The moon hung pale and thin above King's Landing, half-hidden behind drifting clouds that moved like spirits across the night sky.
Below, the capital of the Seven Kingdoms slept uneasily.
The winding alleys of Flea Bottom were quieter than usual, their taverns emptied early by fear and rumor. The smell of stale ale, piss, and smoke lingered in the cold air while hungry dogs prowled through refuse-strewn streets searching for scraps. Along the city walls, torchfires flickered against stone battlements where nervous guards stared out into darkness, half-expecting Robert Baratheon's army to appear from the night itself.
Fear had changed the city.
People spoke in whispers now.
Every knock at the door sounded like death. Every passing rider carried rumors of defeat. Every raven from the Riverlands tightened the noose around the capital's throat.
And at the center of it all stood the Red Keep, looming above King's Landing like a black shadow.
Within its walls, the night was anything but peaceful.
Prince Damon Targaryen moved silently through the stone corridors of Maegor's Holdfast, his long black cloak trailing behind him like smoke. The torchlight painted shifting gold across his pale features, sharpening the coldness in his violet eyes.
Two men followed several paces behind.
Neither wore noble colors.
Dark leather armor hugged their bodies, plain and unmarked save for the small three-headed dragon stitched subtly into the inside of their gloves—a hidden sign recognized only by Damon's inner circle.
Ser Harrold Waters walked closest beside him, broad-shouldered and grim-faced, one hand resting near the hilt of his sword.
"Everything is prepared," Harrold muttered quietly.
Damon nodded once.
Tonight was not a battle.
Battles were loud.
Tonight was surgery.
Careful.
Precise.
Necessary.
The stairwell leading downward into the lower levels of the Red Keep loomed ahead, descending into darkness where torchlight barely reached. The deeper tunnels beneath the castle smelled of damp stone, ash, and old secrets.
Damon slowed near the entrance.
"Lord Rossart dies first," he said calmly.
His voice carried no emotion.
No hesitation.
Only certainty.
Harrold inclined his head slightly. "How?"
Damon glanced toward the darkness below.
"Quietly."
His lips curved faintly.
"No screams. No fire. I want his body discovered at dawn, where everyone can see it."
"And the Alchemists' Guild?"
"Leave enough wildfire on him to send a message."
Harrold's expression hardened.
"As you command."
Rossart.
Master pyromancer. Madman.
If Aerys Targaryen was the spark threatening to destroy King's Landing, Rossart was the oil feeding the blaze.
Damon knew the story too well.
Damon looked toward the three assassins who had emerged from the shadows, waiting silently behind Harrold.
"Make it clean," he ordered.
The men bowed immediately.
Then, without another word, they disappeared into the darkness below.
Damon watched them go.
A strange calm settled over him.
This was the first true death ordered by his hand.
Not in battle. Not in self-defense.
Execution.
Necessary… but execution nonetheless.
He felt no guilt.
Only inevitability.
Rossart's death was necessary.
That was enough.
He turned away from the stairwell.
"Now," Damon murmured, "we deal with Ser Jaime Lannister."
The corridors near Queen Rhaella's chambers were silent except for the crackling of a single torch burning in an iron bracket upon the wall.
Two Kingsguard stood watch before the queen's door in gleaming white armor.
Ser Jaime Lannister and Ser James.
Both men straightened immediately upon seeing Damon approach.
Jaime's emerald eyes narrowed slightly.
Even at seventeen, Jaime possessed the effortless confidence of a man born beautiful and talented beyond reason. Golden hair framed a face that looked more suited for songs than war, yet Damon knew exactly how deadly he truly was.
One of the greatest swordsmen Westeros would ever see.
And one of the most important pieces on Damon's table.
"Prince Damon," Jaime greeted respectfully.
Damon offered a faint nod.
"Ser Jaime. Ser James."
James bowed his head slightly.
"Is something wrong, my prince?"
Damon let a flicker of urgency enter his expression.
"The king requests your presence in the throne room immediately."
Both knights stiffened subtly.
At this hour?
Jaime exchanged a glance with Ser James before looking back toward Damon.
"Both of us?" Jaime asked carefully.
"Yes."
Damon stepped closer, lowering his voice slightly.
"His Grace is… agitated tonight."
That alone explained everything.
Aerys' nighttime summons were infamous within the Red Keep. Sometimes he demanded counsel. Sometimes he screamed accusations for hours. Sometimes men simply vanished afterward.
Jaime frowned.
"The Lord Commander sent no message."
"The king trusts few men these days," Damon replied smoothly. "He sent word through me."
Jaime studied him carefully.
For one dangerous moment, Damon wondered if the young lion sensed something beneath the surface.
But Jaime was at this time still honorable and foolish.
And honorable men were predictable.
"Very well," Jaime said at last. "We obey."
Damon inclined his head.
"My own guards will watch over the queen while you attend His Grace."
Two of Damon's loyal men stepped forward from the shadows, dressed in the armor of ordinary city guards.
James looked uncertain but ultimately nodded.
No one wished to question royal blood when dealing with Aerys' madness.
The two Kingsguard departed down the corridor, white cloaks shifting behind them like pale ghosts.
Damon watched silently until they disappeared around the corner.
Then he moved.
Fast.
"Separate them," he ordered quietly.
One of his men immediately broke away down an intersecting corridor.
Moments later came the sound of hurried footsteps and muffled shouting.
Ser James's voice echoed faintly.
"What? Slow down..."
The distraction worked perfectly.
Jaime frowned as his companion vanished after the supposed messenger.
Now he walked alone.
Exactly as planned.
The corridor ahead narrowed into a torchlit passage connecting toward the Great Hall. The walls here were older, rougher stone, with alcoves sunk deep into shadow.
Perfect terrain for an ambush.
Jaime slowed slightly.
Instinct.
A lifetime of training prickled at the back of his neck.
Something felt wrong.
Too quiet.
His hand drifted subtly toward the hilt of his sword.
Then the shadows moved.
A figure exploded from the darkness behind him with terrifying speed.
Jaime reacted instantly, spinning—
—but another man stepped from the alcove ahead, sword already drawn.
Steel flashed.
Jaime's blade cleared halfway from its scabbard before someone slammed into his arm from behind.
"Seven hells—"
A third attacker seized his wrist.
A fourth blocked his retreat.
Jaime moved beautifully even in surprise, twisting hard enough to break one man's grip before driving an elbow into another's throat. A sword hilt cracked toward his temple—
—and stopped.
"Don't."
The voice cut cleanly through the chaos.
Prince Damon emerged slowly from the shadows.
Calm.
Jaime froze. His eyes darted between the armed men surrounding him.
Six total. All disciplined, not assassins, soldiers, Damon's soldiers. Realization hit instantly.
"This is treason," Jaime hissed.
Damon tilted his head slightly.
"Perhaps."
Jaime's jaw clenched.
"You dare attack the Kingsguard?"
"I dare many things."
The prince's voice remained maddeningly calm.
Jaime tried once more to draw his sword—
—and found another blade suddenly resting against his throat.
Harrold Waters stood beside him now, expression grim.
"You'll put up no struggle tonight, Ser Jaime," Damon said softly. "You are worth more alive than dead."
Jaime stared at him in disbelief.
"Why?"
Damon stepped closer until only inches separated them.
"Because you would get in my way. Trust me, this is better than you becoming a king slayer."
Jaime blinked.
For the first time, uncertainty flickered across his face.
"What are you talking about?"
Damon smiled faintly.
"You wouldn't understand."
Then his expression hardened.
"Take him."
Jaime exploded into motion immediately.
Even disarmed, he fought viciously.
A punch shattered one man's nose. Another doubled over as Jaime drove a knee into his stomach. But numbers overwhelmed skill. Harrold struck Jaime across the back of the head with the pommel of his sword while two others forced his arms behind him.
Chains snapped shut around his wrists.
Breathing heavily, Jaime glared murderously at Damon.
"You think this ends well for you?"
Damon met his gaze evenly.
"No," he admitted quietly. "I think it ends perfectly for me, not too sure about anyone else though."
Then he turned away.
Jaime's furious shouting echoed through the corridor as they dragged him toward the hidden stairways descending into the black cells beneath the Red Keep.
Damon never looked back.
Elsewhere, beneath King's Landing, Rossart died screaming.
The old pyromancer stumbled drunkenly through the lower tunnels beneath the Alchemists' Guild, clutching a lantern in one shaking hand while muttering to himself about sacred fire and divine purification.
He never saw the first assassin.
A cloth wrapped around his mouth from behind.
Rossart jerked violently in panic.
The second man drove a dagger deep beneath his ribs.
The pyromancer convulsed.
Blood spilled hot across his green robes.
"Mmmphhh...!"
A third blade pierced his throat.
Rossart collapsed against the stone wall, choking on his own blood while his attackers lowered him silently to the ground.
His lantern rolled away across the tunnel floor.
One assassin knelt beside him.
Rossart's eyes bulged in terror.
Then the dagger slid fully across his throat.
The master pyromancer died gurgling in darkness.
Hours later, just before dawn, his corpse appeared discarded in an alley beside the Alchemists' Guild, and someone had carved a single word into the wall above his body using blood.
TRAITOR.
By sunrise, panic had spread through the Red Keep.
Servants whispered frantically in corners.
And King Aerys descended fully into madness.
"TREASON!"
The scream echoed through the throne room loudly enough to silence every courtier present.
Aerys paced before the Iron Throne like a rabid animal, his filthy robes trailing behind him while spit flew from his lips.
"Traitors everywhere! Spies! Murderers!"
Grand Maester Pycelle trembled visibly.
"Your Grace," he stammered, "perhaps Ser Jaime simply abandoned his post—"
"LIAR!"
Aerys hurled a goblet across the hall.
Wine exploded against stone.
"No one abandons me! They steal my knights now! They murder my servants!"
His bloodshot eyes darted wildly around the chamber.
"Varys!"
The eunuch stepped forward gracefully.
"Yes, Your Grace?"
"Find them."
Varys bowed his head smoothly.
"As you command."
Damon stood silently among the gathered nobles, watching the chaos unfold.
Inside, he felt nothing but cold satisfaction.
Rossart was dead.
Jaime was secured.
Two major pieces were removed from the board.
And still no one suspected him.
Perfect.
The days afterward grew darker.
Tension infected every corner of the capital.
Aerys ordered dozens arrested on suspicion of treason. Servants vanished nightly. Gold cloaks dragged screaming men from homes while the king muttered endlessly about hidden enemies.
Damon quietly encouraged the paranoia.
His agents whispered rumors into taverns, and false evidence appeared in suspicious places. Minor lord disappeared in the night.
Each death fed the king's madness further.
Soon, even the few loyalists remaining feared speaking openly, but what nobody knew was that King's Landing no longer belonged to Aerys Targaryen; it belonged to Damon.
He had conquered the city without banners or battles.
Only shadows, Aerys had gotten rid of anyone who remained who wasn't one of Damon's people.
Deep beneath the Red Keep, Jaime Lannister sat chained within the black cells.
The air there smelled of mold, blood, and damp stone.
Days blurred together in darkness broken only by occasional torchlight when guards brought food and water.
Guards loyal only to Damon.
Jaime demanded answers constantly.
"What does he want?"
"Where is the king?"
"Why keep me alive?"
No one answered.
Sometimes Damon visited personally.
Never for long.
They would stand separated by iron bars while silence stretched between them.
Finally, Jaime spat one evening, "You're planning something."
Damon regarded him calmly.
"That obvious, was the chains a giveaway?"
"What?"
"The survival of my family."
Jaime laughed bitterly.
"By kidnapping the Kingsguard?"
Damon's eyes darkened slightly.
"You'll thank me one day."
Jaime stared at him like he'd gone insane.
Perhaps he had.
Then came the raven.
The message arrived shortly after dawn beneath skies heavy with rainclouds.
Damon sat alone in his chambers when the bird landed upon the windowsill, black feathers slick with mist.
He removed the parchment slowly.
The royal seal cracked beneath his fingers.
His eyes moved across the words once.
Then again.
And then slowly he smiled.
Thin and cold.
"The Battle of the Trident has begun," he murmured.
Far away in the Riverlands, beneath storm-dark skies, destiny unfolded in blood and steel.
The royal host met the rebel armies along the rushing waters of the Trident. Tens of thousands of men collided beneath banners snapping violently in the wind.
Dragon against stag.
Prince Rhaegar Targaryen rode at the center of the royal lines atop a black destrier clad in silver armor chased with rubies that gleamed like drops of blood across his breastplate.
Across the river, Robert Baratheon roared like a storm given flesh, raising his massive warhammer toward the heavens.
When the two armies crashed together, the world itself seemed to shake.
And at the heart of it, the prince of prophecy met the rebel lord destined to kill him.
Men screamed and drowned red beneath the river currents.
Rubies scattered into the water like falling stars.
Back in King's Landing, Damon folded the letter carefully and set it upon the desk beside him.
Then he rose and walked toward the balcony overlooking the city.
Smoke curled upward from thousands of chimneys beneath the pale morning sun. The bells of the Great Sept rang faintly across the capital while gulls wheeled high above Blackwater Bay.
The city looked peaceful from here.
But Damon knew better.
The storm had truly begun.
And soon it would arrive at King's Landing's gates.
When it did fire, and blood would decide the future of Westeros, the Targaryen dynasty would not fall.