Shadows Fall
Chapter 23: Shadows Fall
The chambers of King Viserys were dimly lit, the air thick with the scent of incense and healing balms. The once vibrant ruler of the Seven Kingdoms lay reclined on a mountain of pillows, his skin sallow, and his breath shallow. His once-clear gaze was now clouded with age and sickness, though determination flickered faintly within his weary eyes.
When Alicent entered, her expression was carefully composed, though her reddened eyes betrayed restless nights and a well of unspoken emotions.
“You summoned me, my king?” Alicent’s voice was soft, but there was an edge of unease to it.
“Yes,” Viserys rasped, his voice rough as if each word cost him a piece of himself. “I wanted to share joyous news. Rhaenyra has delivered a girl and Laena has delivered a boy on the same day. Both are healthy and strong.”
Alicent’s hands froze mid-motion. “A daughter? She has gained a daughter?” she echoed, her voice caught between forced politeness and a flash of resentment. “How wonderful for her.”
Viserys’s gaze flicked toward her, sharper than she’d anticipated in his weakened state. “It is wonderful for our family. A sign of House Targaryen’s strength and endurance.”
Alicent straightened, her fingers curling tightly around her skirts. “And what of our children, my king? What of Aegon, Helaena, Aemond, and Daeron? Were they not also proof of this house’s strength?”
Viserys sighed, a heavy, sorrowful sound. “Alicent,” he began, his voice trembling. “Your children are dear to me, but their loyalties… their hearts belong to Hightower, not Targaryen. You have made them this way.”
Alicent flinched as if struck. “I raised them to honor their bloodline!”
“No,” Viserys interrupted, his voice momentarily firm. “You raised them to honor your bloodline.” He struggled to push himself upright, his frail hands trembling as he gripped the edge of the blanket. “Your loyalty has always been to Oldtown, Alicent, to your father. It was never to this house or its legacy.”
Tears pooled in Alicent’s eyes, though her expression hardened. “How dare you accuse me of such treachery! Everything I have done—everything I have sacrificed—was for you, for this family!”
Viserys’s face softened with regret, but his resolve held. “You married into House Targaryen, yet you never tried to understand it. You never embraced it. Rhaenyra is flawed, yes, but her loyalty lies where it should—with her house, with her legacy. That is why she must remain my heir. Her children… they are the future.”
The words struck Alicent like a blow to the chest. Her lips parted, but no words came, only the sound of her breath catching. She shook her head as tears spilled over her cheeks. “You would cast aside your own children for her?”
“For peace, Alicent,” Viserys whispered, his energy waning. “For the realm.”
Alicent stepped closer to the bed, her voice trembling with anger and anguish. “You would leave Aegon to be scorned? To be seen as unworthy?”
“Aegon…” Viserys closed his eyes briefly. “Aegon is unfit to rule, Alicent. You know this as well as I do.”
The silence stretched between them, heavy and suffocating. When Viserys finally opened his eyes, his voice was but a whisper. “My final wish is peace, Alicent. Let Rhaenyra’s line lead. It is the only way.”
Before Alicent could respond, a deep, rattling breath escaped him, and his head slumped to the side. Panic surged through her, and she rushed forward, shaking his shoulder. “Viserys! Viserys!”
But the king did not stir. He had fallen unconscious, his frail body succumbing to the weight of the conversation and his illness. Alicent stood frozen, her mind racing.
Her gaze fell to the desk beside him, where a parchment lay—a royal decree, unfinished and unsent. Her eyes narrowed as fury coiled in her chest like a serpent.
She had lost the battle for his heart, but the war for her children’s future was far from over. Wiping her tears, Alicent straightened her shoulders and smoothed her skirts.
“Rest well, my king,” she whispered coldly, her voice a mixture of sorrow and steely resolve. “I will do what must be done.”
She turned and left the room, her mind already calculating her next move.
************
The air in the Queen’s solar was thick with tension, the kind that seeped into every corner and clung to the occupants like an unwelcome specter. Alicent sat rigid in her chair, her hands folded tightly in her lap, while Otto paced the length of the room, his boots tapping against the stone floor. Sir Criston Cole stood before them, his face stoic but his presence heavy with bad news.
“They will not support us,” Criston said, his voice steady but firm. “Dorne has made its position clear. They have no interest in involving themselves in our… plans.”
Alicent’s knuckles turned white against the green silk of her skirts. “No interest? Did they give a reason?”
Criston hesitated for a moment. “The Princess of Dorne cited Aegon’s reputation as a concern. Their spies have reported… unsavory behavior. They do not see him as fit to rule.”
Alicent’s lips parted, her expression a mixture of shock and anger. “They dare to judge my son?”
Otto stopped his pacing, his hands clasping behind his back as he fixed Criston with a calculating look. “Dorne has always been difficult to sway. Their rejection is unfortunate, but not insurmountable.”
“Not insurmountable?” Alicent snapped, her composure slipping. “Every rejection weakens our position, Father. How are we to convince the realm of Aegon’s worthiness if even Dorne will not entertain the idea?”
Otto’s gaze darkened. “We adjust our strategy.” He turned to Criston. “Leave us.”
With a nod, Criston exited the room, his armor clinking softly. The door closed behind him, leaving father and daughter in heavy silence.
Alicent rose from her chair, her hands trembling as she moved to the window. Below, the Red Keep buzzed with life, oblivious to the storm brewing within its walls. “We cannot afford another failure, Father.”
Otto joined her, his voice low and measured. “Then we must reshape Aegon’s image. Publicly.”
Alicent turned to him, her brows furrowing. “How? His behavior is not easily disguised. He is careless, impulsive—”
“Then we show the people a different side of him,” Otto interrupted. “A devout side. The High Septon’s influence is powerful. If Aegon were to attend services with you at the Sept, it would send a clear message to the realm.”
Alicent considered this, her mind racing. “And what if he missteps? What if his actions betray him again?”
Otto’s gaze hardened. “Then we control the narrative, as we always have.”
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Days later the air in the Queen’s solar was thick with anticipation. Alicent sat at the mirror, adjusting her veil for the upcoming service at the Great Sept, while Otto stood near the window, his expression calculating. Aegon slouched in a chair nearby, rolling a goblet of wine between his hands, clearly disinterested in the entire affair.
“You will sit upright during the sermon,” Alicent said sharply, glancing at her son in the mirror’s reflection.
Aegon huffed, raising the goblet in mock toast. “Of course, Mother. I’ll be the image of devotion.”
“You should consider this an opportunity, Aegon,” Otto interjected. “The people need to see you as more than… well, they need to see your piety.”
Aegon smirked, a lazy grin spreading across his face. “And what does ‘piety’ taste like? It’s not wine, is it?”
Alicent closed her eyes, willing herself to patience. “Enough. Today is important, Aegon. You will not ruin this.”
The Great Sept gleamed in the midday sun, its grandeur an imposing testament to faith. The congregation murmured with anticipation as Alicent led Aegon to their seats near the front, her hand gripping his arm tightly.
The High Septon began with a solemn sermon, speaking of virtue and the sanctity of leadership. Alicent nodded along, her face composed and serene, while Aegon slumped beside her, barely masking his boredom.
Unbeknownst to either of them, one of Laenor Velaryon’s spies moved discreetly through the pews, slipping a small vial into the cup that Aegon’s attendant carried. The draught of Veritaserum swirled invisibly into the wine, unnoticed in the ceremony’s solemnity.
When the High Septon announced a public display of devotion—confessions meant to strengthen the soul and demonstrate humility—Aegon’s name was called.
Alicent’s grip on his arm tightened. “Remember who you are,” she whispered fiercely.
Aegon rose reluctantly, his swagger intact as he moved to stand before the congregation. He took the ceremonial cup handed to him, oblivious to the potion hidden within.
“What sins do you confess, my prince?” the High Septon asked, his voice resonating through the Sept.
Aegon hesitated, glancing at Alicent for a moment before turning back to the High Septon. “Well, I might’ve visited the Street of Silk once or twice,” he said, his tone light, clearly intending to charm the audience.
But as the potion began to take hold, his expression shifted. A strange clarity overtook his features, and his next words tumbled out unbidden. “No, more than that. I’ve been there dozens of times.”
The crowd stirred, whispers rippling through the sacred space. Alicent’s hands clenched into fists in her lap.
“And not just that,” Aegon continued, his voice gaining an eerie openness. “I’ve fathered children I’ve never seen. Drank until I couldn’t stand. Hurt people… hurt women.”
Gasps filled the Sept. Alicent’s face drained of color. Otto stiffened in his seat, his eyes narrowing in suspicion as the confessions grew darker.
“I… I bribed a guard to cover for me when someone…” Aegon faltered, his voice breaking. “When someone died.”
The High Septon raised a trembling hand. “Enough,” he said, his voice firm but shaken. “These acts… they demand justice, not merely atonement.”
Alicent shot to her feet, her voice ringing with desperation. “My son is confessing out of faith and repentance! This is a moment of cleansing, not condemnation.”
The High Septon’s expression hardened. “Repentance alone cannot erase such transgressions. Justice is the will of the gods.”
Aegon stumbled back to Alicent, the potion’s effects fading but leaving him disoriented. She gripped his arm tightly, her nails digging into his skin as she steered him out of the Sept, Otto following closely behind.
**********************************
Back in the Red Keep, Alicent slammed the door of her chambers shut, her composure shattering.
She turned to Aegon, her voice cold. “Do you understand what you’ve done? You’ve given them ammunition, Aegon. Every word you spoke today will spread like wildfire.”
Aegon leaned against a table, his head in his hands. “I didn’t mean to say any of that,” he muttered. The prince looked up, his face pale. “What do we do?”
“We fight back,” Otto said, his tone resolute. “We will frame this as a fabrication. A plot by Rhaenyra’s camp to discredit the crown prince. But this…” He sighed heavily. “This will not be easy to cover.”
Alicent sank into a chair, her face buried in her hands. The cracks in their carefully constructed facade were deepening, and for the first time, she feared they might not be able to repair them.
**********************************
The air in the Great Hall of Dragonstone was heavy with tension as a raven’s message rested on the table before Rhaenyra. Her fingers tapped against the wood, her sharp eyes scanning the contents of the letter. She exhaled slowly, setting the parchment down with deliberate calm, though her mind raced.
Daemon, seated across from her, leaned back in his chair, the firelight casting flickering shadows over his face. His smirk was faint but present, his fingers drumming idly on the hilt of Dark Sister.
“He’s making his move,” Rhaenyra said finally, her voice measured.
Daemon tilted his head, his amusement barely masking the storm brewing beneath. “Otto always makes his move. The man plays at chess while we prepare for war.”
Laenor entered the room, his stride purposeful. His armor gleamed faintly, though it bore scratches and dents—proof of its utility rather than vanity. He inclined his head toward his wife before speaking.
“The palace guards are ours,” he reported. “Every last one replaced with men I fought alongside in the Stepstones. Veterans, loyal to us and ready to act.”
Rhaenyra nodded, a flicker of relief crossing her face. “Good. If Otto tries to seize the Red Keep outright, he’ll find his claws dulled.”
Daemon grinned, wicked and sharp. “And the Gold Cloaks? Ready for a little excitement?”
“We’ve supplied them with Luke’s concoctions. Something called an invigorating draught and Pepper-Up. They’ll be ready when the time is right.” Laenor responded.
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Meanwhile, in the winding alleys of King’s Landing, Harwin Strong moved like a shadow. His cloak blended with the night, and his steps were silent as he approached the nondescript building that housed Mysaria’s network of spies.
He paused at the door, his hand on the pommel of his sword, before signaling to the two men behind him. They moved swiftly, slipping inside without a sound.
Mysaria sat at a desk, her sharp eyes flicking toward the door as Harwin entered. She leaned back, her expression unreadable.
“So,” she drawled, her accent thick. “The Lady in White has caught your eye at last?”
Harwin’s expression was stony. “You’ve been watching too closely, Mysaria. Time for your eyes to close.”
Her smile was thin, her hand moving slightly toward her belt. But Harwin was faster. In a flash, his sword was at her throat.
“Don’t,” he warned. “This isn’t personal. It’s just… necessary.”
Mysaria studied him for a moment, then let out a dry laugh. “You think removing me will blind Otto? You underestimate the man.”
“Perhaps,” Harwin said, his voice steady. “But removing you is a start.”
With that, the men behind him moved in, binding Mysaria and gagging her. Harwin watched impassively as they carried her out into the night. The Lady in White would speak no more secrets—for now.