Larys Strong left the chamber without haste. The moment the door closed behind him, he turned down a narrow corridor and entered a low, windowless room deep within the Red Keep.
Seven men were already waiting.
They were the dead he had raised for Prince Aegon. Men who should have perished years ago in Flea Bottom, in ditches and refuse heaps, men whose names had long since been forgotten by the realm.
Larys spoke briefly, his voice calm and precise. He explained what had happened, what Prince Aegon required, and what must be done before dawn.
When he finished, he folded his hands behind his back and smiled faintly.
"That is all," he said. "If any of you do not wish to proceed, or lack the courage, you may step away now."
No one moved.
One man spoke first, his voice rough but steady. "Lord Larys, if this is for His Highness, what does death matter?"
Another nodded sharply. "If not for Prince Aegon, my wife and children would have rotted in the gutters. We would have died nameless. The lives we have now were given by him."
Their faces were resolute. Gratitude and devotion burned far hotter than fear.
They remembered well how Prince Aegon had pulled them from filth and starvation, how coin, shelter, and work had been placed in their hands. Their families were housed, fed, protected.
For Prince Aegon, death itself held no terror.
Larys chuckled softly, as if amused by their solemnity.
"Listen to you all, speaking as if you are already corpses. His Highness said that even if the sky were to fall, nothing would happen to you. If Prince Aegon says so, then it will be so."
The tension in the room eased at once.
Larys stepped forward and placed a folded slip of parchment into the hands of Valentine, their leader.
"This is Prince Daemon Targaryen's chamber. Waste no breath. Be swift, be clean, and leave at once when it is done. Do you understand?"
Valentine inclined his head.
He pulled a black hood over his face, shadowing his features. The other six followed without hesitation, identical black hoods drawn low.
They moved through the Red Keep like ghosts.
At Prince Daemon's door, Valentine produced a small token engraved with an unfamiliar sigil. The guard examined it carefully, didn't hesitate, and unlocked the door.
The seven surged inside.
Daemon Targaryen was seated alone, a cup of wine in his hand. He looked up sharply, startled, and in the same instant his expression hardened. His right hand moved toward his waist, but found only empty air.
The cup shattered as the men rushed him.
They struck as one, slamming him to the floor, pinning his limbs before he could rise. Daemon thrashed with ferocious strength, muscles straining, teeth bared in fury, but unarmed and outnumbered, resistance was futile.
Valentine wrenched Daemon's right arm free. From beneath his cloak, he drew an iron rod.
Daemon understood at once.
He fought with renewed fury, veins standing out along his neck, but the weight of bodies held him fast.
Valentine's eyes were cold. He raised the rod and brought it down with all his strength.
Crack.
The sound of splintering bone echoed through the chamber.
Valentine did not stop. He struck again, then once more, each blow more precise.
Daemon's eyes were bloodshot. His jaw clenched so tightly it trembled, but not a single scream escaped him.
Valentine released the arm and examined it. The flesh was already swelling, blood soaking the sleeve. The damage was absolute.
He nodded.
Without another word, the seven turned and left.
Daemon lay motionless, his chest heaving. His gaze followed their retreating figures, hatred and killing intent burning so fiercely it seemed almost tangible.
He did not need to guess who had ordered this.
No one but Aegon would dare cripple his sword hand.
Moments later, royal attendants arrived in haste. With them came Grand Maester Mellos, his face pale as he knelt beside Daemon.
After a brief examination, Mellos straightened slowly.
"How is it?" Daemon asked hoarsely.
The Grand Maester's voice was heavy. "I am sorry, Prince Daemon. The injury is far more severe than it appears. The damage may be beyond repair."
Daemon's teeth ground together, a sharp clicking sound, his fury barely contained.
Mellos began treating the wound, wrapping and splinting the ruined arm. "Once this is stabilized, we must go before His Grace. This matter will require the King's judgment."
To Mellos's surprise, Daemon did not rage. He did not shout or curse.
He was calm.
Too calm.
The Grand Maester felt a chill. It was the stillness that came before a storm.
The next morning.
Prince Aegon found it difficult to breathe.
"Helaena," he murmured, voice thick with sleep, one hand resting lightly at her waist. "You grow more… substantial by the day. I have no doubt our children will never starve, but only if you do not smother their father first."
Princess Helaena hummed softly, her arms tightening around him in response. She buried her face against his chest, smiling.
"Sleep a little longer," she whispered. "Just a little longer."
Aegon sighed, resigned. "Very well. A little longer."
Outside the door, Ser Lorent of the Kingsguard arrived and spoke to the two guards stationed there.
"His Majesty summons Prince Aegon."
The guards did not move. Their eyes remained fixed ahead.
The silence stretched.
Lorent's brow furrowed. He raised a hand to knock.
Two miniature crossbows snapped into position, their bolts aimed squarely at his head.
"Attacking the royal guard is treason," one guard said flatly. "His Majesty wishes to see Prince Aegon."
"His Highness is resting," the other replied coldly. "Princess Helaena is with him."
Lorent drew himself up. "The King has summoned him. If there is delay…"
"If His Majesty wishes to press the matter," the guard interrupted, "then let him come in person. We will request His Highness's instructions."
Lorent's face flushed, anger and humiliation warring within him. With the crossbows still trained on him, he dared not press further.
"I will report your words exactly," he snapped, then turned and stalked away.
The guards lowered their weapons and resumed their vigil, as unmoving as statues.
Lorent returned to the throne room at nearly twice his original pace.
King Viserys frowned when he saw him alone.
"Aegon has not come?"
Lorent repeated the exchange word for word.
Otto Hightower's expression tightened, the corners of his mouth twitching.
Viserys exhaled slowly. "We cannot keep the lords waiting indefinitely. Go again, and bring more men."
Before Lorent could respond, Otto spoke.
"Prince Aegon is young. Extra rest is good for his health. I can wait."
Tyland Lannister inclined his head. "As can I."
"So can I," Jasper Wylde added.
Viserys closed his eyes briefly, drawing a long breath to restrain his temper.
Rhaenyra did not bother.
"Aegon is nearly fourteen," she said sharply. "He is no child. Is it fitting that the lords of the realm stand idle while he lounges in bed?"
Her displeasure was plain.
"I will fetch him myself," Otto said, turning toward the door, a faint mocking look in his eyes.
"Aegon is no child indeed," he added mildly. "What child could drive the Triarchy into panic?"
Rhaenyra stiffened.
Viserys waved a hand. "Go."
Otto bowed and departed.
"It will take time," Viserys said suddenly. "While we wait, let us discuss Dorne."
Tyland and Jasper exchanged glances, confusion plain on their faces. Viserys had avoided the Dornish matter for months.
Jasper felt unease coil in his gut.
Rhaenyra spoke at once.
"No number of treaties will stop the Dornish from raiding the marches. Only conquest will end it."
Lord Corlys Velaryon straightened in his seat.
War with Dorne?
From Viserys's expression, he supported her.
Corlys understood at once. This was politics, not outrage. The Blacks feared that Aegon's triumph in the Stepstones would eclipse them.
If Rhaenyra conquered Dorne, her glory would surpass even that. Dorne had resisted the Iron Throne for a century. Aegon the Conqueror himself had failed there and lost a dragon.
The Stepstones were nothing by comparison.
Yet could Rhaenyra succeed where Aegon the Dragon had not?
Corlys doubted it.
Viserys did not.
"The Dornish have violated their oaths," the King declared, rising to his feet. "They raid my borders and spit upon the Crown."
He looked around the chamber, voice ringing.
"I, Viserys Targaryen the First, hereby appoint Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen, Princess of Dragonstone and heir to the Iron Throne, as commander of the war to conquer Dorne."
Jasper rose at once. "Your Grace, declaring war so hastily…"
"What is hasty?" Viserys snapped. "They raid my realm while you counsel patience? Should I send them gold and grain instead?"
Jasper faltered. "I only meant…"
"What did you mean?" Viserys pressed, eyes narrowing. "Have you made some secret accord with Dorne?"
"Never," Jasper said quickly. "I swear it."
"Whether that is true will be decided," Viserys said coldly. "Effective immediately, Jasper Wylde is dismissed as Lord of the Law. Corlys Velaryon will assume the office."
The chamber fell silent.
Tyland opened his mouth, then closed it again when Viserys's gaze fixed on him.
"I am the King," Viserys said. "Do not test my will."
Tyland bowed his head.
Only Rhaenyra appeared satisfied.
Corlys, however, felt no triumph. If Viserys had chosen fully to support the Blacks, he had done so far too late.
The Greens were already strong enough to fracture the realm.
And they had dragons.
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A/N:
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