NOVEL NEXT Chapter 31: The Queen Of Conquest part 2
King's Landing — Red Keep
The tension in the Red Keep was palpable. Signs of dissent had emerged, and allegiances were quietly solidifying. Key figures moved about under heavy guard or donned armor in anticipation of the storm brewing just beneath the surface.
Within the hidden tunnels of the Keep, the two princes—Aegon and Aemond—navigated the shadows. Their destination was Aemond's chambers. Upon arrival, Aegon assisted his brother in fastening his black armor, his mood contrasting sharply with Aemond's stoic intensity.
"Relax, brother," Aegon said lightly, though his tone carried a touch of mockery. "If all hell breaks loose and we can't reach our dragons, we'll head to Lady Moon Fairy's ship. She's got fifty men loyal to her. They'll get us to our fleet."
Aemond ignored his brother's attempts to ease the tension, focusing instead on the task at hand. Fully armored, the pair moved through the tunnels again, this time toward Aegon's chambers. As they approached, Aegon, always alert despite his outward demeanor, noticed a shadow in his quarters.
With a flick of his robes, he produced a dagger and slipped through the hidden entrance. Without hesitation, he plunged the blade into the neck of an intruder. The man collapsed, gurgling as his life drained away.
"Tsk!" Aegon muttered, letting the body fall unceremoniously.
Before he could fully recover, another assailant lunged at him. This one, however, lost his head in a single, decisive swing of Blackfyre, the famed sword of kings. Aegon wiped the blood splatter from his face, his disgust evident. "Well, I suppose you were right, brother. My robes are ruined."
"Whose men are these?" he asked, washing his hands and hair in a nearby water basin.
"I've never seen them before," Aemond replied, his eyes scanning the room.
Aegon scowled but said nothing more, donning black armor like his brother's. He buckled on an ornate one-handed sword, a gift from their cousin, engraved with the words "Watch unto Me." After securing the blade, he added a silken purple scarf and helm before turning to Aemond.
"Well, look at you," Aemond said with a rare smirk. "Almost knightly."
"Tsk. Let's go," Aegon replied curtly. "We head to Silk Street, then to the docks. We'll wait for our dear sister."
The Hand's Tower
Otto Hightower sat at his desk, the dim light of the chamber casting sharp shadows across his weathered face. Outside, the flurry of wings signaled the arrival of yet another raven. The messages came steadily, each one carrying whispers from his network of spies across King's Landing.
"The dragons have left the castle," read one note. He leaned back, the faintest smirk touching his lips—his grandchildren had slipped away.
Another scroll bore darker tidings: "Two intruders have been dispatched in the princes' chambers." Otto's smirk faded as his eyes narrowed. Threats had been closer than anticipated, but the danger had been contained.
Surrounded by guards and a lattice of spies, Otto moved with the precision of a man who understood the stakes. Every move he made was calculated, designed to shield his daughter, Queen Alicent, while subtly steering the city's chaos. He ensured that information about the princes' whereabouts trickled out only after they had moved on, keeping them safe while leaving no opportunity for rival factions to rally.
His movements were like a snake's—silent, deliberate, and deadly. Ravens flitted in and out of the tower with messages, street urchins carried whispered orders, and shadowy figures entered and exited, unnoticed by all but those who knew to look.
The city guard seemed aimless to the uninformed, but Otto's hand guided them into key positions, creating invisible paths that led the princes toward safety. The docks were their ultimate destination, the domain of the remnants of Helaena's fleet.
The docks were not merely a port but a fortress of loyalty, gifted to Helaena by the Lord of Bloodfort. Mercenaries and merchants under her banner controlled the area, a stranglehold on the city's maritime lifeline. Two flags flew above the ships: the Targaryen banner atop, and beneath it, the sigil of the Red Throne encircled by a winged serpent—a mark of allegiance to the Stepstones and the Pirate Prince.
For the nobility aligned with Rhaenyra—houses like the Redwynes, Tyrells, and Northerners—the docks were a safe zone. Their influence waned where Helaena's hold began.
The other paramount lords, blinded by their hubris, had yet to act decisively. Otto had sown the seeds of division carefully, ensuring their focus remained elsewhere. The Vale, once a bastion of stability, was now embroiled in internal strife—another fire Otto wanted to go out soon.
The Hand stared at the map before him, every piece on the board moving to his will. For now, the princes were safe, and the game continued.
The Narrow Sea
The Velaryon fleet, hundreds strong, waited in the Narrow Sea, an imposing testament to Corlys Velaryon's naval supremacy. Among his lords, tension simmered, particularly regarding the fleet commanded by his grandson—the so-called Pirate Prince.
"They respect him," one nobleman said disdainfully, referring to the pirates under the young prince's banner. "But not us."
Vaemond Velaryon, Corlys's brother, laughed heartily. "Naïve as ever, my lord. Those women are not mere passengers; they are warriors. Last of their kind, if the stories are true. Outnumbered two to one, they defended their island against slavers. Fifteen remain. None of their enemies lived."
Corlys's expression softened as he looked to the horizon, scanning for a dragon in the skies. His grandson, the one who made him feel like he had not failed as a father, had not yet arrived.
Then it came—the piercing shriek of the Sky Serpent. The long, snake-like dragon twisted through the clouds, its massive form cutting a path across the heavens. On its head sat the Pirate Prince, his silhouette stark against the night. The dragon's roar sent shivers down the spines of even seasoned sailors, its arrival a harbinger of destruction.
The prince's whistle cut through the air, sharp and commanding. The pirates aboard his fleet stiffened in fear, knowing what often followed that sound—fire, blood, and death. But Corlys replied with a deep horn blast, a signal of unity. Vaemond followed suit, his own horn ringing out.
Another sound joined theirs—the call of the Summer Islanders, whose ships flew a green flag with a crocodile crossed by spears.
Corlys exchanged a knowing glance with Vaemond. "Someone important is aboard those ships," he remarked as the prince's dragon swooped low over the Velaryon fleet, its shadow falling like an omen.