ARC 1: Birth of the Daemon and Daenerys
Chapter 4: A Secret Passage
Year 283 AC
King's Landing was a city consumed by madness. The joyous cheers that had once greeted royal processions were replaced by the guttural roars of victorious Lannister soldiers, their triumph stained crimson with the blood of the innocent. The air, once thick with the aromas of a bustling capital, now reeked of death, smoke, and the metallic tang of fear. Golden lion banners, initially symbols of a house joining a cause, now flapped like carrion birds over a city being systematically ravaged.
Ser Kaelen Vance, barely eighteen years of age but hardened beyond his years by a lifetime of service to House Targaryen, moved through this urban hellscape like a phantom. The news of Prince Rhaegar's death had been a brutal blow, extinguishing a light he had long admired. But the subsequent, horrifying whispers of the Lannister's entry into the city – the unchecked brutality, the sheer savagery – had ignited a cold fury within him, a desperate need to shield the remaining embers of the dragon's fire.
Princess Elia and her children, trapped within the Red Keep, were foremost in his thoughts. He had served Rhaegar, witnessed his kindness and his quiet strength. The thought of his wife and children at the mercy of Tywin Lannister and his wolves in golden armor filled Kaelen with a righteous rage.
His journey towards the Red Keep was a treacherous crawl through the underbelly of the city. Lannister soldiers, their armor bearing the sheen of stolen wealth, patrolled the main thoroughfares, their eyes sharp for any lingering resistance or overlooked treasures. Kaelen, dressed in the drab, unremarkable clothes of a commoner, clung to the shadows of the narrow, winding alleys, his movements fluid and silent. His youth had been spent navigating the less savory corners of King's Landing, a necessity for a lowborn knight serving a royal house often beset by intrigue. He knew the hidden pathways, the forgotten service tunnels that snaked beneath the grand avenues like secret veins.
He witnessed scenes that would forever scar his young mind. A weeping mother cradling her lifeless child, a merchant's stall overturned and looted, the glazed eyes of those who had seen too much horror. The Lannister soldiers acted with a terrifying impunity, their cruelty seemingly boundless. The rumors of Tywin's explicit orders – to leave no challenge and take what they pleased – echoed in their brutal actions.
Reaching the imposing walls of the Red Keep, Kaelen found them swarming with Lannister guards, their red and gold livery a stark insult against the Targaryen stone. A direct assault was suicide, a fool's errand. He sought a more clandestine entry, a forgotten service gate he recalled from his earlier days, one that led through the kitchens and into the castle's lower levels. It was a gamble, relying on memories from years past, but the image of Elia's gentle smile and the innocent faces of her children propelled him forward.
He slipped past a boisterous group of Lannister men near the stables, using their drunken revelry and the chaos of looters carting away royal tapestries as a shield. The service gate was less heavily guarded, the few Lannister sentries more interested in pilfering the royal larders than maintaining a vigilant watch. Kaelen moved with the swiftness of a cornered cat, his hand instinctively resting on the hilt of the long knife concealed beneath his worn tunic. A sudden, silent takedown, a muffled thud, and two Lannister soldiers lay still in the shadows, their greed their undoing.
Inside the Red Keep, a chilling stillness had descended, a silence more oppressive than the raging chaos outside. The once-vibrant halls, echoing with the pomp and ceremony of court, were now eerily deserted, save for the occasional band of Lannister soldiers ransacking chambers with brutal efficiency. Kaelen moved with extreme caution, every sense heightened. He knew the general location of Princess Elia's apartments, situated in a more secluded, eastern wing of the castle, overlooking the gardens.
He navigated the silent corridors, hugging the shadows, his worn leather boots making little sound on the cold stone floors. He passed overturned furniture, shattered ornaments, and discarded finery, a testament to the violent ransacking that had already occurred. A growing sense of dread, heavy and suffocating, settled in his chest as he approached Elia's wing.
Reaching the antechamber outside Elia's solar, he found the heavy oak door slightly ajar. He pressed himself against the cold stone wall, his heart pounding in his ears, and peered within. The scene that unfolded before his young eyes was a tableau of unimaginable horror. Princess Elia lay sprawled on the polished floor, her beautiful Dornish face frozen in a silent scream, her lifeblood staining the intricate patterns of the rug. Beside her lay the small, broken form of Prince Aegon, his infant skull brutally crushed. A wave of nausea and a white-hot surge of rage threatened to overwhelm Kaelen. The Lannister lion's justice had been swift, merciless, and utterly depraved.
Hidden in the deep shadows behind a massive, intricately woven tapestry depicting the Targaryen lineage, Kaelen noticed a small, huddled figure on the floor. It was one of Elia's personal maids, her once-fine gown ripped and stained with blood, her body bearing the sickening marks of brutal assault. She was barely conscious, her breathing shallow and ragged, her eyes glazed with pain and trauma. Kaelen approached her cautiously, his sword still drawn but held low.
"Ser… Kaelen?" she whispered, her voice a mere breath, her eyes struggling to focus. He nodded, kneeling beside her, his youthful face grim. With painstaking gentleness, he managed to trickle a few drops of water from his flask between her cracked lips.
In broken, whispered sentences, punctuated by ragged sobs and shuddering gasps, the maid recounted the unimaginable horrors she had witnessed. She spoke of Elia's desperate bravery, her frantic attempts to save her children, of entrusting young Rhaenys to the other maid and the infant Aegon to her own care. Her voice broke as she described her capture by the monstrous Ser Gregor Clegane, the unspeakable terror of witnessing Aegon's murder, and the brutal violation she had endured.
"Rhaenys…" she finally managed, her voice fading to a bare whisper. "The other maid… she took her… through the secret passage… towards the kitchens… I saw them go…" Her eyes fluttered closed, and her shallow breaths grew fainter.
A sliver of desperate hope pierced through Kaelen's despair. Rhaenys was alive! He had to find her, to pull her from this abyss of blood and terror. He remembered the secret passages, the hidden network of tunnels and concealed doorways that crisscrossed the Red Keep like the veins of a slumbering giant. He had explored them as a boy, fascinated by the castle's secrets.
Leaving the dying maid with a silent vow of vengeance etched in his heart, Kaelen retraced his steps, moving with a renewed urgency towards the kitchen wing. The knowledge that the young Princess, a child of royal blood, was still within these walls, vulnerable and alone, spurred him onward.
He found the kitchen wing in chaos, the air thick with the stench of spilled wine, overturned food stores, and the lingering scent of fear. He moved silently through the pantries and storerooms, his young eyes scanning every dark corner, every shadowed alcove. It was near a concealed doorway, hidden behind a precarious stack of flour sacks, that he finally found them.
Princess Rhaenys was huddled in the trembling embrace of the other maid, both of them small islands of terror in the surrounding chaos. The maid's face was ashen, her eyes wide with shock, but her arms were wrapped fiercely around the little Princess, a final bastion of protection. Kaelen approached them cautiously, identifying himself in a low, urgent whisper.
"Princess Rhaenys," he said, his voice surprisingly steady despite the turmoil within him. "I am Ser Kaelen Vance. I served your father, Prince Rhaegar. I am here to help you. We must leave this place."
The maid, her fear slowly giving way to a fragile flicker of hope, nodded weakly, her grip tightening on the Princess. Rhaenys, her small face streaked with tears and grime, looked up at Kaelen with wide, frightened violet eyes, mirroring the despair that clung to the very stones of the Red Keep.
Just as a fragile sense of relief began to wash over Kaelen, a loud, drunken voice echoed from the nearby corridor. "Oi! You two! What in the seven hells are you doing hiding in the shadows?"
A Lannister knight, his crimson and gold armor stained with blood and wine, stumbled around the corner, his drawn sword glinting menacingly in the dim light. Discovery. Kaelen knew their fragile sanctuary had been shattered. There was no more room for stealth.
"Take the Princess!" Kaelen hissed at the maid, his own Valyrian steel longsword whispering free from its scabbard. "Get out through the passage! I'll hold him off!"
The maid, her eyes wide with terror but understanding the immediate danger, grabbed Rhaenys's small hand and scrambled through the hidden doorway. Kaelen turned to face the drunken Lannister knight, his youthful face set with grim determination.
The fight was short and brutal. The Lannister knight, though inebriated, was still a seasoned warrior. But Kaelen, fueled by a desperate surge of adrenaline and the fierce need to protect the innocent child, fought with a ferocity that belied his young years. His Valyrian steel moved with a speed and precision honed by years of training. A swift parry, a desperate lunge, and the Lannister soldier crumpled to the stone floor, his golden armor clanking like a death knell.
Kaelen turned back to the hidden passage. "Go! Keep going! I'll follow!" he called out, his voice strained. He quickly stripped the fallen knight of his crimson cloak, a grim necessity for disguising Rhaenys's distinctive silver-gold hair.
He followed them through the claustrophobic secret passages, the air growing thick with dust and the stench of disuse. They finally emerged into the chaotic streets of King's Landing, the sounds of the sack still raging like a storm around them. The maid, though visibly shaken, moved with a desperate purpose, guiding them through the less-traveled back alleys, her hand never leaving Rhaenys's.
But their desperate flight was not to last. A boisterous group of Lannister soldiers, their faces flushed with wine and their eyes glinting with cruel amusement, spotted them. The maid, instinctively trying to shield Rhaenys with her body, cried out as rough hands grabbed her. Kaelen, though young, fought with the courage of a lion, his Valyrian steel a blur of motion. But he was outnumbered, their drunken savagery overwhelming his skill. He managed to fend them off just long enough for Rhaenys to slip further into the panicked crowd, but the brave maid, her final act one of selfless protection, fell beneath the brutal assault of the Lannister blades.
Kaelen, his heart heavy with grief and rage, knew he couldn't linger. He had to get Rhaenys to safety. He found the terrified little Princess huddled in the deep shadows of a ruined doorway, clutching a discarded rag doll as if it were a lifeline. He quickly draped the crimson Lannister cloak around her small shoulders, pulling the hood forward to conceal her tell-tale hair.
Then, amidst the fleeing crowds and the carnage, Kaelen's gaze fell upon a heartbreaking sight. A young girl, lying lifeless in the muddy street, was roughly the same age as Rhaenys and bore a fleeting, tragic resemblance. An idea, desperate and fraught with risk, took root in Kaelen's mind.
With a grim determination, he swiftly exchanged the plain, dirtied clothes of the dead girl with the finer, though now soiled, garments Rhaenys wore. He then gently placed the small, lifeless body of the girl beside the fallen maid, hoping that in the pervasive chaos, they might be mistaken for mother and daughter, just two more nameless casualties of the sack.
With Rhaenys hidden beneath the crimson cloak, her small face buried against his side, Kaelen began to make his way towards the King's Landing harbor. The journey was a perilous dance with death, each step a gamble against discovery. They had to navigate through streets teeming with drunken soldiers, opportunistic looters, and terrified refugees. The sounds of violence were a constant, horrifying reminder of the danger lurking around every corner. But Kaelen pressed on, his grip firm on the little Princess, his young heart fueled by a desperate hope that he could deliver her from this city of nightmares. The port, with its promise of escape across the Narrow Sea, was their only chance, a distant beacon of salvation in the overwhelming darkness. Slowly, painstakingly, they moved through the ravaged city, the cries of the dying echoing in their wake, until the towering masts of the ships in the harbor loomed before them, their silhouettes against the smoke-filled sky a testament to their arduous journey. They had reached the port.