers. He leaned back in his chair, his fingers steepled beneath his chin, his eyes sharp and calculating. Across from him, Jacaerys poured over a list of merchant names, a furrow of concentration on his brow.
“This one,” Jacaerys said, tapping the parchment with his finger. “The baker in Flea Bottom. She barely makes enough to feed her own family, yet she gives her scraps to the orphan children every day. If we sponsor her, it’ll spread.”
Lucerys nodded thoughtfully. “Her kindness becomes our kindness in their eyes. A good start.” He leaned forward, pulling the parchment closer. “But it’s not enough to scatter coin. The people need to feel as though we see them, hear them. A stable Flea Bottom could shift the tide when the time comes.”
Jacaerys glanced up, his expression questioning. “You really think war is inevitable?”
Lucerys sighed, his face softening as he met his brother’s gaze. “I hope not, Jace. Truly. But hope won’t protect us when swords are drawn.” His voice turned colder, more resolute. “We must use the power of perception. The people must see Mother as their champion, and Aegon as their oppressor. We must build that foundation now.”
The door creaked open, and Daemon slipped inside, his steps light but determined . “Do you plan to eat your supper,” he said, eyes flicking to the papers spread before them. “Or if you’re plotting your rebellion instead.”
Lucerys smirked faintly. “We’re not rebelling. We’re… planning for contingencies.”
He crossed his arms, raising a skeptical brow. “Call it what you will, Luke. Just don’t forget that plans on parchment mean nothing without action.”
“Exactly why we’re acting,” Lucerys shot back, his voice steady. He pointed to another parchment—this one listing donations and their destinations. “We’re starting a charity in Queen Aemma’s name, one for young mothers and children. It’ll provide food, clothes, and basic care. The memory of our grandmother, the rightful queen, will remind them of what was taken—and what can be restored.”
“That’s… clever.” Daemon said as he approached the table, skimming the details. “And Flea Bottom? What are you planning there?”
“We’re investing in its people,” Jacaerys explained. “Small businesses, struggling families—anyone who shows they care about the community. It’s about building loyalty where it matters most.”
Daemon’s lips quirked into a faint smile. “You sound like like your grandmother, Rhaenys”
Lucerys tilted his head, his expression serious. “Grandmother understands the importance of loyalty. So do I. If the common folk see us as their protectors, they’ll fight for us without ever raising a blade.”
Daemon studied him for a moment, then nodded. “Just don’t lose yourself in all this… strategy. It’s easy to become what you hate when you play the game too well.”
Lucerys met his gaze, his voice quiet but firm. “I won’t. I’m still me, Kepus. But I’m also a prince. And a prince must be prepared to defend his family—by any means necessary.”
Daemon hesitated, then placed a hand on his shoulder. “Just… don’t forget to eat,” he said before leaving the room.
Once he was gone, Jacaerys sighed and leaned back in his chair. “He’s not wrong, you know. This… everything we’re doing, it changes you.”
Lucerys picked up his quill, dipping it into ink before signing off on the next donation. “Maybe it has to,” he replied, his tone distant. “For Mother. For all of us.”
The two brothers worked in silence for a time, the weight of their tasks pressing down on their young shoulders. They weren’t just planning for their mother’s reign—they were shaping the very perception of the crown, brick by brick, coin by coin.
And in the shadowy corners of his mind, Lucerys knew: the time would come when kindness and charity would no longer suffice. But for now, they would wield them like weapons, sharper than any blade, in the battle for the people’s hearts.
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The streets of Flea Bottom buzzed with their usual chaotic energy—children darted through narrow alleys, vendors shouted over one another to sell their wares, and the unmistakable scent of baked bread mingled with the less savory odors of the area. Yet, amidst the bustle, there was a growing sense of curiosity and anticipation.
Prince Lucerys Velaryon stood in the heart of the commotion. He handed a bundle of cloth-wrapped loaves to a young mother with a toddler clinging to her skirts. The child looked up at him with wide eyes, a smear of dirt on her cheek, and Lucerys smiled softly as he knelt to her level.
“Bread for you and your little one,” he said gently, placing the bundle into the mother’s hands. “And if you go to the Queen Aemma Center near the Sept, they’ll have warm clothes and blankets for you.”
The woman blinked, her lips trembling as she clutched the gift to her chest. “Thank you, my lord. Thank you,” she stammered, bowing her head deeply.
Lucerys straightened, his expression calm but his mind calculating. Every smile, every small gesture was a carefully placed brick in the foundation he and Jacaerys were building.
Nearby, Jacaerys was speaking with a group of tradesmen outside a humble cobbler’s shop. The eldest of Rhaenyra’s sons leaned casually against the doorframe, his easy charm drawing laughter from the gathered men.
“Flea Bottom is the heart of King’s Landing,” Jacaerys said, his voice warm and inviting. “Without your work, the city would falter. My mother, the princess, understands that—and so do we. That’s why we’re here. We want to make sure you and your families are heard, that you have what you need to thrive.”
One of the men, a burly blacksmith with soot-streaked arms, crossed his arms and squinted at Jacaerys. “We’ve heard words before, my lord. Promises from nobles come easy, but they don’t fill empty bellies.”
Jacaerys didn’t flinch. Instead, he gestured toward a cart parked down the street, laden with supplies. “That’s why we’re starting with action. Food, clothing, medicine—we’ve brought it all, and there’s more to come. The Queen Aemma Center is just the beginning. Flea Bottom deserves better, and we’re here to deliver.”
The blacksmith studied him for a moment longer before giving a slow nod. “We shall see if you stay true to your word.”
As the crowd began to disperse, Lucerys joined his brother, his sharp eyes scanning the faces of those around them. “How did it go?” he asked under his breath.
Jacaerys grinned. “Better than expected. The tradesmen seem receptive, and the center is already drawing attention.”
Lucerys nodded, his expression unreadable. “Good. But we’ll need more than goodwill. We need loyalty—and not just from the poor. We should start visiting the smaller guilds and businesses, make sure they know we value them too.”
Jacaerys raised an eyebrow. “You mean bribe them.”
“Call it what you like,” Lucerys replied, his tone cool. “We’re building a narrative. Aegon and his lot may have their titles, but we’ll have the people. And when the time comes, the people will make their voices heard.”
Jacaerys studied his younger brother for a moment, noting the quiet intensity in his violet-green eyes. Lucerys was still the loving son and brother they all knew, but there was something sharper beneath the surface now—a determination that bordered on ruthlessness.
“You’ve changed,” Jacaerys said quietly.
Lucerys glanced at him, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “War changes everyone. We’re just preparing for what’s coming.”
Their conversation was interrupted by a commotion further down the street. A group of street performers had begun to set up, their brightly colored costumes drawing a small crowd. Lucerys’ eyes lit up with sudden inspiration.
“Plays,” he murmured.
Jacaerys frowned. “What about them?”
“Stories shape perception,” Lucerys said, his mind already racing, thinking of the Daily Prophet in Draco’s world. “We commission plays and songs about Mother—about her wisdom, her strength. And we do the same for Aegon, but in reverse. Expose his excesses, his failures. Let the people see him for what he is.”
Jacaerys hesitated. “That’s… manipulative.”
“It’s necessary,” Lucerys replied firmly. “The truth won’t matter if it’s buried under the lies Alicent and Otto will spread. We fight fire with fire.”
Jacaerys sighed but nodded. “Fine. But let’s make sure we don’t lose ourselves in the process.”
Lucerys’ gaze softened, and he clapped his brother on the shoulder. “We won’t. We’re doing this for her—for our family. That’s what matters.”
As the brothers turned back to their work, the bustling streets of Flea Bottom began to hum with a new energy. Whispers of Princess Rhaenyra’s charity in the name of Queen Aemma spread quickly. With each gesture of kindness, the seeds of loyalty were sown. Above it all, Lucerys watched with a quiet satisfaction. He knew that every move they made was bringing them closer to their goal.
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The tavern was dimly lit, with the smell of spilled ale and roasted meat mingling in the air. In the far corner, a bearded man sat nursing a cup of wine, his hood pulled low over his face. Harwin Strong had grown accustomed to the anonymity of disguise. No longer the Commander of the City Watch, he was now a wandering mercenary—or at least, that was the story he told. The truth, of course, was far more dangerous.
Tonight, his mission continued.
A troupe of traveling performers took the small makeshift stage at the center of the room. Their costumes were gaudy, their expressions exaggerated, but they knew their craft well. Harwin watched as the crowd leaned forward, murmuring in anticipation. Word had spread through the streets: the tale to be told tonight was no ordinary one.
The lead performer stepped forward, dressed in an oversized tunic meant to resemble royal finery. A crown, slightly crooked, perched atop his head. The man’s gait was unsteady, and his speech slurred as he bellowed to the crowd.
“Another drink!” he cried. “Another girl! For I am the great Prince Aegon, soon to be heir to the Iron Throne, and all the realm must bow to my whims!”
The audience erupted in laughter, though Harwin noted the sharp edge to it. Flea Bottom had no love for indulgent lords, and the caricature of Aegon hit uncomfortably close to home for many.
The scene shifted, and another performer entered, this one a younger boy wearing a makeshift eyepatch. He limped dramatically across the stage, clutching at his side.
“Brother,” the boy whimpered. “I only wanted to see the dragons.”
The actor playing Aegon sneered, shoving the boy to the ground. “Then you shall see them! Up close!” He gestured wildly toward an imaginary dragon pit, his voice dripping with mockery.
The audience’s laughter faded, replaced by mutters of disapproval. The story continued, growing darker as the performers depicted Aemond’s “betrayal” by his brother. By the time the play reached its exaggerated conclusion—Aegon forcing his sister, Princess Helaena to dance barefoot on broken glass while he laughed—the mood in the tavern had soured entirely.
Harwin took a slow sip of his wine, satisfied.
As the performers exited the stage, the crowd erupted into conversation.
“Did you hear that? Prince Aegon, forcing his own kin into the dragon pit?”
“And treating poor Princess Helaena so cruelly… she’s his own blood!”
“The Hightowers have always been corrupt,” an older man grumbled. “Queen Aemma would’ve never allowed such wickedness.”
Harwin leaned back in his chair, allowing the whispers to spread. He didn’t believe every word of the performance, of course. The stories had been carefully crafted, their truths exaggerated to fan the flames of public opinion. The reality didn’t matter—what mattered was planting the idea that Aegon and his siblings were unworthy, that their Hightower blood tainted them.
Later that night, Harwin slipped out of the tavern and into the labyrinthine streets of King’s Landing. He moved with purpose, his contacts waiting for him in a nondescript building near the docks. Inside, the air was thick with the scent of parchment and ink. A half-dozen men and women worked diligently, transcribing messages and preparing letters for distribution.
“How did it go?” one of them asked as Harwin entered.
He pulled back his hood, revealing his face to the small group. “The play was well-received. The crowd ate it up.”
A woman smirked, rolling up a completed scroll. “Good. The broadsheets we distributed yesterday are already causing a stir. Servants in the Red Keep are whispering about Aegon’s cruelty, and the merchants are beginning to question the stability of the Hightower rule.”
Harwin nodded, his expression grim. “Keep the pressure on. More plays, more stories. If we control the narrative, we control the people.”
Another man, younger and eager, leaned forward. “What about the spies? Otto’s network?”
Harwin’s jaw tightened. “I’ve identified a few key players. They’ll be dealt with soon enough. But for now, the goal is to undermine their influence. Make the common folk question every word that comes out of the Hightower’s mouth.”
The group fell silent for a moment, the weight of their task settling over them. Finally, Harwin spoke again, his voice low but resolute.
“We’re not just fighting for Rhaenyra’s claim,” he said. “We’re fighting for the realm. The people deserve a ruler who will protect them, not exploit them. If that means playing dirty, so be it.”
As the group resumed their work, Harwin stepped back into the shadows, his mind already racing with plans for the next strike. The Hightowers might have the ear of the crown for now, but he would make sure their grip on it weakened with every passing day.