The Price
Chapter 26- The Price
“To Their Graces, King Viserys and Queen Alicent,
Prince Aemond Targaryen was last seen boarding a ship bound for Lannisport. We have been unable to gather further information regarding his whereabouts due to the ongoing Ironborn incursions along the western coast. The attacks have left the region in disarray, and we cannot spare men to investigate further.
As always, House Stark remains loyal to the Crown.
Lord Rickon Stark, Winterfell”
The room was silent as Alicent finished reading, her breath became shallow, her fingers tightening around the edges of the letter.
“No,” she whispered. Then again, louder—raw, breaking. “No!”
The letter crumpled as she clenched her fist, her free hand bracing against the table. Aemond, her son, lost at sea, wandering gods knew where—if he was even alive. Her mind spiraled. The thought of him, alone in an region torn apart by war, was unbearable. The war you helped to create, a voice whispered in her mind. Was avenging Helaena worth losing Aemond?
A chair scraped against the floor as she staggered to her feet, her green gown pooling around her like a storm surge. Otto barely had time to straighten before Alicent turned on him, her grief sharpening into fury.
“This is your doing,” she spat, her voice thick with rage. “You set the Ironborn on the Lannisters!” She shoved the letter into his chest, the parchment crumpling against his fine robes. “And now my son is lost because of your games, Father!”
Otto Hightower remained still, his expression carefully blank, but Alicent knew him too well. His silence was not grief—it was calculation.
“You knew the risk of inciting those savages,” she accused, her voice rising. “And yet you pushed for it. You made me believe that vengeance for Helaena was more important than anything else, and now I—” Her voice caught, grief catching her breath like a dagger to the ribs. “Now I may have lost another child.”
Otto exhaled through his nose, slow and measured. “Aemond is not dead.”
“You don’t know that!”
“The boy is resourceful,” he continued, ignoring her trembling hands. “He made it that far from Winterfell and would not have boarded a ship without a plan. Whatever his purpose, he did not intend to die in Lannisport.”
Alicent let out a sharp, bitter laugh. “Is that supposed to comfort me? Do you think I can sleep soundly knowing that my son is somewhere in the middle of your war, alone, surrounded by enemies?”
Otto’s eyes flickered, the only sign of his patience fraying. “We will find him.”
“And if we don’t?” she shot back. “If he dies out there, what will you tell me then?”
The question hung in the air like smoke from a dying fire. Otto did not answer. He didn’t have to.
Alicent turned away, her fingers gripping the edge of the table to steady herself. Her father was a master of control, of ensuring every piece on the board moved according to his design. But now? Now the game was slipping from his grasp. And it was her son who would pay the price.
************
The dim glow of lanterns cast long shadows along the stone corridors of the Red Keep. The air was thick—too thick—with the heavy scent of medicinal herbs and decay. Deep within the royal chambers, the once-mighty King Viserys I Targaryen lay motionless beneath a canopy of black and gold. His breathing, ragged and uneven, filled the silence like a distant drumbeat of something inevitable.
Grand Maester Orwyle stood over him, face pinched with concern as he pressed two fingers to the king’s wrist. The other maesters hovered nearby, exchanging wordless glances heavy with meaning. The king stirred weakly, his lips moving in a soundless whisper. If he was aware of their presence, he gave no sign.
“His Grace grows weaker by the hour,” Orwyle murmured at last, pulling back. “The humors remain unbalanced despite our efforts. The milk of the poppy eases his pain, but it does nothing to slow the decay.”
“He won’t last the fortnight,” came the grim voice of Maester Ryndel. “Perhaps not the week.”
Ser Harrold Westerling shifted at the doorway, his gloved hands resting lightly on the pommel of his sword. His face was a mask of duty, but there was no mistaking the flicker of something deeper—concern, perhaps, or regret.
“And you are certain?” he asked quietly.
“We have done all we can,” Orwyle said, his voice heavy with the weight of inevitability. “His body is failing. There is no saving him now.”
A long pause stretched between them, broken only by the king’s shallow breaths. Ser Harrold exhaled slowly, nodding once. “I will inform the queen.”
He turned on his heel, boots striking the stone with a steady rhythm as he departed the chamber. The door closed behind him with a dull thud.
The corridor beyond felt colder somehow—emptier. For all his years in service to the crown, the idea of a world without Viserys Targaryen seated on the Iron Throne was difficult to grasp. But no man lived forever. Not even kings. And once Viserys passed, nothing—no oath or honor—would hold back the storm to come.
As Ser Harrold descended the winding stairs toward the queen’s chambers, he could not shake the feeling that with the king’s life, the last fragile thread of peace in the realm was slipping away.
***************
The fire in the council chamber at Dragonstone burned hot, but it was nothing compared to the fury blazing in Rhaenyra’s veins. The most recent letter from King’s Landing trembled in her grip, though not from fear. She read it again, as if the words might shift into something less outrageous.
They did not.
A demand. For her son’s head.
The parchment crumpled in her fist as she inhaled sharply through her nose, willing herself to breathe past the rage clawing up her throat. When Lucerys and Jacaerys had returned from their reckless excursion into the belly of the Red Keep, she had sensed something was amiss. The way Jace was too quick to deflect, the way Luke had been uncharacteristically quiet. She had allowed it at the time, too relieved to see them safe to press further.
Now she knew.
“Enter,” she called when the guards opened the door.
Jace and Luke stepped inside, their postures stiff, wary. They could feel the storm coming. Laena lingered near the far wall, eyes flicking between them, already aware of the fire that was about to be unleashed.
Rhaenyra placed the letter on the council table and smoothed the parchment with deliberate patience before lifting her gaze to her sons.
“Explain,” she commanded, her voice deceptively calm. “Every. Detail.”
Jace sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. Luke fidgeted under her stare but said nothing. It was Jace who spoke first.
“We didn’t set out to kill Cole, Mother,” he said. “Luke was leaving the Keep when he heard Aegon—”
“Assaulting a servant,” Luke interrupted, voice quiet.
Rhaenyra’s brow arched, but she gestured for him to continue.
“I couldn’t just… leave her,” Luke admitted. “I stepped in. She ran, but then Cole caught me.”
“And then?”
“He was choking me,” Luke said, swallowing hard at the memory. “I—I couldn’t breathe. He would have killed me if Jace hadn’t—”
“Killed him first,” Jace finished bluntly. “I stabbed him in the back.” He crossed his arms and met her gaze with something close to defiance. “And I would do it again.”
A muscle in Rhaenyra’s jaw twitched. She closed her eyes briefly, breathing deeply through the simmering rage and exasperation curling inside her chest.
“You killed a member of the Kingsguard inside the Red Keep,” she said, voice low. “And you didn’t think to mention this to me?”
Silence.
Jace finally had the sense to look away. “We thought it best not to worry you.”
“Worry me,” Rhaenyra repeated, her tone sharpening. “And now, because of your silence, Alicent believes Lucerys is an assassin and demands his head!”
Luke paled. Jace’s fingers curled into fists.
“They would have twisted the truth no matter what we said,” Jace argued.
“Perhaps,” Rhaenyra conceded, “but I do not like learning of such things from what is essentially an all out declaration of war.”
She exhaled harshly and forced herself to unclench her fists.
The declaration of Aegon as Viserys’s heir had already set her blood to a boil. It was treason, blatant and laughable, but this demand—this insult—was beyond that. It was a provocation.
The Hightowers were testing her.
They would soon learn that it was a grave mistake.
The doors opened again with Laenor and Daemon striding in, their expressions grim.
“We received another raven,” Laenor announced. “Jason Lannister calls for aid. The Ironborn are attacking Lannisport.”
Daemon gave a sharp, mirthless laugh. “And Queen Alicent does not deign to answer her vassal’s plea for help.”
Rhaenyra’s fingers drummed against the table as her mind pieced together the game being played. Otto had permitted the Ironborn to run rampant, stirring chaos in the west. Meanwhile, he sent out his treasonous declarations, banking on her being too preoccupied to react swiftly.
He was stalling for time.
He was a fool.
“They’ve sent three requests for aid,” she said, her voice tight. “Three. And the crown has ignored every one of them.”
Daemon leaned back against the stone wall, arms crossed. “The Hightowers don’t care if the Lannisters burn. So long as the Ironborn stay on the western shore, it keeps the wolves at bay.”
Laenor, seated beside Rhaenyra, scoffed. “Short-sighted fools. If the Greyjoys acquire Lannisport, they won’t stop there. The Reach is next. How long before Oldtown itself starts to feel their teeth?”
Rhaenyra’s eyes flicked to her husband. “And if we answer this call, we tie them to us.”
“A debt of blood,” Laenor agreed. “One not easily forgotten.”
Daemon shifted in his seat, his face shadowed by the flickering firelight. “The Ironborn are bold. Too bold. Someone is backing their attacks, or at the least encouraging them.” His mouth curved faintly, but his voice was rough with certainty. “It reeks of Otto Hightower.”
Rhaenyra’s jaw tightened as she unfolded the letter again. “Nevertheless we will use this to our advantage..”
“A victory without drawing a blade,” Laena said softly, from where she stood near the window. “And the Lannisters will remember who answered when their king and his green queen did not.”
Silence stretched as Rhaenyra weighed the decision. Finally, she let out a breath and nodded. “We’ll send half the fleet.”
“Corlys should lead it,” Daemon said without hesitation. “The men know him from the Stepstones. And he’ll love to rub it in the faces of the Lannisters that he was the one to aid them when they were on their knees.”
Rhaenyra met her husband’s gaze. “Can I trust him to strike without mercy?”
Laenor smiled, sharp and fierce. “He would be insulted if you asked otherwise.”
“Request that he sail by week’s end.” Rhaenyra’s decision was final.
She turned back to her sons.
“This is war,” she said simply. “And you, Jace, have drawn the first blood.”
Jace stiffened. Luke lowered his head.
“We return to King’s Landing,” she continued. “Daemon, Laenor, you will accompany me.”
Daemon nodded, his lips pressing into a tight line. “Laena will remain here with the children.”
“And I will stay as well,” Rhaenys’s voice cut in as she stepped into the chamber, her sharp gaze sweeping over them. “To ensure that no further surprises arise.”
Rhaenyra inclined her head in agreement before looking back at her sons. “Jace, you will remain here to oversee the island’s defenses with your grandmother.”
Jace’s brows shot up. “You’re leaving me behind?”
“You are my heir,” Rhaenyra said firmly. “And I cannot risk losing you and Luke both.”
Jace swallowed but nodded, though his frustration was evident.
Rhaenyra turned to Luke. “You will come with me.”
Luke’s eyes widened. “But—”
“You are safer at my side than alone on this island with a bounty on your head,” she said. “This is no longer a game of shadows and whispers. This is war. And I will not sit idle while they seek to take my crown and my son’s life.”
She turned on her heel, her crimson cloak billowing behind her.
“Prepare the dragons,” she commanded. “We return to the Red Keep.”