The First Skirmish
Chapter 15: The First Skirmish
The air in the chambers of the Hand of the King was thick with tension between Lord Lyonel Strong and his youngest son, Larys. Lyonel’s face was grave, his broad shoulders hunched slightly as he regarded the man who now stood as his only surviving heir.
“It is time, Larys,” Lyonel began, his voice steady but heavy with meaning. “We leave for Harrenhal tomorrow. Harwin’s bones must be laid to rest in the family tomb, where they belong.”
Larys tilted his head, the faintest of frowns marring his otherwise placid expression. “Surely you do not need me for such a task, Father. I’ve responsibilities here in King’s Landing—matters to attend to in service of the crown.”
Lyonel’s gaze sharpened. “Your service to the crown does not excuse your duty to your family. Harwin is gone, Larys. You are my heir now. I need you by my side, and I need you to honor your brother’s memory.”
For a fleeting moment, Larys’s composure slipped. His fingers twitched at his side, a tell of his unease. “I am not Harwin,” he said softly. “And I doubt I ever will be.”
Lyonel’s expression softened, though his voice remained firm. “You are not Harwin, no. But you are my son. That carries its own weight, and it is time you bore it.”
Larys hesitated, his thoughts churning behind his measured gaze. But he knew there was no valid argument he could present to delay his departure without raising suspicion. Finally, he inclined his head. “As you wish, Father. I will accompany you to Harrenhal.”
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Later, in the dimly lit confines of Alicent’s chambers, Larys relayed the news of his impending departure. Alicent’s hands were clasped tightly before her, her knuckles white against her pale skin.
“You’re leaving?” she asked, her voice tinged with alarm. “So soon after Harwin—” She broke off, casting a glance over her shoulder as if the walls themselves might betray her.
Larys’s lips curved into a faint, humorless smile. “My father insists, Your Grace. He has made it clear that my place is now at Harrenhal, as his heir.”
Alicent’s frown deepened, worry etching lines into her brow. “And what of…what happened to Harwin? If anyone discovers—”
“Enough,” Otto interjected, his tone brisk as he entered the room. He closed the door behind him with a firm hand and turned to face his daughter and Larys. “No one will discover anything, Alicent. Harwin’s death was an unfortunate incident that occurred as he did his duty to the throne. That is all anyone need know.”
“But Larys—” Alicent began, only for her father to cut her off with a dismissive wave.
“Larys has more to lose than anyone should the truth come to light,” Otto said, his gaze settling on the younger Strong with a calculating gleam. “He is implicated just as deeply, if not more so. And should he speak out, we can discredit him easily. His motivations are obvious—he stands to inherit everything with Harwin gone.”
Larys inclined his head, his expression inscrutable. “He is correct. My father would never believe such accusations. The rest of the realm would see them as the bitter lies of a man hungry for power.”
Alicent’s hands trembled, but she forced herself to nod. “Very well,” she said, though her voice was strained. “But you must be cautious, Larys. If anything were to unravel—”
“Nothing will unravel, Your Grace,” Larys assured her, his tone smooth and unflinching. “You have my word.”
As he departed the room, Otto turned to Alicent, his expression firm but reassuring. “We must keep our heads, my dear. Larys may be a snake, but he is a useful one. Let him do what he must. Our plans remain unchanged.”
Alicent nodded again, though unease still shadowed her features. Outside the room, Larys allowed himself a small, private smile. As always, the game was far from over.
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The courtyard of the Red Keep buzzed with activity as wagons were loaded and carriages prepared for departure. Rhaenyra stood near the royal carriage, her hand resting protectively on her growing belly as she exchanged parting words with her sons.It had been decided that their projects in the city required more attention before they could rejoin their parents on Dragonstone.
“Mind your uncle,” she instructed Jace, her voice steady but tinged with maternal worry. “You’ll stay only a short while longer to complete what you and your brother have started. Then, you’ll return to Dragonstone.”
Jace nodded, his youthful face set with determination. “We’ll make you proud, Mother.”
Lucerys stepped closer, his gaze darting between his mother and the imposing figure of Daemon, who lingered nearby. “Uncle Daemon has promised to show us how the Gold Cloaks run their patrols,” he said, a hint of excitement creeping into his voice.
“Listen to him,” Rhaenyra said firmly, though her lips curved into a small smile. “But don’t forget who you are. Everything we do is for the good of the realm.”
Nearby, Laenor oversaw the final preparations for their departure, his expression unusually somber. He caught Daemon’s eye briefly and gave a small, almost imperceptible nod. It was an unspoken agreement, a signal that their plan was in motion.
As the last of their belongings were secured, Laenor approached his sons. He crouched down to meet their eyes, his tone light but laced with seriousness. “Stay sharp, boys. Keep learning, keep watching. And remember—family first, always.”
Lucerys hugged him tightly, and Jacaerys clasped his father’s shoulder in a gesture beyond his years. Laenor stood, his gaze flickering to Daemon once more before he entered the carriage.
Jace, standing to the side, observed intently. “Do you think this will be enough?” he asked, his voice quiet.
Daemon’s gaze flicked to him. “Enough for what?”
“For what’s coming,” Jace replied, his tone edged with a maturity beyond his years.
Daemon’s lips curved into a faint, approving smile. “It’s a start. But remember, battles aren’t won with swords alone. It’s the mind that wins wars, Jacaerys. Learn that, and you’ll be ready for anything.”
When the gates of the Red Keep closed behind the departing party, it appeared that Rhaenyra and Laenor had left together for Dragonstone. The truth, however, was more complicated.
Later that evening on the ship to Dragonstone, Rhaenyra reclined on the bed in her room, her hand drifting over her belly. She glanced out the window at the darkening sky, her thoughts lingering on the intricate web of plans she and Laenor had woven.
Soon, the pieces would fall into place. For now, she could only hope that her husband’s gamble in King’s Landing would pay off.
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As night fell over King’s Landing, Laenor emerged in the shadowed alleys of Flea Bottom, his appearance altered by plain clothes and a hood pulled low over his face. The disguise suited him well—a simple mercenary with no ties to nobility. Gone was the polished image of a lord; in his place stood a man of unassuming stature, blending seamlessly with the city’s denizens.
He made his way to a modest inn where a group of hardened men waited for him. Veterans of the Stepstones, their bodies bore the scars of battle and the weariness of soldiers who had seen too much.
It wasn’t long before a grizzled man with a scar running down his cheek slid into the seat across from him. A veteran of the Stepstones, the man had once fought alongside Laenor under the banner of House Velaryon.
“Never thought I’d see the day you’d come skulking into a place like this,” the man muttered, his voice low but teasing.
“Desperate times, old friend,” Laenor replied with a grin. “The war isn’t over—it’s just shifted to a different kind of battlefield. I need men I can trust, men who know the value of loyalty.”
The man leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest. “You’ve got my ear. What’s the plan?”
“I’m glad you came,” Laenor said, his voice quiet but commanding. “The Red Keep needs men like you—men who know what it means to fight and survive. Your loyalty will not be forgotten.”
Laenor outlined his vision: placing veterans from the Stepstones in key positions within the Red Keep, from the kitchens to the stables, to the castle guards. These men would act as a silent network, loyal to the Velaryon cause and ready to support Rhaenyra when the time came.
“King’s Landing is full of eyes and ears,” Laenor said, his voice low and urgent. “We need to make sure more of those eyes are on our side. Quietly, of course.”
The man nodded slowly, a flicker of admiration in his gaze. “You’ve changed, Laenor. I remember when you were just a lad looking for glory on the battlefield.”
Laenor’s expression turned somber. “Glory doesn’t mean much when your family’s lives are at stake. This isn’t about me—it’s about them.”
“One of the veterans, a grizzled man named Corwyn, nodded. “We’ll do our part, Prince Laenor. This city could use some honest strength for a change.”
Laenor smiled faintly, his mind already calculating the next steps. These men would soon be integrated into the Red Keep under various guises—guards, servants, even smiths. They would serve as silent allies, watching and waiting for the moment when they might be called upon.
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The streets of King’s Landing were alive with the buzz of excitement as the festival reached its peak. The narrow streets, usually filled with grime and despair, now pulsed with color and cheer. Streamers hung between crooked buildings, stalls lined the alleys, and the smells of roasted meats and spiced wine filled the air.
Common folk laughed and danced, their usual burdens momentarily forgotten. Flea Bottom, usually a place of squalor and struggle, had been transformed for the day—its residents reveling in the games, food, and prizes that Rhaenyra’s sons had organized.
Jacaerys stood at the heart of it all, his presence a steady anchor amidst the chaos. His younger brother, Lucerys, darted among the crowd, distributing small coins to children, his smile infectious. Nearby, Maris and Renly Baratheon, worked to organize the distribution of bread, roasted meats, and salted fish. Their efficiency ensured that no one was left hungry. The two wards of Rhaenyra had stayed behind in King’s Landing to help the festival run smoothly.
Jace had insisted on being there, in the center of the crowd. This was his way of proving to the people of King's Landing that he stood with them, that he would work to ease their struggles. His eyes scanned the crowds, searching for familiar faces among the sea of commoners. Though their rough clothing was a stark contrast to the finery of his own, he could see what they had in common. The need to keep their families safe and healthy.
“This is what the realm should be,” Jace murmured to Maris as she approached him with a tally of supplies. “People thriving, united, not divided by greed or ambition.”
“Then let’s hope they remember who made this possible,” Maris replied, her voice steady but laced with caution. “Not everyone will see it that way.”
She was right, not everyone was celebrating.
From the corner of the street, the unmistakable, unsteady figure of Aegon Targaryen stumbled out of a brothel. His face was flushed, his tunic half-laced and hanging loose around his waist. The heavy smell of wine and sweat rolled off him. Aegon’s guards trailed behind him, their expressions tight with irritation, though their duty kept them close.The prince had been indulging himself for hours, and his mood had turned sour.
“What’s all this?” Aegon slurred as he stumbled into the festival’s bustling center. He scanned the crowd, his eyes narrowing as he caught sight of Jacaerys handing out prizes to a group of children. “What does he think he’s doing?”
The guards exchanged wary glances but said nothing as Aegon pushed his way toward Jace. The revelers parted reluctantly, their earlier smiles fading at the sight of the drunken prince.
“Jacaerys!” Aegon bellowed, his voice cutting through the festive noise. “What are you playing at, pretending to be one of them?” He gestured vaguely at the crowd, his disdain evident.
“Pathetic,” Jace muttered under his breath as he noticed Aegon’s approach. The prince had made no secret of his indulgences, especially in the brothels of the city.
Aegon’s sneer twisted into something darker. He staggered toward Jace, his words slurred but biting. “What’s this? A gathering for the people’s little prince?” His voice dripped with mockery. “You think these commoners care for your charity? What do they know of royalty, hmm? What do they know of power?”
Jace stood tall, refusing to be baited. “They know more than you think. These people keep this city running. They have given us power by allowing us to lead them. Without them, there is no throne to fight for. The crown is theirs as much as it is ours. ”
Aegon laughed, a harsh, ugly sound. “You’re as much of a fool as your mother. You think these lowborn wretches care about your lofty ideals?” He took another step forward, his words becoming more venomous with each passing second. “I am a prince.I take what I want, when I want. That’s what being royal means.”
“These people are not dogs, Aegon. They’re the lifeblood of the realm. Without them, there is no kingdom, no crown.”Jace’s jaw tightened, his voice dropping low. “Being royal means responsibility. It means earning the loyalty of the people, not exploiting them. Being a prince means more than taking, Aegon. It means leading, protecting, providing, earning respect—not bullying those weaker than you.”
“Respect?” Aegon spat, taking another drunken step. “I have more power in my little finger than you’ll ever have in your whole body.” He reached out, shoving Jace roughly in the chest. “I am the first trueborn son of the king. You’re nothing but a pretender to the throne, who should be tossed out among them.”
Jace’s temper flared, but he held it in check. “I am the blood of the dragon and old Valyria far more than you. I am proud to be among my people. The people I hope to lead one day into an even better future. The same cannot be said for you, heir to nothing. If being the son of the king was so important, why do you wear the green of your mother’s house? Are you even a Targaryen prince? It seems that you are more Hightower than anything else.”
The words ignited something darker in Aegon. Without warning, he lunged at Jace, pushing him again, harder this time. “You think you’re better than me? Huh?” Aegon’s voice was barely recognizable now, a mess of anger and drunkenness.
“Enough!” Jace shouted, his own voice trembling with rage. “This is not how a prince behaves!”Jace stumbled but didn’t retaliate, his voice cutting through the growing chaos. “If the people had to choose, Aegon, who do you think they’d follow? Someone who cares about them, or someone who only cares about himself?”
“You think you’re better than me, don’t you?” Aegon snarled, shoving Jace backward. “With your pretty words and your stupid festivals. You’ll never be king. Never!”
Aegon lunged, his fist connecting with Jace’s jaw. The impact sent the younger prince reeling, and the crowd erupted in gasps and shouts.
The scuffle escalated quickly. Supporters of Rhaenyra and Aegon, already wary of each other, began to shove and shout, their tensions boiling over into a full-blown brawl.
Jace tried to regain his footing, his hand wiping blood from his lip. Amid the melee, one of Aegon’s guards drew his dagger, his eyes locking on Jace. He surged forward, his blade aimed with deadly precision. Pain erupted through his body as metal met flesh, and he gasped, dropping to his knees. Pain shot through his body, and he clutched at the wound, his vision swimming.
“Jace!” Lucerys screamed, but it was too late.
The crowd roared in chaos, some pushing forward, pulling back, unsure of which side they were on. Lucerys broke through the throng, his voice a panicked cry as he knelt beside his brother. “Jace! Jace!”
Jace’s head swam, his vision clouding with blood and pain. He could feel the warmth of it spilling down his chest, seeping into the cobblestones beneath him. His ears rang with the noise of the brawl erupting around him—the sound of fists and boots, the clatter of metal, the shouts of the crowd, but it all seemed so far away.
“Stay with me,” Luke whispered frantically, his hand gripping Jace’s arm, trying desperately to keep him awake. “Jace, please.”
But Jace’s body was slipping, his strength draining fast. His head lolled back, and the world around him fading into darkness.
Lucerys fought his way through the crowd, reaching his brother just as Jace collapsed. “Help!” Luke cried, his voice breaking. “Someone, help him!”
The last thing Jace saw before darkness overtook him was Lucerys’s panicked face and the blurred colors of the festival that had become a battleground. The dream of unity shattered in an instant, leaving only chaos in its wake.
And then, nothing.