The Risks
Chapter 24 : The Risks
By the order of His Grace, King Viserys Targaryen, first of his name, ruler of the Seven Kingdoms, it is hereby decreed that Aegon Targaryen, his firstborn son, shall succeed him as heir to the Iron Throne. This decision honors the ancient tradition of male succession and ensures the continued stability of the realm.
The wax seal of the crown glistened beneath the bold signature—Viserys Targaryen.
********************
Within Winterfell, the air was thick with quiet tension. The great hall, carved from gray stone and lit by the flickering flames of the hearth, felt colder than usual. Rickon Stark sat at the head of the long wooden table, the scroll containing the royal proclamation resting in front of him. His son, Cregan, stood nearby, arms crossed, brow furrowed in thought.
“So, the king names a new heir,” Rickon said, his voice steady but skeptical. “After all these years of standing by his daughter, he suddenly chooses the green boy?”
Cregan shook his head. “It doesn’t make sense. From what we saw in King’s Landing, Viserys didn’t strike me as a man to cast his daughter aside so easily. He barely had the strength to keep his court in order, let alone undo his entire legacy.”
“Aye,” Rickon agreed, tapping his fingers against the armrest. “I would consider Princess Rhaenyra an ally for what she has done for the North alone. Daemon Targaryen won’t sit idle for this and neither will the rest of us who stand with her.”
Before Cregan could respond, the doors to the hall burst open. A young servant stumbled in, breathless and wide-eyed.
“M-my lords,” he stammered. “Prince Aemond—he’s gone.”
Rickon’s gaze sharpened. “Gone? What do you mean, gone?”
The servant swallowed hard. “No one has seen him since yesterday morning. We assumed he was still in his chambers—recovering, as he’s been ill for days—a minor sickness. When the maester checked this morning, the room was empty. Some of his belongings are gone as well.”
Rickon stood slowly, his presence commanding the room. “Seven hells,” he muttered under his breath. “The king’s son disappears while under my roof—convenient timing with this proclamation making its rounds.”
Cregan stepped forward. “Do you think he left on his own?”
“Likely,” Rickon replied. “Aemond isn’t a boy who’d be taken easily, not after nearly a year in our care. But the timing is troublesome. If harm comes to him, the court might look North for blame.”
Cregan nodded grimly. “They’ll say we let him die. Or worse, killed him.”
Rickon turned toward the window, gazing out at the endless expanse of snow-covered fields. “Send riders. Discreetly. I want every path south watched. But no search parties. If he’s headed somewhere with purpose, I’m not keen to drag him back only to inherit his troubles.”
“And if King’s Landing comes calling?” Cregan asked.
Rickon’s mouth set into a thin line. “Then we’ll remind them that the North remembers—but we don’t answer for the foolishness of dragonless princes.”
Cregan allowed a faint smirk at that but quickly sobered. “Do you think his leaving has anything to do with the proclamation?”
Rickon gave no answer for a moment. Finally, he said, “Perhaps. But whether Aemond Targaryen’s disappearance plays into the schemes in King’s Landing or not, it’s of no consequence to us—unless they make it so.”
Cregan gave a curt nod. “The North stands ready.”
*********************
The freezing winds bit at Aemond’s face as he stood on the deck of the ship, gripping the railing so tightly his knuckles turned white. The waters churned beneath them as the vessel made its way southward from Sea Guard toward Lannisport. His fury had carried him this far—burning, unrelenting fury that had flared hotter with every passing day at Winterfell.
No one had suspected his plan as he secretly prepared for his departure. The Starks would not agree with his choices, but Aemond didn’t care. He didn’t need their approval. Vengeance was his alone to claim, and if no one else would act, then he would.
The air was heavy with salt and tension. Sailors bustled about, adjusting ropes and securing cargo, their faces shadowed by the dim light of the setting sun. Aemond had been avoiding them, keeping to himself, brooding beneath his hood. He had learned early that the men of the sea held little love for nobility, even one they now deemed a “guest.”
It was his growing disdain for their smug glances and whispered jests that blinded him to the real danger.
A shout rang out from the crow’s nest, cutting through the low murmur of the sea. “Ships to the starboard side! Black sails!”
Aemond’s head snapped up, his heart sinking. Black sails. The Ironborn.
Chaos erupted across the deck as sailors scrambled to prepare for an attack. Weapons were hauled from storage, and the captain barked orders, his voice hoarse with urgency.
“Arm yourselves! Hold the line!”
Aemond’s pulse pounded in his ears. The Ironborn were not mere pirates—they were reavers, merciless in their plunder. He had heard tales of their savagery, of entire crews thrown to the sea or taken as thralls.
He drew his sword, its familiar weight in his hand providing little comfort. What had begun as a quest for vengeance now felt like a death march.
The Ironborn ship loomed closer, its massive hull slicing through the waves like a predator. Grappling hooks flew through the air, catching on the railings of the ship, and the enemy swarmed aboard with brutal efficiency.
The skirmish was immediate and vicious. The sailors, though skilled, were outnumbered. Steel clashed against steel as cries of pain and rage filled the air. Aemond fought fiercely, his blade cutting through the chaos, but his inexperience on the sea betrayed him.
A burly Ironborn warrior charged at him, wielding a wicked axe. Aemond parried the first blow, but the force sent him stumbling backward. The man’s lip curled into a sneer.
“So, this is the burned dragon?” the Ironborn jeered, his voice dripping with mockery. “Doesn’t look so fierce to me.”
Aemond growled, lunging forward, but the man sidestepped with ease, slamming the butt of his axe into Aemond’s face. The world blurred, and pain erupted across Aemond’s left eye as he crumpled to the deck.
Blood poured from the wound, hot and sticky, as his vision faded into darkness. He clawed at the wood beneath him, gasping in agony.
“Leave him!” another Ironborn shouted. “He’s worth more alive. A hostage, not a corpse.”
Hands yanked Aemond to his feet, dragging him toward their ship. He struggled weakly, his strength sapped by blood loss and pain.
As they hoisted him aboard, one of the Ironborn leaned close, his breath reeking of salt and ale. “Welcome to your new life, thrall. Let’s see how much a dragon’s worth in chains.”
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The corridors of the Red Keep felt unnaturally quiet as Lucerys Velaryon crept through Maegor’s tunnels, his breath shallow, each step a careful whisper. The narrow passage was lit by the faint glow of a lantern he carried, its light dancing across the cold stone walls. Every sound—a distant clink of armor, the faint hum of conversation—sent his heart pounding. He was dangerously close to being discovered, yet the risk was nothing compared to the desperation that had driven him back to King’s Landing.
Weeks had passed since his grandfather, King Viserys, had contacted him through the enchanted mirror. The last time they had spoken, Viserys’s voice had been thin and frail, but his resolve was firm. Now, silence. After his family received news from their allies regarding a proclamation of a new heir, Lucerys knew something was terribly wrong.
He reached the concealed exit that led to the king’s private chambers. Carefully shifting the hidden latch, he stepped into the dimly lit room. The once-proud visage of Viserys Targaryen now lay shrouded in sickness. The king’s face was pale and drawn, his breathing labored. The scent of herbs and stale air hung heavy, and the flickering candles around the room cast shadows that seemed to dance mockingly over the bed.
“Grandfather,” Lucerys whispered, his voice breaking.
Viserys’s eyelids fluttered open at the sound, his milky gaze searching for the source. When he saw Lucerys, a faint, almost imperceptible smile curved his lips.
“You shouldn’t be here,” Viserys rasped, his voice barely above a whisper.
“I had to come,” Lucerys replied, kneeling by the bedside. “You would use the mirror every other day, and then one day… nothing. I feared—” He swallowed hard, unable to finish.
Viserys lifted a trembling hand, and Lucerys grasped it gently, his young fingers steadying the older man’s frail grasp. “The silence wasn’t my choice, boy. I’ve been kept from speaking freely. My words are no longer my own within these walls.”
Lucerys felt his stomach knot. “Then tell me now. What’s happening?”
Viserys closed his eyes for a moment, his face a mask of weariness and sorrow. “My family… my children… they war against one another without swords, but the wounds they inflict are deeper than any steel. Aegon .., Alicent… Otto…” He coughed, the sound rattling through his frail body. “They pull this throne in different directions, and it cannot bear the strain.”
Lucerys leaned closer. “You once told me this throne was built with fire and blood, but now it’s drowning in poison. Grandfather, what can be done?”
Viserys’s gaze sharpened momentarily, a spark of his old determination flickering to life. “There is a will,” he murmured. “A document that leaves no doubt about Rhaenyra’s claim. It was my last attempt to heal this family before it shattered completely.”
Lucerys’s heart raced. “Where is it?”
“I entrusted it to two men I trusted above all others,” Viserys said, his voice growing weaker. “Lyonel Strong was one of them. The other… I cannot name. But they will know, should the time come.”
Lucerys gripped his grandfather’s hand tightly, his mind working furiously. Lyonel Strong, the Hand of the King, a man known for his integrity, was the key. If his grandfather had trusted him with the document, it had to exist. And if it could be secured, it could change everything and prevent a war.
“Rest, Grandfather,” Lucerys said softly, his voice steady despite the storm inside him. “I’ll meet with Lyonel. I’ll find the will, I swear it.”
Viserys’s lips twitched, perhaps in an attempt at a smile, before his eyes slipped shut again. His breathing became faint, but steady enough to suggest he was not yet lost to the Stranger.
The sound of muffled voices echoed from beyond the chamber door, growing louder. Panic flared in Lucerys’s chest. If Alicent or one of her loyalists discovered him here, the consequences would be dire.
“Forgive me,” Lucerys whispered, rising quickly. He cast one last look at Viserys before retreating into the concealed tunnel. The narrow stone passage swallowed him in shadows as the door to the king’s chamber creaked open behind him.
As he moved through the hidden passages, Lucerys’s thoughts raced. Harrenhal was far, but Lyonel Strong’s reputation as an honorable man gave him hope. If anyone would preserve Viserys’s will, it would be the Hand.
Still, uncertainty gnawed at him. Who else held a copy? Why had his grandfather kept its existence such a secret? And with the realm teetering on the brink of chaos, would Lyonel’s loyalty remain unshaken?
His mother’s claim—and his family’s future—depended on finding it.
**********************
The air in the the former Hand’s chamber of the Red Keep was cold, despite the warmth of the hearth blazing at its far end. Otto Hightower stood by the map table, his fingers drumming on the carved wood as he regarded the detailed layout of Westeros. His face, though calm, betrayed the tension brewing beneath the surface. Across from him, Queen Alicent sat with her hands clasped tightly in her lap, her green gown shimmering faintly in the firelight.
“This is our last chance,” Otto said, his voice low but resolute. “The king’s health deteriorates by the hour, and if we wait any longer, Rhaenyra will seize full control the moment he draws his last breath.”
“She will burn everything we’ve built,” Alicent murmured, her voice trembling with a mix of fear and anger. “The faith, the court, the people—she will cast it all aside for her own desires.”
“Which is why we must act now,” Otto pressed. “I have people working to delay the return of Lyonel Strong to Kingslanding. We have intercepted the original testament before the king could send it to the lords. Our own decree was sent in its place. If any other copies of the original draft exist it will never see the light of day.”
Alicent hesitated, her fingers knotting in the fabric of her dress.She had seen the testament with her own eyes, the king’s renewed declaration of Rhaenyra as his heir—a document meant to silence all doubts. It was proof of his enduring belief in his daughter, despite her numerous transgressions, and it was a dagger to Alicent’s heart. “Do you think the lords will rally to Aegon?”
Otto allowed himself a faint smile. “We have the faith, Alicent. The people already whisper of Rhaenyra’s unsuitability, her moral failings. Aegon, for all his faults, represents the stability they crave.”
Alicent flinched at the mention of her son’s faults but said nothing. She had spent years shielding him from the consequences of his actions, but now, his flaws had become liabilities she could no longer ignore.
“What of the Starks?” she asked, her voice quieter now. “They’ve remained steadfast in their neutrality in the past but recently brokered new trade agreements with Dragonstone. They will not take kindly to a challenge to Rhaenyra’s claim and may use Aemond as a hostage.”
Otto’s smile turned sharp. “The Starks are a concern, but they are far to the north, beyond where this conflict will first erupt. We need only focus on the south, where our alliances are strongest. Besides…” He paused, his tone turning conspiratorial. “The Ironborn have agreed to sow chaos in the west. Lannister ships, Lannisport—it will all burn. Jason and Tyland Lannister will be too preoccupied to form an alliance with Rhaenyra, leaving her isolated.”
Alicent’s eyes widened, a flicker of unease crossing her face. “The Ironborn? They’re savages, Father. Unpredictable. If they turn on us—”
“They won’t,” Otto interrupted firmly. “They despise the Lannisters more than anyone else. As long as we allow them to raid freely, they will remain useful allies.”
Alicent rose from her chair, pacing the length of the room. Her hands clenched at her sides as she struggled to reconcile her faith with the ruthless plans unfolding before her.
“We are gambling everything,” she whispered, almost to herself. “If Viserys recovers and finds out—”
“He won’t,” Otto assured her, stepping closer. “The king is too weak to intervene now. By the time he learns of our actions, it will be too late for him to stop us. This is not a gamble, Alicent. This is necessity.”
She stopped and turned to face him, her expression hardening. “And the mercenaries? Are they already in place?”
“They are being moved as we speak,” Otto confirmed. “Quietly, discreetly. We will have the strength behind us to reinforce Aegon’s claim..”
Alicent closed her eyes, drawing a deep breath. For years, she had fought to protect her children, to secure their future in a court that seemed determined to undermine them at every turn. Now, at the precipice of war, she found herself wondering if she had gone too far—or if she hadn’t gone far enough.
“If this is the only way to protect my family, then so be it,” she said finally, her voice steady.
As Alicent turned back toward the hearth, staring into the flames, Otto returned to the map table. His fingers traced the lines of the realm, from King’s Landing to Lannisport, to Harrenhal and the Riverlands beyond. He knew the risks, but he also knew the stakes.
The game had begun, and he would see it through to the end, no matter the cost.