Remains
Chapter 28- Remains
The stench arrived before the body.
A thick, acrid smell of charred flesh hung heavy in the air as the dragon keepers carefully unwrapped the scorched cloth. What remained inside barely resembled a man—bones twisted unnaturally, blackened skin fused with melted leather. But there, still clinging stubbornly to a burned finger, was a ring. Silver twisted into the shape of a tower, its edges warped from heat.
The Hightower sigil.
One of the keepers swallowed hard, unwilling to be the first to speak. It was Ser Arryk Cargyll who finally broke the silence, his voice strained. “There is no doubt… it is Prince Aegon.”
The words hung in the air like a death knell.
By the time the message reached Queen Alicent, the light of day had begun to fade, casting long, jagged shadows across the Red Keep. She sat in her chambers, a half-finished letter trembling in her hands, when the knock came. For a fleeting moment, she had hoped—hoped that the gods had answered her prayers, that her firstborn would return to her.
But as soon as she opened the door and saw the pallid faces of the dragon keepers, hope withered.
“No,” she breathed, shaking her head as though sheer will might reverse the words she had yet to hear. “No. Tell me it isn’t—”
They laid the cloth-wrapped bundle at her feet.
A sound escaped her throat—a raw, broken thing. Her fingers curled into fists as she stumbled backward, hitting the edge of a chair. “This is a mistake,” she said, her voice cracking. “It cannot be my son.”
Sir Arryk stepped forward hesitantly. “My queen… the ring… it bears your house’s mark. There can be no mistake.”
Alicent’s knees buckled. She sank to the floor, trembling hands reaching for the blackened hand. The ring—Aegon’s ring—slid loosely on the charred bone. Her fingers closed around it, and something inside her shattered.
“My boy,” she whispered. “My sweet boy.”
A sob tore from her throat, high and keening. It echoed off the stone walls, a sound too wild and raw to belong to a queen. The kingsguard and dragon keepers, unnerved, lowered their heads and slipped quietly from the chamber, leaving Alicent alone with the remains of her son.
The door barely had time to shut before it was flung open again.
Otto Hightower entered, the lines of his face harder than usual, mouth set in a grim line. He had already heard the news. He found his daughter crumpled on the floor, clutching what was left of Aegon as though her touch could pull him back from the ashes.
“You,” she hissed, lifting her head.
Otto hesitated—just for a breath—before stepping closer. “Alicent—”
“This is your doing!” Her voice rose, wild and shaking, as she staggered to her feet. “You—who always pushed him to be more, to do more. You shoved him toward the crown, and now he’s dead for it!”
Otto’s face remained impassive, but his hands curled tightly behind his back. “I did what was necessary to protect our house.”
“Protect?” A bitter laugh broke from her lips. “Helaena is dead—my gentle, precious girl. Aemond is lost to the sea, gods know if he lives. And now Aegon—” Her breath hitched. “You’ve destroyed us, Father. All of us.”
He took a step closer. “This war was not of my making. It was Rhaenyra who—”
“Don’t speak her name to me!” Alicent spat, her grief curdling into rage. “If you had not sought to steal her birthright—if you had not filled my ears with your ambitions—none of this would have happened!”
Otto’s lips pressed into a thin line, but Alicent was not finished. “My children are dead or lost to me, and still, you sit here and speak of duty.” Her chest heaved, tears streaming freely down her face. “You built this house high, Father—but you built it on the bones of my family.”
For the first time in memory, Otto Hightower had no reply. The weight of her accusation settled heavily between them, as unyielding as the stones of the Red Keep.
Alicent trembled where she stood, the ring still clutched in her palm. “Get out,” she said hoarsely.
“Alicent—”
“Out!” Her scream rang through the chamber, shattering the last fragile hold on decorum. “I never want to see your face again.”
Otto hesitated a moment longer—perhaps considering words to mend what had broken—but none came. Without another word, he turned and left, the heavy door closing behind him with a final, echoing thud.
Alone once more, Alicent sank to the floor beside what was left of her son, her sobs filling the empty chamber long after nightfall.
*****************
The wind howled against the black sails as Rhaenyra’s fleet cut through the darkened waters of Blackwater Bay. No lanterns were lit—only the pale glimmer of moonlight guided their way as they slid toward the harbor. The city slept beneath them, still and unsuspecting, but by dawn, everything would change.
On the lead ship’s deck, Rhaenyra stood at the prow, her face calm but unyielding. The sea breeze tugged at her silver hair, but her eyes never left the shadowed outline of King’s Landing. It was so familiar and yet—tonight—it felt different. Mine, she thought. By blood, by birthright, by fire. Tonight, I take back what is mine.
Behind her, Daemon leaned against the rail with the ease of a man who had sacked cities before. His sword, Dark Sister, rested at his hip.
“You’ve outdone yourself,” he murmured, watching the city approach. “No alarms. No fires. Otto won’t even know to run until the trap’s already sprung.”
“He’ll try,” Rhaenyra replied, her voice cold. “But he’ll find no path left to him.”
Lucerys had seen to that.
When he last visited the Red Keep, her son had spent long hours crafting a series of runes—protections etched into the stone and hidden at key passages of Maegor’s Holdfast. They were simple but effective: no man would pass without the blood of the dragon in his veins. By now, the tunnels were sealed to Otto and his allies.
“Luke’s magic will hold,” Laenor said from her other side. His face was harder than it had once been—a veteran’s face—but when he spoke of their son, pride softened the lines around his mouth. “The old serpent will find no cracks to slither through.”
A sharp whistle pierced the night air—a signal from the docks. They had arrived.
Daemon straightened. “Time to wake the city.”
******************
The first strike came at the Gate of the Gods.
Daemon led the gold cloaks personally, their already honed skills sharpened by the draughts and potions Luke had brewed. It made them faster—fiercer. The guards stationed by Otto’s men never stood a chance. Within moments, the heavy iron gates groaned open, and the rest of their forces poured in.
No horns sounded. No city bells rang. The streets remained quiet as Rhaenyra’s soldiers fanned out, securing key positions along the city walls and the main avenues. Any pockets of resistance were swiftly and silently cut down. The power in King’s Landing shifted with the turning tide.
At the Red Keep’s servants’ entrance, Laenor moved swiftly with his own contingent of fighters. Years at sea had taught him the value of speed, and his men—sailors turned soldiers—were efficient. The draughts worked their magic, closing minor wounds and dulling exhaustion. Before the city even stirred, they had seized the kitchens and the lower passages.
It was over by the time the first light touched the horizon.
**************
The first light of dawn spilled over the city as the people of King’s Landing stirred in their beds, unaware that their world had already shifted beneath them. The air was heavy—charged with something unseen but undeniable. Whispers would come later. For now, there was only silence.
Until the shadow fell.
The beating of wings cut through the morning calm, low and thunderous. From the sky, a figure emerged—black and gold against the pale light. Syrax. Her scales gleamed like polished coin as she circled above the Red Keep, her wings casting a jagged shadow over the courtyard below. On her back, seated with the unshakable grace of a queen, was Rhaenyra Targaryen.
The city had been taken in the night—quietly, efficiently. But this was no quiet thing.
With a piercing cry, Syrax descended, the wind from her wings sending banners snapping and guards stumbling. The dragon landed hard, talons gouging the stone of the courtyard as Rhaenyra swung down from the saddle. The golden silk of her riding leathers clung to her frame, the heavy black cloak bearing her sigil rippling behind her.
Daemon was waiting as her boots hit the ground. He had discarded his armor but not his sword—Dark Sister hung comfortably at his side. “A fine entrance,” he said, mouth curving in amusement.
Rhaenyra pulled off her gloves, scanning the courtyard where the gold cloaks—her gold cloaks—stood watch. “Good,” she said, her voice crisp. “I wanted them to see it. Let the city know who holds the power now.”
Lucerys appeared from the archway leading to the inner keep, his face still flushed with the effort of the night. His mother’s dragon had cast a long shadow as she flew in, but his work had already ensured their enemies were caged.
“The tunnels hold,” he reported without preamble. “No one has come or gone since I laid the wards. Even the secret passages beneath Maegor’s Holdfast are sealed.”
Rhaenyra placed a hand on his shoulder—a gesture of trust and pride. “Well done,” she said quietly.
Lucerys stood taller under her praise.
“And Otto?” she asked, glancing toward Daemon.
“Trapped like a rat,” he answered, voice edged with satisfaction. “His riders never reached Oldtown. Laenor’s men cut them off before they even passed the city gates. The Greens are leaderless and blind.”
A slow smile curved her lips. “Then the first move is ours.”
A gust of wind stirred her hair as Syrax shifted behind her, wings rustling, eager for the fight that had not come. But it would. Rhaenyra knew better than to believe Otto would go quietly.
Lucerys stepped forward again, thoughtful. “What now?”
Rhaenyra turned her gaze to the towering walls of Maegor’s Holdfast. Somewhere beyond those stones, Otto Hightower and his supporters plotted. Fear would gnaw at them now—fear of the dragons overhead and the power they had lost.
“Now,” she said, voice low but certain, “we end this.”