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King's Landing, Maegor's Holdfast in the Red Keep.
Helena Targaryen sat upon her plush feather-stuffed bed, her voice soft and melodic as she told a bedtime story.
Nestled closely against her, one on either side, were her young twins—Jaehaerys Targaryen and Jaehaera Targaryen. Both children, barely four years old, clung to their mother, their tiny hands curled against the fabric of her gown, their eyelids growing heavier with each passing moment.
As the twins gradually drifted into slumber, Helena raised her gaze and gave a slight nod to the maids standing quietly in the corner of the chamber.
Taking her silent command, they stepped forward with practiced care, lifting the sleeping children into their arms and carrying them away to their own rooms.
With the maids gone, the vast chamber fell into a peaceful stillness.
Left alone, Helena hummed a gentle tune under her breath, her hands delicately working on a small garment she was sewing. The soft candlelight flickered against her fair features, casting dancing shadows across the walls.
Unlike other Targaryens, Helena did not possess the striking, otherworldly beauty that so often defined her kin. But she had a naturally cheerful disposition, a warmth that made her presence a joy to those around her. Had she been wed to any ordinary man, she would have led a simple yet fulfilling life—an ideal wife and a devoted mother.
But fate had not been so kind.
She had been given to Aegon Targaryen.
From a young age, Aegon had displayed an insatiable passion for certain indulgences. For reasons unknown, he harbored a particular distaste for his twin sister.
If not for the persistent urging of their mother, Alicent, or the rare occasions when he was too drunk to resist, he would rather seek pleasure in the cheapest, most wretched brothel in Silk Street than lay a hand upon Helena.
Time passed, and the night deepened. Sleep tugged at her weary mind, and Helena let out a quiet yawn, preparing to put away her sewing for the evening.
It seemed Aegon would not return home tonight.
Whether he was violating some poor maid or had once again sneaked out of the Red Keep, she could not say.
THUD! THUD!
Two dull, heavy sounds echoed from the other side of the door.
Helena tilted her head slightly, glancing toward the chamber entrance. Slowly, she rose to her feet and approached.
CREAK!
"Aegon? Is that you?"
Believing it to be her drunken husband returning at last, she pulled the door open—only to be met with a horrifying sight.
Two Red Keep guards lay sprawled upon the floor, unmoving, their lifeless bodies a stark contrast against the dimly lit corridor.
Before she could even part her lips to scream, a large, gloved hand shot out from the darkness, clamping tightly over her mouth. Another seized her wrists in an iron grip, locking them behind her back.
A voice, low and forcibly restrained, sounded beside her ear.
"We have no personal quarrel with you… but blood must be repaid with blood."
The speaker was Jacaerys Velaryon, his face shadowed beneath the hood of his dark cloak.
SHING!
From the shadows, another figure emerged—a man who had remained silent until now.
Daemon Targaryen.
With neither hesitation nor mercy, he drew a dagger that gleamed coldly in the dim candlelight, stepping forward with purpose.
"Mmph! Mmmph!"
Helena's body jerked violently as she struggled, her muffled cries barely audible behind the firm grip over her lips. Desperation flashed in her pale violet eyes, as though she wished to speak, to plead—
THUD!
But Daemon did not waver.
With a swift, practiced motion, he drove the dagger into her abdomen.
His strike was precise. The blade avoided any immediately fatal organs, ensuring that the wound would not be instantly lethal.
"Let's go," Jacaerys ordered in a hushed but urgent tone.
Without another word, he released his hold on Helena.
"Aaaaaahhhh!!!"
The princess's agonized scream tore through the silence of Maegor's Holdfast, echoing through the halls like a wounded animal's cry.
But by the time the Red Keep guards arrived at the scene, their hurried footsteps filling the corridor, Jacaerys and Daemon were already gone.
Guided by Daemon, who knew every hidden passage within the Red Keep, they vanished into the depths of a secret tunnel, escaping into the night.
Had they wished, they could have bound Helena or knocked her unconscious, buying themselves more time to flee.
But that would have been too great a risk. If no one discovered her in time, she could have bled out before help arrived.
Jacaerys Velaryon was a man of honor—one who settled debts fairly.
Alicent Hightower had intervened to prevent the assassins from carrying out their mission on his father's orders, choosing not to take Jacaerys's life.
This was his way of returning the favor.
---
"Princess Helena!"
"Seven Hells, get Maester Orwyle at once!"
The moment the Red Keep guards reached the fallen princess, they scrambled to action.
Several pressed their hands to her wound, attempting to stem the bleeding, while others rushed to fetch the Grand Maester, who resided within the castle walls.
"L-Lord, my… my children…"
Helena's voice, weak and trembling, barely managed to escape her lips. But before she could say more, the pain overwhelmed her, and her consciousness slipped away.
Moments later, Prince Aemond was the first to arrive.
His single remaining eye went wide at the sight before him. His older sister, sprawled across the floor, a pool of blood expanding beneath her.
Aemond's jaw clenched, his breath sharp and furious as he turned his gaze upon the surrounding guards.
"You incompetent fools!" he roared. "Is this what you call protecting my sister? What in the name of the gods happened here?!"
"Prince Aemond!" one of the guards stammered, his face pale. "The two men stationed here… they are dead. We… we do not know what happened…"
"Useless! Every last one of you is utterly useless!"
His fury crackled through the air, his shouts reverberating off the stone walls. As he raged, hurried footsteps echoed through the corridor, growing louder with each passing moment. Then, Maester Orwyle appeared, breathless and disheveled.
His robes were hastily thrown over his nightclothes, his graying hair in disarray—it was clear he had been roused from sleep.
"Out of the way!" he barked. "Make space—bring her inside at once!"
Several maids rushed forward, lifting Helena and carrying her back into her chamber, where Orwyle immediately began attending to her wound.
CLICK! CLICK! CLICK!
Then, in a flurry of motion, Queen Alicent Hightower arrived.
Her face was ashen, her breath uneven, and her trembling hands clutched desperately at the folds of her gown. Behind her stood Ser Criston Cole, his expression grim, one hand resting on the hilt of his sword.
The moment Alicent learned that Helaena had been stabbed in the abdomen, her expression turned grave. Her lips moved ceaselessly, muttering inaudible words under her breath, as if lost in frantic thought or silent prayer.
Not long after, Ser Otto Hightower arrived from the Tower of the Hand, his face a mask of cold calculation.
CREAK—
Just as he was about to speak, the doors to Helaena's chamber swung open, revealing Maester Orwyle. His hands were stained with blood, and his face was weary.
"Your Grace, Lord Hand, Prince Aemond," he addressed them formally.
"Enough with the pleasantries!" Aemond barked impatiently. "Just tell us—is Helaena alright?"
"Silence, Aemond!" Alicent snapped, her voice sharp with reprimand. Then, turning back to Orwyle, she urged him, "Please, continue."
The maester cast a brief glance at Aemond's poor demeanor before turning to the queen and speaking in a solemn tone.
"Your Grace, Princess Helaena's wound is not fatal," he assured her. "I have managed to stop the bleeding. As long as she does not develop a fever, she should recover with time. However…"
He paused for a moment before continuing in a lower voice, "the child in her womb could not be saved."
"Oh… Maelor!"
The moment Alicent heard those words, tears welled up in her eyes and spilled down her cheeks.
Helaena had only been with the child for a little over two months. She and Alicent had chosen the name Maelor together, their hearts full of hope for the little life growing within her.
But who could have foreseen that something so terrible would happen within the very walls of the Red Keep, a place that should have been safe?
Aemond had never been particularly close to his brother Aegon, but he held great affection for Helaena. Upon hearing that her third child had been lost to such a cruel fate, he clenched his jaw so tightly that his teeth ground against each other. His voice erupted into a furious roar.
"Why?! Why would anyone try to assassinate Helaena?!"
"Perhaps because of Baela Targaryen."
The voice that answered was calm, devoid of the grief or rage that filled the room. It belonged to Ser Otto Hightower.
The old man's face remained impassive, as if the loss of Maelar did not touch him—despite the fact that the child would have been his great-grandson.
Aemond turned sharply to his grandfather. "Grandfather, what connection does Helaena have to Baela?"
"I just received word," Otto replied evenly. "Baela was sent back to Dragonstone today by Jacaerys. On her journey through the Stepstones, she was attacked by one of Ser Rickard's retainers—stabbed in the abdomen. A daughter, struck in the stomach. And now, another daughter, wounded in the same place.
"Perhaps someone might believe that the attack on Baela was ordered by Queen Alicent. Perhaps this is an act of vengeance."
His words were laced with perhaps and maybes, yet the certainty in his voice left little doubt—Otto Hightower had already decided who was responsible for today's tragedy.
"Jacaerys… Daemon!"
Aemond's single eye blazed with fury. Without another word, he turned and stormed out of the room.
"Aemond! Where are you going?!"
His mother's voice called after him, but he did not stop, and did not even look back. Within moments, he had vanished around the corner of the hallway.
Alicent's breath trembled, but she quickly composed herself. She turned to Ser Criston Cole.
"Ser Criston, have the city bells rung. Place all of King's Landing under lockdown!"
She paused, glancing around the room as if searching for something—or someone—before adding, "And… find Aegon. Bring him here at once."
"As you command, Your Grace."
---
King's Landing, Fisherman's Square, south of the city.
Jacaerys Velaryon and his companion moved swiftly through the darkness, making their way toward the River Gate.
Also known as the Mud Gate, it was the same gate where, in years to come, Tyrion Lannister would unleash wildfire upon Stannis Baratheon's fleet.
The plan for this blood-for-blood retaliation had been carried out in absolute secrecy. Naturally, Jacaerys and his companion could not have their dragons fly openly into the city to retrieve them. Instead, the beasts had been concealed in the royal forest just south of King's Landing, hidden from prying eyes.
Now, all that remained was to slip away unnoticed, mount their dragons, and take flight—bound for Sunspear in Dorne, where they would pay their respects to Prince Qoren Martell.
But then—
BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!
The deep, sonorous toll of bells echoed through the night.
Throughout King's Landing, every Gold Cloak soldier who had been dozing off was jolted awake in an instant.
This was the signal for a city-wide lockdown. It meant something significant had happened.
For the common folk, this meant no one would be allowed to enter or leave the city freely.
But for Jacaerys and his companion, this lockdown was of little consequence. They had already made arrangements. The captain of the Gold Cloaks stationed at the River Gate had once served under Daemon's command and still held some lingering loyalty toward him.
That very afternoon, the two had met in secret with the captain, ensuring they had a clear escape route when the time came.
But fate had a cruel sense of timing.
A patrol unit, stirred by the alarm bells and ordered to reinforce the River Gate, unexpectedly changed course. As they made their way to their new post, their path intersected with Jacaerys and his companion—moving swiftly under the cover of night.
"Who goes there?! Stop where you are!"
No time to hesitate—run!
With their agility and Daemon's intimate knowledge of King's Landing's every alley and passage, the two quickly put distance between themselves and the pursuing guards. The shouts of the Gold Cloaks echoed behind them, their heavy boots pounding against the cobbled streets as they gave chase.
But the commotion did not go unnoticed.
A pair of sharp eyes had been watching from above, and the night sky soon bore witness to something far more fearsome than a squad of guards.
WHOOSH! WHOOSH!
A deep, powerful gust of wind rolled through the streets as a colossal shadow blotted out the moonlight, casting its vast darkness over Fisherman's Square.
From the skies above, Aemond Targaryen descended upon them astride Vhagar, the monstrous she-dragon's wings beating like a storm, her massive form blocking out the heavens as she dove toward Jacaerys and his fleeing companion.
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[Chapter End's]
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