Serpent and Blood

Chapter 22: Sparks

The sun blazed hot and unyielding over Sunspear, its golden rays bouncing off the pale sandstone of the Martell palace. Criston Cole adjusted the collar of his travel-worn tunic, the weight of his armor a stifling burden in the southern heat. He had spent days preparing for this meeting, rehearsing the arguments and offers that Otto Hightower had pressed upon him. Yet now, standing before the sharp-eyed Princess Lucretia Martell, he felt as though every practiced word was slipping through his fingers like sand.

Lucretia sat in a high-backed chair adorned with intricate carvings of suns and spears, her amber eyes fixed on Criston with a mixture of curiosity and veiled amusement. Her dark hair was pulled back into an elegant braid, but it did nothing to soften the sharpness of her gaze. Beside her sat her younger brother, a prince of calm demeanor, though the faint smirk playing on his lips made it clear he found Criston’s presence mildly entertaining.

“You’ve come a long way, Ser Criston,” Lucretia began, her voice smooth as honey but carrying an unmistakable edge. “And all to offer us what, exactly?”

Criston straightened, forcing his voice to remain steady. “An alliance, Princess. A marriage between Prince Aegon and one of your daughters—or nieces, should that be preferable. Such a union would strengthen ties between the crown and Dorne, ensuring mutual protection and prosperity.”

Lucretia tilted her head, her expression unchanging. “Interesting. And what makes you think Dorne has any need for protection? We’ve weathered far worse storms than the ambitions of House Hightower.”

Her brother chuckled softly, and Criston felt a flush creep up his neck. “The Seven Kingdoms are on the brink of chaos,” he pressed. “Surely you can see the benefit of siding with the queen and her son.”

Lucretia leaned forward slightly, her eyes narrowing. “What I see, Ser Criston, is a desperate man peddling a desperate cause. Tell me—how fares your prince, this Aegon? Our spies bring us troubling tales.”

Criston’s jaw tightened. “Aegon is a strong and capable heir.”

The smirk on Lucretia’s lips widened. “Strong enough to drink his way through every tavern in King’s Landing? Capable enough to leave bastards scattered across the realm?”

Her brother laughed outright at that, and Criston’s fists clenched at his sides. “Prince Aegon is young,” he replied through gritted teeth. “But he has potential. With guidance—”

“Guidance?” Lucretia interrupted, her tone incredulous. “You mean the guidance of a mother who clings to power through manipulation and fear? Or that of a grandfather who sees the realm as his personal chessboard?”

Criston took a deep breath, struggling to maintain his composure. “The realm needs stability,” he said firmly. “Queen Alicent and her family can provide that.”

Lucretia regarded him for a long moment, then leaned back in her chair. “And you, Ser Criston? What is it that brought you to their cause? You were sworn to Princess Rhaenyra once, were you not? Elevated to the Kingsguard by her own hand?”

Criston’s mouth went dry. “My allegiance changed when I saw the path she intended for the realm,” he said stiffly.

Lucretia raised an eyebrow. “Did it? Or was it your pride that changed, Ser Criston? Tell me—how deep was the wound she dealt you when she refused your advances?”

The words hit him like a blow, and for a moment, Criston couldn’t speak. Lucretia’s eyes bore into his, unyielding and unrelenting.

“Ah,” she said softly, her tone laced with disdain. “So it was your pride. A bruised ego, leading you to betray the very woman who trusted you most. And now you stand here, expecting us to join you in this pitiful quest for revenge masquerading as righteousness.”

“I am loyal to the crown,” Criston spat, his voice shaking with barely contained anger.

“The crown,” Lucretia echoed, her voice dripping with sarcasm. “How convenient that loyalty shifts so easily when it suits you.”

Silence fell over the room, heavy and suffocating. Criston felt the weight of her words like a brand, scorching away his carefully constructed façade.

Lucretia rose gracefully from her chair, her expression cool and composed. “Dorne will not involve itself in your petty squabbles, Ser Criston. We have no interest in tying ourselves to the Hightowers—or to their wayward prince.”

Criston opened his mouth to protest, but she raised a hand to silence him. “This conversation is over. You may leave Sunspear at your earliest convenience.”

With that, she turned and walked away, her brother following close behind. Criston stood there, his fists clenched and his heart pounding, as the door to the chamber closed behind them.

He had come to Dorne seeking allies and left with nothing but the sting of humiliation—and the bitter realization that his past was a shadow he could never outrun.

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The nursery was warm with the glow of the afternoon sun, its golden rays spilling through the high windows and bathing the room in light. Lucerys pushed the door open with measured care, careful not to disturb the serene quiet inside. His breath caught when his eyes fell on the bassinet where his newest sibling rested with their cousin in the one beside it. The gentle cooing of the babies filled the air like music.

He stepped closer, his boots muffled by the thick carpets. Aemma was stirring lightly, her tiny fist brushing her cheek, while Baelon lay utterly still, his chest rising and falling with the steady rhythm of sleep. Luke’s lips curved into an involuntary smile as he crouched beside the bassinet.

“Hello sweet sister,” he whispered, his voice soft as a breeze. He extended a cautious finger, brushing it against Aemma’s hand. She grasped it immediately, her mismatched eyes—one the vibrant violet of their mother, the other a deep blue like their father—fluttering open. Luke’s heart swelled.

“You’re strong already, aren’t you?” he murmured, awed by the tiny life gripping his hand. “Aemma the Fierce. And you, Baelon,” he continued, glancing at his cousin. “Already so peaceful. You’ll balance her out.”

He lingered by the bassinet, marveling at their fragility and swearing silently to himself that no harm would ever touch them—not while he had breath in his lungs.

The sound of the door opening made him glance up. Standing in the doorway was Helaena Targaryen, her soft features calm and her hands clasped in front of her. Lucerys tensed momentarily but nodded in acknowledgment.

“Helaena,” he said, his tone polite but guarded.

Helaena stepped inside, her gaze drifting to the cradles before settling on Lucerys. “They’re beautiful,” she said softly, her voice as light as a breeze.

Lucerys watched her carefully, his mind drifting into the memory of how she had come to be here.

It had been days wrapped in tension and secrecy, the air heavy with the weight of what they were about to do.

Harwin had donned the coarse garments of a servant, his usual commanding presence carefully subdued. After taking the potion his features shifted once more. With his head bowed and shoulders hunched, he slipped through the halls of the Red Keep unnoticed, his steps deliberate but unhurried. The bundle in his arms looked innocuous—a wrapped package of crimson and gold ribbons and silk meant to capture a princess’s attention.

When Harwin reached Helaena’s chambers, he knocked lightly, the sound barely audible against the thick oak door. A young maid opened it, her expression polite but curious. “For the princess,” Harwin murmured, keeping his eyes downcast, his voice pitched low.

The maid accepted the bundle with a nod and disappeared inside. Harwin lingered just long enough to ensure the exchange was complete before vanishing into the shadows, his mission accomplished.

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When the king called for her, Rhaenyra’s healer—an older woman with steady hands and a sharp mind—was already waiting. She moved with practiced precision, her every action purposeful. Helaena lay on the bed moaning in pain even with the milk of the poppy given to her by the maesters. The healer poured the potion she had been given on the cloth and wrapped it around the wound. “A numbing poultice to reduce the pain.” She explained when inquiring looks were received from the apprentices.
Hours later in the wee hours of the morning Helaena blinked slowly, as if emerging from a fog. Queen Alicent had returned to her own rooms for some time. The healer nodded to an apprentice who poured a potion into a cup. Helaena in her thirst accepted the cup without question. She had grown used to the quiet ministrations of healers, accustomed to being handled like something fragile.
The Draught of the Living Death slid down her throat without resistance, its taste faint and unremarkable. Within moments, her eyelids fluttered, and she slumped forward, caught deftly by the healer before she could fall.
Days later the rest of the plan was executed in a flurry of calculated movements. Another servant entered, carrying the Polyjuice potion and a small vial of Helaena’s hair, carefully gathered over days of preparation. The potion worked quickly, transforming the servant into an exact replica of the princess. The duplicate was dressed in Helaena’s sleeping gown, arranged carefully on the bed, and left in the same lifeless posture as the real princess.
By the time Alicent returned to her daughter’s chambers, the illusion was flawless. The queen wept over the body she believed to be her daughter, her cries muffled by her handmaidens as the Silent Sisters were summoned to carry away the “corpse.”

Lucerys had remained on Dragonstone during the operation, his mind racing with the knowledge of what was happening. He could have ordered her death. It would have been cleaner, more final—a clear message to the Greens that they would not hesitate to act decisively. But when he thought of Helaena, with her dreamy smile and quiet curiosity, he couldn’t bring himself to do it.

She reminded him too much of Luna Lovegood.

The comparison came unbidden, a fragment of Draco’s memories surfacing in his mind. Luna, with her unflinching kindness and peculiar charm, had been an enigma to Draco. She was the type of person who looked at the world differently, who found beauty and meaning in the things others overlooked. Helaena shared that same ethereal quality, that same ability to exist on a wavelength all her own.

Lucerys had convinced himself that sparing her was strategic—that her survival would undermine the Greens’ stability and create a rift in their faction. But deep down, he knew the truth. He didn’t want her blood on his hands. She was too innocent, too pure a soul to be extinguished for the sins of her family.

And now, as he stood in the nursery with Helaena just feet away, alive and free, he felt a quiet sense of vindication. She had been given a chance at something more—a life untethered from the machinations of Alicent and Otto. Whether she chose to take it was up to her, but Lucerys had given her the choice.

For now, that was enough.

“Why are you smiling?” Helaena’s voice brought him back to the present.

Lucerys shrugged, his lips quirking into a faint grin. “Just thinking about how lucky you are.”

“Lucky?” she echoed, tilting her head in confusion.

“Yes,” he replied, his voice hardening slightly. “Lucky that you’re here, safe. But make no mistake, Helaena—if you ever try to act against my family, your luck will run out.”

Helaena’s lips curved upward in a small, knowing smile. But Luke’s expression darkened slightly as he stepped closer, his voice dropping to a cold whisper. “ Understand this, Helaena—your Hightower kin will not be granted the same kindness. If they step one foot out of line, I will see to it personally that they regret it.”

Helaena’s smile didn’t falter. “They won’t listen to me,” she said softly.

Before Lucerys could respond, Rhaenyra entered the room, her presence commanding yet warm. Her gaze swept over Helaena and Lucerys before resting on the babies. She smiled softly.

“Helaena,” Rhaenyra said, her tone gentle, “did your mother ever tell you how I used to dream of flying off on Syrax to see the wonders of the world while eating nothing but cake. No duties or responsibilities to weigh me down?”

Helaena shook her head.

Rhaenyra’s smile grew wistful. “It was all I wanted. But it was taken from me when I was named heir. A great honor, yes, but also a heavy chain. I had no choice but to bear the weight of the realm on my shoulders.”

She turned to Helaena, her expression softening. “But you—you can have what I couldn’t. A choice. True freedom. To live freely, as you wish. No princess before you has truly had that. You’re not bound to their ambitions anymore.”

Helaena’s gaze flickered to the babies, then back to Rhaenyra. “Freedom,” she echoed, her voice distant but thoughtful.

Rhaenyra nodded. “Stay here, with us. You’ll see what it means.”

Helaena looked at her, something like hope flickering in her eyes. “Thank you,” she said quietly.

Lucerys watched the exchange in silence, a newfound respect for his mother stirring within him. She was offering Helaena what he had struggled to provide—freedom, without condition or threat.

The room fell quiet, save for the soft coos of the babies and the distant crash of waves against Dragonstone’s cliffs. Helaena looked between Rhaenyra and Lucerys, a glimmer of something undefinable in her eyes. For the first time in her life, she could see the threads of her own destiny—and, for once, they were hers to weave.