Chapter 25
Chapter 25
The air in Dragonstone was thick with salt and smoke, the ever-present scent of the volcanic island mixing with the crisp sea breeze. Daeron Targaryen had never set foot here before, yet as he stood before the gates of the fortress, he felt the weight of history pressing down on him. His House’s dynasty. His family’s history.
The guards had not been welcoming, though they had not drawn their swords either. They had taken him to the Great Hall, where Rhaenyra and Laenor awaited him.
His sister sat upon the high seat, regal despite the strain etched into her face, her husband standing beside her. “You are bold to come here, brother,” Rhaenyra said, her tone neutral, revealing nothing.
Daeron took a deep breath and stepped forward. “I come in peace, carrying proof of our father’s will.”
He retrieved a leather-bound parcel from his cloak and extended it toward her. Laenor moved first, taking the documents and glancing at his wife before opening them. His eyes scanned the familiar scrawl of King Viserys’s hand, and he passed the pages to Rhaenyra.
“These were given to you?” Rhaenyra asked, her fingers tightening on the parchment.
Daeron met her gaze. “By our father himself, before he fell ill. He warned me not to trust my grandfather, not to trust my mother in matters of succession.” His voice faltered, but he forced himself to continue. “He said you were the rightful heir and that the realm would suffer under any other.”
A flicker of emotion crossed Rhaenyra’s face, something caught between vindication and grief. She exhaled slowly.
“Daemon,” she called, turning toward the far side of the room, where a polished obsidian mirror rested on a pedestal. The surface shimmered before Daemon’s face appeared, his expression unreadable. Harwin stood just behind him, arms crossed.
“I heard,” Daemon said. His voice was calm, but there was something sharp beneath it. “So the boy is not a fool after all.”
Daeron tensed, but Rhaenyra ignored Daemon’s jab.
“He speaks the truth,” she said, turning back to Daeron. “And I will show you the proof of our father’s trust in me. I am not the monster your mother would have me be.”
Daeron frowned but followed as she led him deeper into Dragonstone. The halls grew cooler, the stone walls pressing in as they descended toward a chamber guarded by two knights. At Rhaenyra’s nod, the doors were opened.
Inside, seated by a window, was Helaena.
Daeron’s breath caught.
His sister turned at the sound of the door, her silver-gold hair loose over her shoulders, her eyes widening as they met his.
“Helaena?” His voice was barely more than a whisper.
She hesitated, studying him as if she wasn’t sure he was real. Then, after a long moment, she spoke. “Daeron?”
He took a shaky step forward. “I—I thought you were dead.”
Rhaenyra’s voice was calm but firm behind him. “That is what we needed Otto and Alicent to believe.”
Daeron turned, his confusion evident.
“She was a pawn to them,” Rhaenyra continued, her gaze steady. “They would have used her very life to further their cause. I took her from King’s Landing to spare her that fate.”
Daeron looked back at his sister, who remained silent, her gaze shadowed with understanding.
For the first time since he had left Crakehall, he realized just how deep the lies had run. His mother. Otto. The proclamation naming Aegon heir. It was all part of the same deception, built on ambition, fear, and control.
And now he was choosing where he stood.
*************
The tunnels beneath the Red Keep were colder than Lucerys remembered, each step echoing faintly in the oppressive silence. He moved cautiously, his lantern dimmed to avoid detection, the shadows stretching and curling like unseen threats. After days of watching his grandfather’s decline through hidden passageways, his heart was heavy with despair. Viserys had barely stirred, his breaths labored, his frail frame dwarfed by the grand bed.
Lucerys had taken refuge deep within Maegor’s ancient tunnels, where the oppressive darkness and the echo of distant dripping water became his constant companions. For days he had kept vigil over his ailing grandfather, listening to the labored breaths of Viserys through the heavy stone walls, hidden from prying eyes and the looming threat of the Greens.
In the silent hours, as fear and duty mingled in his heart, he recalled how he had painstakingly etched powerful runes into the worn stone at each tunnel entrance—each glowing sigil a solemn promise that no enemy would exploit these passageways to escape or infiltrate.
The faint, otherworldly luminescence of the runes reminded him of Draco’s long-forgotten lessons in ancient magic—a magic that now served as his shield and testament to House Targaryen’s resolve. In that bleak, secret world, Lucerys clung to hope and determination, knowing that every mark he left was a small act of defiance against those who would see his family fall.
Lucerys took a deep breath, shaking off the unease as he navigated the labyrinth of Maegor’s tunnels. He had to leave before he was caught, before his presence raised questions he couldn’t answer. The exit was close—he could almost feel the cool night air calling him.
A sudden commotion stopped him in his tracks. Voices, sharp and panicked, echoed down the stone corridors.
“You’re nothing but a useless little rat!”
Lucerys froze, recognizing Aegon’s voice, slurred and venomous.
“Please, my lord,” a woman’s voice stammered, trembling with fear. “I didn’t mean to—”
A resounding slap cut her off, the sound reverberating through the tunnel. Lucerys’s stomach twisted. He hesitated, his pulse quickening.
Draco’s memories stirred, unbidden within Lucerys. That damned Potter and his relentless “saving people thing.” Always jumping headfirst into danger, never thinking about the cost. Draco had never fully understood the impulse, but now, standing in the shadowed corridors of the Red Keeps as Lucerys, he felt something he couldn’t ignore.
His grip tightened on his dagger. “Foolish bravery,” Draco had once called it. But wasn’t bravery, foolish or not, what the moment demanded?
Steeling himself, Lucerys moved toward the voices.
The scene he stumbled upon made his blood boil. Aegon loomed over a trembling servant girl, her cheek red and swelling from the slap. Her hands were raised in a futile attempt to shield herself as Aegon raised his hand again, his face twisted in drunken rage.
“Enough!” Lucerys’s voice cut through the air like a blade.
Aegon turned, startled, his glassy eyes narrowing as he recognized his nephew. “What are you doing here, little nephew?” he sneered.
Lucerys ignored him, his gaze fixed on the servant. “Go. Now.”
The girl hesitated, glancing between the two princes.
“Go!” Lucerys repeated, his tone firm. She didn’t need to be told again. With a stifled sob, she ran, disappearing into the shadows.
Aegon watched her flee, his sneer deepening. “Always playing the hero, aren’t you?”
Lucerys didn’t respond, his hand still on the hilt of his dagger.
Before the tension could break, the sound of boots on stone made both princes turn. Ser Criston Cole emerged from a side passage, his expression darkening as he took in the scene.
“My prince,” Cole said, addressing Aegon but eyeing Lucerys. “What’s going on here?”
Aegon smirked, gesturing lazily to Lucerys. “Caught the little bastard sneaking around. Probably spying for his whore mother.”
Lucerys’s jaw clenched, but before he could speak, Cole seized him roughly by the arm.
“My Prince, please inform the queen of our…guest. I will bring him shortly,” Cole ordered, his grip bruising.
The cold stone of the tunnel floor pressed against Lucerys’s back as he struggled. He heard the retreating footsteps of Aegon as Cole’s grip tightened like an iron vice around his throat. His vision blurred at the edges, black spots dancing in the dim torchlight. He clawed at the knight’s gauntleted arm, but it was useless—Cole was stronger, his grip unrelenting.
“Should have stayed away, boy,” Cole murmured, his voice almost pitying. “Now you’ll pay for your mother’s sins.”
Lucerys’s lungs burned, his limbs growing sluggish. The world tilted, darkness creeping in—
And then, suddenly, the pressure vanished.
Cole gasped, his grip slackening entirely. A strangled, gurgling sound escaped his lips as he staggered forward, his body jerking unnaturally. The gleam of steel protruded from between his chest, blood blooming around the wound like ink spilled on parchment.
Lucerys hit the ground hard, coughing violently as air flooded his lungs. He barely had time to process what had happened before Cole collapsed in a lifeless heap.
A familiar voice, wry and self-satisfied, cut through the haze of Lucerys’s near-death.
“Well, Mother always said he stabbed her in the back. I’m just returning the favor.”
Lucerys looked up, chest still heaving, to see Jacaerys standing over the fallen knight, another dagger still clutched in his hand. His face was set in grim satisfaction, but his eyes flickered with worry as they met Lucerys’s.
Lucerys swallowed, pushing himself up onto his elbows. “Jace?” His voice came out hoarse, barely above a whisper.
Jace offered him a hand. “You alright?”
Lucerys took it, his fingers still trembling as his brother hauled him to his feet. His throat ached where Cole’s gauntlet had pressed, but he was alive.
Jace smirked. “ Surprised? I’ve been training with Daemon while you’ve been puttering away in your workshop.” He gave his brother a once-over. “You look like shit, by the way.”
Lucerys let out a short, breathless laugh, though his legs were still unsteady. “You have no idea.”
Jace’s amusement faded as he nudged Cole’s body with the toe of his boot. “We need to move. The whole castle probably heard that idiot Aegon stumbling off to alert the queen. We don’t have much time.”
Lucerys nodded, his mind catching up with the danger still looming. Without another word, the two brothers turned and sprinted into the shadows, disappearing into the labyrinth of Maegor’s tunnels, leaving Criston Cole’s lifeless body behind.
***********
The air in the Queen’s solar was thick with the scent of burning incense, though it did little to mask the tension curling through the room. Alicent stood by the window, fingers gripping the sill as she gazed out at the courtyard below, where knights moved in a flurry of activity. The news had spread. Ser Criston Cole,her sworn shield and member of the Kingsguard—her most trusted ally—was dead.
Ser Otto stood nearby, his hands clasped behind his back, his expression schooled into something carefully unreadable.
“They killed him,” Alicent whispered, her voice trembling with rage and something perilously close to grief. “That bastard boy of hers—Rhaenyra’s wretched son—murdered Criston.”
Otto stepped forward, his voice even. “We must act swiftly. Lucerys Velaryon was seen within the Keep without permission from the Queen. The intent was clear.”
Alicent turned to face him, her green eyes blazing. “He came for Aegon.”
“That is what we will say,” Otto corrected smoothly. “The boy’s presence here is suspicious enough, but we must make the realm feel the threat he posed. Criston died protecting the rightful heir to the throne. The boy must answer for that.”
Alicent’s hands clenched at her sides. “I want his head.”
A sharp knock at the door interrupted them. The heavy doors opened, revealing Ser Harrold Westerling. His face was grim, his white cloak pristine despite the chaos unraveling within the castle.
“Your Grace,” he said, his deep voice carrying the weight of duty. “I have received word of Ser Criston’s death. My condolences.”
Alicent stiffened, swallowing back the lump in her throat. “Condolences do not make me feel safe, Ser Harrold. I assume you’ve come with a plan to apprehend his murderer.”
Westerling hesitated. “There are… conflicting reports as to what transpired.”
Otto took a step forward, his expression sharp. “Conflicting? The boy infiltrated the Keep, and now Ser Criston is dead. What more do you require?”
“The truth.”
Silence hung between them, taut and dangerous. Alicent narrowed her eyes.
“You doubt me?” she accused.
“I doubt nothing, Your Grace,” Westerling said evenly. “But I would see justice done properly. Ser Criston was my brother-in-arms. I will not dishonor him with hasty vengeance.”
Otto exhaled sharply, but Alicent lifted a hand to stop him from speaking. She forced herself to breathe, to think. Criston would tell me to act. He would not hesitate. He would not doubt.
“The Keep is to be sealed,” she ordered. “No one enters or leaves without my command. I want guards at every gate, every passage. We will find the boy. We will make an example of him.”
Ser Harrold nodded, though his lips pressed into a thin line. “I agree the castle should be secured. I will also be placing additional guards around the King’s chambers.”
Alicent frowned. “Why?”
Westerling’s gaze was steady. “Because the King still draws breath, and so long as he does, it is my duty to ensure no harm comes to him.”
Otto stiffened at the implication, but Alicent only nodded. “See to it, then.”
Another knock came, this one hurried. A servant girl, breathless and pale, stepped into the room.
“Your Grace,” she gasped. “There is word from Winterfell. Your son, Prince Aemond… he is missing.”
Alicent’s blood ran cold. “Missing?”
“He was last seen headed south,” the girl stammered. “Beyond that, there has been no word.”
Alicent’s breath hitched. Her fingers curled around the edge of the table. First Criston. Now Aemond.
Her world was unraveling.
“Find him,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “Find my son and bring him home.”
But for the first time, a terrible thought settled deep in her chest, heavier than stone.
What if it was already too late?