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Chapter Text

It was a slow morning at Scribe’s Hearth, and Maester Dale Florent was bored out of his mind. Watching over the acolytes and correcting their spelling and grammar was bad enough already, and this particular group was not especially entertaining. Or energetic. 

He sighed and pinched his brow as he scratched at the student’s parchment with a pen. “I thought Archmaester Volgrave taught you about subject-verb agreement, Perkyn.”

“He did,” the mousy boy replied, staring at his feet. “I’m sorry.” 

“Don’t apologize. Just get it right next time.” Dale handed him back the paper, and the boy went back to his desk. 

To be honest, the grammar only had minor issues throughout, but it was best to correct these things early. Otherwise, they might be prone to slip-ups out of habit while attempting their pewter link for literacy. Not to mention incur the ire of any passers-by hoping to get the acolytes to copy down a message for them. That was the peril of Scribe’s Hearth, Dale supposed—those unable to read could ask the acolytes to write their letters for them, but they were students, and students weren’t perfect. Which is why Dale was there to help. Better if he caught a misspelled word than some pompous lordling receiving a raven.

Patrons came through regularly enough, so the man entering the stall was unsurprising to see. He was middle aged, clad in a grey doublet carefully embroidered with orange and white detail, and generally looked like he could write his own letters, but Dale never liked to assume such things. “Welcome, my lord,” he said, pointing over to one of the desks near the entrance. “Acolyte Androw can take your message for you.” 

The man ignored him and strode directly up to Dale’s desk. “You’re a maester?” 

Dale leaned back in his chair, meeting the man’s gaze. “Yes. Are you here for help writing a letter or other missive?” 

“Do I look illiterate to you?” 

“No, my lord, but this is Scribe’s Hearth. We do letters here. If you’re looking to join the Citadel instead, I can direct you toward—”

“No,” the man replied, clearly getting annoyed. “I came here for your writing service. I just do not need any help with my own letters. I can read perfectly fine. The issue is one of logistics—my message will need to be copied at least two hundred times, and such busywork would be unbefitting a knight. I am here on the orders of my brother, Lord Hightower.”

Ah. Now it made sense. Ser Jaremy Hightower, younger brother to Lord Eustace, was well-known to some of the other maesters for his rudeness. It seemed Dale now had the pleasure of meeting him in person. “Apologies, Ser. As I said, my acolytes would be happy to take your message down for you.” 

“I don’t want them. I want you. A real maester, who won’t get things wrong. They can make the copies, but they will be copying off of your master note.” Jaremy’s voice was firm. He was used to getting his way. 

Dale, however, was not one to be easily cowed. “Ser, we offer this service for free in order to give our acolytes practice at their letters. Merely copying from another document will not give them the skills they need.” 

Jaremy rolled his eyes and slammed a handful of silver stags onto the desk. “Now?” 

The Citadel could always use donations, that was true enough. Dale swept the coins off the desk and into a little pouch they kept tucked into a drawer. “Very well,” he relented, pulling out a fresh parchment. “What shall I write?” 

The knight cleared his throat. “To all faithful lords and ladies of the land,” he began, “I’m sure the news has reached you on the birth of our king’s newest grandson, Daemon. Alas he is no ordinary babe, but an abomination—yes, Prince Daemon is the grandson of King Jaehaerys through both his father and mother. Parents who themselves are abominations. Such an incestuous pairing is abhorrent to the faith we live by. And yet the king expects us noble folk to accept this child, as well as his brother, parents, and his parent’s siblings, as legitimate heirs to the throne. How can we stand for this? Well, my good lords and ladies, we will not. Lords Tyrell and Hightower have joined forces in rising up—”

Dale cut him off, pausing writing mid-sentence. “Ser, I mean no offense, but is this letter not openly treason?” 

Jaremy barked out a laugh. “Treason? How is it treason to question the legitimacy of one born through sin? For millennia, the kingdoms knew beyond a doubt that incest can only result in abominations. Siblings should not marry. The Targaryens may have convinced a few they were an exception, but their silk words cannot replace the truth. I never signed any doctrines. My father did, my great-uncle did, but my lord brother and I did not. Nor did Lord Tyrell. Why should we be caged by the weakness of those before us?”

Dale stared at him for a moment, pen hovering over the page. He was pretty sure that was still treason. Granted, he wasn’t certain, but any open rebellion against the king couldn’t possibly be legal. 

Hightower tapped the paper impatiently. “Continue?” 

“Right.” Dale shook his head to clear his mind. It wasn’t his treason; he wouldn’t be held accountable for putting ink to parchment with another’s voice. If Jaremy Hightower wanted to get himself beheaded, perhaps the world would be better off for it. “Carry on.” 

“Lords Tyrell and Hightower,” Jaremy repeated, “have joined forces in rising up against these abominations, and we ask for your support as well. We will demand that all children of incest be declared illegitimate, and no more sibling marriages shall be performed by any septon. We do not challenge our king’s throne, only his sins. This decree is made in the name of Lord Eustace Hightower, Lord of Oldtown, with the counsel of both Lord Leo Tyrell and the High Septon.”

Dutiful as he was, Dale copied down every word. When he was done, he showed it to Jaremy for propriety’s sake, and after a nod of approval, set it down on his desk to look for the copying supplies. By the time he had pulled out enough parchment, Ser Jaremy was gone. Which was just as well. No doubt Jaremy’s arrogance would only slow everything down. “Acolytes!” Dale stood up to address the students. “This letter,” he said, holding up the paper, “will need to be copied as many times as possible, to send to all the lords and ladies of the realm. Make sure it is like mine in grammar and spelling. When you are finished, have one of you gather them up and bring them to the rookery. Archmaester Kelwar will help you send them.” 

As his acolytes got to work, Dale’s mind began to wander. And soon so did his feet. He had told them what to do; he trusted them well enough to faithfully copy the letters in his absence. There was a more pressing issue. 

Namely, the Citadel’s very own abomination. Archmaester Vaegon was no friend to Dale, but they sometimes took meals together, or discussed ideas at lecture. He was as close as anyone ever got to that boy. And Vaegon certainly didn’t seem to be an abhorrent, faithless monster. Reserved, studious, blunt at times, yes, but not evil. In all honesty, Dale saw him almost like a younger brother. Much different to Dale’s actual brother, Daryn, who was only eleven minutes younger than Dale but years apart in personality. Hence why Dale had become a maester, and Daryn hadn’t. But Vaegon was a maester too. He wasn’t a villain. 

At least, Dale hoped not.

The archmaester was in his chambers, as Dale had expected. His nose was buried in some tome on Summer Islander trade economics when Dale pushed open the door. “Ah, Vaegon. I hoped you’d be here.” 

Vaegon looked up. “Scribe’s Hearth that dull today?” 

“No. Well, yes, but that’s not why I’m here. I actually took a message myself, that the acolytes are copying now. You might want to hear it.” 

Vaegon closed his book. “Enlighten me, then.”

So Dale told him. When he was finished, he wrung his hands together. “I… know it can’t be easy to hear, with it being your family and all.” 

Silence fell between them for a moment. Vaegon chewed on his lip. “I agree it’s treason,” he finally said, “no matter who in particular signed the Doctrine of Exceptionalism. If lords could refuse edicts formalized decades ago, there would be no structure to Westeros at all. What then would prevent a lord paramount from declaring himself king? Their forefathers bent the knee to Aegon the Conqueror, not them themselves—are all such things so ephemeral? No. It is treason, and my father will take care of it as such.” 

“With fire and blood.” 

“Most likely.” Vaegon shoved his tome back into the overflowing bookshelf next to his desk and stood. “I feel for my nephew—such hostility at barely a moon old can never be warranted—but this folly will not last long. It is a foolish endeavor, but not one we have to worry about.”

But perhaps he should have been worried. No sooner had the words left Vaegon’s mouth than the door burst open. Four heavily-armored guards Dale recognized as part of the Oldtown City Watch stormed into the small room, swords drawn. “Vaegon Targaryen,” one of them bellowed, pointing his sword at the archmaester. “Surrender yourself now.” 

Dale glanced back at Vaegon. He hadn’t said a word, just raised his hands to show he was unarmed, and had taken a few steps back. So Dale spoke up for him. “What for?” he asked, trying to keep his voice steady. 

“Get out of our way, maester.” The guard gestured with his sword. “Our quarrel is with him, not you. I won’t ask again.”

“No!” Dale stood his ground. “We set aside our house names when we take our vows. Whatever your issue with the Targaryens, Vaegon is a maester now. You cannot just come in to the Citadel and demand—” 

A sudden punch to his stomach cut him off, snatching away his breath. When he tried to inhale, he was met with a sudden agony. Blinding-white pain seared through him from his middle. The guard in front of him stepped backwards, and Dale could do nothing but watch in horror as a sword emerged from his abdomen. Blood began to gush from the wound, and Dale slowly sank to his knees. “No, no,” he whispered, clutching at his stomach like he could fix this—but he knew better than that. The curse of a healer, to know when his own wounds would be fatal. Even here in the Citadel, surrounded by maesters, there would be no saving him. Unbidden tears spilled down his cheeks. He didn’t want to die. All he wanted was to protect Vaegon… 

But Vaegon was already being escorted out of the room, guards holding his arms on either side. He gave Dale a pitying glance, clearly shaken, but could do nothing to stop it. “I’m sorry,” Dale thought he might have heard him whisper—but in a moment he was gone. The door slammed shut behind them with a solid thud. And then Dale heard nothing at all. 

Chapter Text

“Your Grace,” Grand Maester Elysar said, holding another letter. “A second raven arrived this morning.” 

“Another?” Jaehaerys turned away from the tower window, arms crossed in front of his chest. “From Oldtown as well?” 

Elysar nodded, and Jaehaerys shot a glance at Alysanne. She moved closer to him and gently put her hand on his shoulder as he took the letter from the maester. Chances were that it would not contain good news. 

He read it quickly, face growing more drawn with every line. “And?” Alysanne finally asked, more anxiety than she would have liked slipping into her voice. “Is it the same as the last?” 

“No.” Jaehaerys handed it to her. “It’s worse. This one was just for us. They’ve specified their terms more directly. They want all our children officially declared illegitimate bastards, and Viserys and Daemon too. They have so generously offered to make an exception for Aemon if we agree promptly, in order to let us keep our heir—apparently his marriage to Jocelyn rather than a sister is enough to allow that much, as long as we promise Rhaenys nor any future sons of theirs marry any of our other grandchildren.” He sighed, running a hand through his long silver hair. “And there’s more. They raided the Citadel. They took Vaegon. They’re keeping him hostage until we give in to their demands.” 

Alysanne’s heart nearly stopped. “Is he hurt?” she asked, scanning the letter as quickly as she could for the mention of him. 

“It doesn’t say.” Jaehaerys grabbed her hand, gently taking the letter from her to place on a side table. “We must assume he is well, at least until we hear otherwise. They won’t want to compromise their chances of us accepting by punishing an innocent young man.”

“Young man,” Alysanne echoed bitterly. “He is a boy. He may be a man grown, but he is hardly eight-and-ten. And our son. Jaehaerys, they could—gods, what will we do? Surely we can not just give in, and yet, for his safety…” 

“I know,” Jaehaerys said. He hesitated a moment, guilt wrenched on his face, then turned to Elysar. “Grand Maester. Fetch Aemon for me, please.” 

Alysanne watched him leave, then looked up at Jaehaerys. She could plainly see the king was blaming himself for the situation. Worry squeezed at her heart like a vice, nearly choking her, but she needed to be strong for him right now. “My love,” she started, “this wasn’t your fault. We did everything right to get the realm to accept our ways.” 

“And what use is doing everything right if it doesn’t even survive my reign? Diplomacy held the peace for less than thirty years. And then Lord Hightower dies, and his son decides he doesn’t want to abide by our agreement? I should have been more overt about our power. Burn a few farms, maybe. They might remember that better than a document.” 

“It was not a mistake to avoid violence, Jaehaerys. Honeyed words and intelligent debate made you far more friends than enemies. The allies we have gathered will support us—allies we may not have if you had attacked our detractors the first time they tried to break us apart.” Alysanne gave him a quick kiss. “We will get through this, too.”

Jaehaerys smiled thinly. “I truly hope you are right.” 

The door to the solar opened then, and Aemon rushed up to them. “Grand Maester Elysar told me there was another raven.” 

“There was.” Jaehaerys handed him the letter and waited for him to read it. “What did Baelon and Alyssa say about the one from yesterday?” 

Aemon had flown to Dragonstone to inform them the previous night, considering the catalyst was the birth of their infant son. His hair was still windswept from the ride back. “They received a copy of their own. It seems Hightower sent it to everyone he could… Not this letter, though. Vaegon… I shall have to tell them of this, too.” He shook his head as if to clear his mind. “But they are troubled. Alyssa is furious. Baelon is worried about his sons’ safety. They both are willing to take up arms against these traitors.” 

“And I expect I shall need them both.” Jaehaerys looked between Aemon and Alysanne. “I am afraid we must prepare for the possibility of war. Aemon, when you return to Dragonstone, tell Baelon to come back to the Red Keep with you on Vhagar. Alyssa will stay on Dragonstone to protect her family with Meleys should anything break through our defenses. I’ll send everyone who isn’t fighting there to join her and the boys—Saera, Viserra, and Gael, plus Jocelyn and Rhaenys.”

He went on, pacing the floor. “I will have to draft a missive to the rest of the realm. If we do not gain their support now, we risk having them be swayed to the rebellion. The Arryns should support us thanks to Daella, and I expect the Baratheons and Velaryons will as well, but the rest… Let us hope the idea of treason gives them enough cause to join our side.”

“And what of those who have already sided with the Hightowers? Most of the Reach seems to support them—House Tyrell has declared for the rebels, of course, as well as Houses Redwyne, Rowan, Costayne, and Peake. So far.” Aemon leaned against the wall. “I saw our master of ships heading for the docks last night as I flew to Dragonstone. No one has seen him return. I would not be surprised if Manfryd Redwyne prefers his own house over ours, and has abandoned our cause.” 

Jaehaerys frowned. “He left his son? What of Ser Ryam?”

“Still around, Father. As are Martyn Tyrell and his wife. If they are disloyal, they have the sense not to show it so brazenly.” 

“I see.” Jaehaerys pursed his lips. “I’ll have to send Ser Gyles to collect them all, keep them under supervision until we can ascertain which side they’re on. I have every hope they remain our friends, but we’d be fools to not consider the possibility of treason.” 

“And what of Septon Barth?” Alysanne asked. “Can we trust him? He has been loyal to us for so long, and yet, as a man devoted to the Faith…”

Jaehaerys paused to think for a moment. “I believe we can. He helped us write the Doctrine; I cannot imagine he would betray us over it now. In fact his counsel may be key to reconciliation, when this is all over. …I may need Maegelle, too. Where have they stationed her now? Maidenpool? I shall send for her as well.”

“I’ll write to her,” Alysanne volunteered. “Let me take that burden off your shoulders, at least.”

“You are too kind to me.” He smiled sadly. “Very well, then. Write to Maegelle. I certainly have plenty to write as it stands. Not only must I send ravens to the undeclared houses, but I shall have to come up with a response to Hightower and Tyrell as well. Let them know in no uncertain terms that we will not give in to their demands. If they do not stand down and return Vaegon, we will have war.” 

Alysanne spoke up quickly. “Perhaps we can make some concessions, to sweeten the deal? Offer to fund more septs and motherhouses, build statues to the Seven?”

“I shall add that.” Jaehaerys sighed. “But even still. Their backing down now is unlikely. We must be prepared to meet their armies with fire and blood.”

“Then make more concessions! Jaehaerys. They have our son. What happens when they lose their first battle? When they are angry and all they have to hurt us with is him? And what if they bring him to war with them, as a human shield? He could be killed by our own dragons!” 

Jaehaerys pressed his lips together, tugging on his beard. “Then let us hope they stand down when we offer them the chance.”

“And if they don’t?”

Jaehaerys looked at her. “Then we have no choice but to risk it.” 

Chapter Text

He was pretty sure his cell was somewhere in the base of the Hightower. 

Whether that was because it was meant to be his permanent prison, or simply because the guards hadn’t secured the rest of the city yet, Vaegon couldn’t be certain. He was, however, sure Lord Hightower was responsible for his kidnapping. It would have been evident enough from the sigils engraved on various guards’ armor and painted on their shields, but going by Dale’s last message, they had a perfect motive for it too. 

Dale. A lump formed in the back of his throat. Vaegon had never seen anyone die before, let alone someone he almost considered a friend. And he had died trying to protect him, which was all in vain because he still got captured anyway, and—why had he done that? Why? What about him was worth dying for? It had been at least three days since he was taken, and the nightmares hadn’t stopped yet.

But there was nothing he could do to change what had happened. Especially not here, in a dark, cold, stone-walled room with a shelf for a bed and nothing inside but a chamberpot and a threadbare blanket. They hadn’t even the courtesy to give him a book to read by the light of the hallway torch. Vaegon had resorted to asking if they would at least give him The Seven Pointed Star so he could read the prayers and have some degree of entertainment, but the guard only spat back that it would blaspheme the gods for an abomination like him to touch the holy texts. 

So Vaegon had little to do but ruminate. He stared through the iron bars of his cell door at the guard’s feet, both hating himself for not stopping Dale from intervening and wondering vaguely when breakfast would arrive. The food was never great, but it was edible, and the little variety it brought to his days was greatly appreciated. 

Footsteps echoed down the hallway, and Vaegon sat up. Most likely the breakfast he’d been waiting for. With the utter lack of things to do in his cell, Vaegon had made a game of guessing what his meals would be. Perhaps stale bread and split pea soup again. Soggy bacon was another possibility. He hadn’t liked the watery carrot porridge they’d given him the first day—he hoped it wouldn’t be that. 

But what arrived was worse than carrot porridge. A tall man with a stern, lined face, short-cropped brown hair, and dressed in fine wool garments stood outside his cell door, arms crossed over his chest. Vaegon recognized the city’s liege immediately: Lord Eustace Hightower. And much to his disappointment, he hadn’t brought a tray of food with him.

“Lord Hightower,” Vaegon said in a cautious tone, not wanting to start things off badly with the man who held his life in his hands.

“Your father has some nerve,” Lord Eustace replied. Mocking, barely-controlled anger broiled behind his voice. “I had expected the next raven I received to be an unconditional surrender, but it seems the king did not have the wits to do so. He has demanded you back, or we ‘shall be destroyed’ and a few other bloated boasts. He offers meaningless concessions—as if a few septs and motherhouses can undo the stench of incest! Does he think he is the Conqueror reborn? Does he think we did not learn from the failures of the First Dornish War? If Dorne resisted, anywhere can. And our loyalty is still true—we do not seek to usurp him or declare our independence. All we ask, the whole of it, is that your family stop bedding your own sisters. Is that so much to ask?” 

Despite his position, Vaegon could not help but feel annoyed. “You took me hostage over this? I was supposed to marry Daella and refused her. I am the closest in my family to being on your side.” Not by much, as he still despised the man in front of him, but saying that would win him no favors. “Why couldn’t you have kidnapped Baelon? He’s actually Daemon’s father.” And could also probably kill half the guards and fight his way home. Vaegon was no fool. Not only was the Citadel where he lived located on Hightower lands, he also had no dragon, pitiful combat skills, and lacked the Kingsguard’s protection. He probably still would have been taken prisoner for blasphemy even if he was a septon in the Starry Sept. 

His only consolation was that Eustace was not getting what he wanted. Lord Hightower had made a crucial mistake already—assuming Jaehaerys and Alysanne cared enough about him for the plan to work. They had evidently refused the deal to free him, after all. …And by the look on Lord Eustace’s face, there would be consequences for that. 

Eustace hadn’t responded to Vaegon’s quip about Baelon, and frankly Vaegon had expected as much. He had not, however, anticipated him instead unlocking his cell door and stepping inside, eyeing him up like he wasn’t sure what to do with him. It was a disdainful expression—as if he didn’t care if Vaegon knew he was judging him. Cold dread crept down his spine. It had always been in the back of his mind before, but he now felt very aware Lord Eustace could execute him on the slightest whim. He already regretted his flippant words.

After a long moment of silence, Vaegon summoned the courage to speak, slowly backing up. “What do you want from me,” he breathed. 

“I’m trying to figure out what sort of message I wish to send.” 

His heart dropped. The implication of that was clear enough. Vaegon was their hostage. Any message to his father, after the offer’s rejection, was most likely going to be proof of his suffering as punishment for the denied demands. And that proof could be anything. If Lord Eustace decided to send his head… well, Oldtown would be burned to the ground within a week, but it would be too late to matter to him, wouldn’t it? There was no way out of here. No way to escape whatever punishment Eustace decided on. His best chance was… to try to pick it himself. It could backfire terribly, but… 

“A vial of blood might work,” Vaegon said, all-too-aware this could be taken as an excuse to slit his throat or cripple him. But if they didn’t kill him with it, it was less cruel a punishment than it could be, and Vaegon knew well from his maester training how to deal with a nasty cut. 

Lord Eustace frowned. “You offer to help me pick your own fate? Why should I go along with what you want?”

“I want this to end peacefully just as you do, my lord.” The address felt thick on his tongue. “It is in both of our best interests to pick a message my father will give in to.” 

“Hmmm.” Lord Eustace leaned against the wall, still scanning him. “And you are certain Jaehaerys will cave upon receiving a vial of your blood? I was thinking of sending a finger or three. It seems a more… coercive message.”

Thank the gods he had said something. His mind raced, struggling to find a justification that might suffice. “It is in our House words, my lord. Fire and Blood. The poignancy will resonate with him. And fire would be more tricky to send, I should think.” 

Lord Eustace chuckled. “So it may be. Blood, then. I'll be back after I gather what I need.”

He disappeared, not locking the door but with an extra guard stationed, and Vaegon sank back against the wall. His heart pounded. 

This feeling of helplessness was horrible. Lord Hightower could still do whatever awful things he wanted when it came down to it, regardless of anything he said. Why had Vaegon ever joined the Citadel? Three years away from the protection of a royal court was all it took for him to end up like this. One of which had practically been wasted just learning what an Archmaester’s duties were and how to teach a class. Was that all he got? Two decent years, only to die at eighteen as a prisoner to rebels who didn’t even hate him for his own actions? This was his family’s doing, not his own. This wasn’t his fault. But what difference did that make to an insane zealot?

The thought of what might be coming sent a shudder through him. He did not like being forced to face his own mortality. That death would come eventually was a given, of course, and Vaegon was not one to shy away from a hard truth, but he had never expected it so soon. He may have saved his fingers, but now he risked bleeding out from a poorly-placed cut. He could only trust Lord Eustace would not want to dispose of his hostage so soon. 

And speaking of, where was Lord Eustace? It seemed as if he was taking forever, though realistically Vaegon knew it had only been a few minutes. It didn’t stop the dread. The worst part was this all could have been prevented with the barest preparation. King Jaehaerys easily could have assigned a Kingsguard to accompany him in the Citadel, make sure he could never be easily targeted for things like these. 

But even as the thought crossed his mind, Vaegon knew he would have rejected the offer. Considered it insulting, even. He had been so naïve...

Eustace returned just then, holding both a small bowl and a wicked-looking knife. The blade glinted in the torchlight. Vaegon could do nothing but stare at it. If he tried to run or fight back, it would only make things worse, and if this had to happen it was best to get it over with. 

“Give me your arm,” Lord Eustace commanded. Vaegon numbly obeyed, letting Lord Hightower grab hold of his right wrist and pull up his sleeve. At least it wasn’t his neck.

The dagger sliced through his forearm in a single glide. Vaegon could not hold back a hiss of pain as it tore his flesh. A line of blood quickly formed, beading up along the length of it, and Eustace held the bowl underneath to catch the droplets as they fell. He squeezed the wound to make sure he had collected enough, and tears sprung involuntarily to Vaegon’s eyes. 

When he finally let go, Vaegon staggered back, clutching his arm. The cut was not deep enough to sever any nerves or tendons, but it still burned as if it were on fire. Lord Eustace didn’t seem to care. He lifted up the bowl, checking the level of liquid within, and nodded. “I’ll have this poured into a vial small enough for a raven to carry. Maybe even write part of the letter with your blood if there’s enough left. That might help convince your father. Don’t you agree?” 

Vaegon nodded blankly.

“Good. I’m glad you have the sense to be agreeable now. …But your audacity earlier cannot go unremarked upon. You are my prisoner; you should not have presumed to dictate your own punishment. It was a decent idea—this time. As such, I shall let you off lightly.” 

Before Vaegon could process what was happening, Lord Eustace swung at him. His fist collided with Vaegon’s cheek, knocking him to the ground in an instant. He barely remembered to catch himself with his uninjured arm.

Eustace had already started to leave, but glanced back at where Vaegon was picking himself back up. “I won’t be so kind the next time you talk back,” he said, and let the door slam shut with a clang. 

Vaegon stared through the bars. His head throbbed. The key turned in the lock, and Lord Hightower left him. His regular guard was still there, but he always was; that made no difference. He didn’t bother asking him for medical supplies. He knew he’d be denied—if Lord Hightower hadn’t cared enough to fetch them along with the knife, the guard under his command certainly didn’t care either. 

Instead, he turned to what little he already had. The blanket he’d been given was thin enough to tear if he pulled at where it was already frayed, and though it hurt to grip it with his injured arm, he could pin it between his knees and pull with his other hand and teeth. It wasn’t long before he managed to tear a thin strip off. Tying it around his arm one-handed was a struggle, but as soon as he managed to get it secured, he effectively had a makeshift bandage. 

It wasn’t perfect. He couldn’t get it tight enough to fully stop the bleeding, so blood was soaking through faster than he’d like, but it was certainly staunching the flow some. Some weak beer would undoubtedly be delivered with his meager breakfast or lunch later, which he’d also be able to pour over the cut to try and prevent a fever—because if one set in under these conditions, he’d be done for. Wine would be better, but prisoners couldn’t exactly be choosy in times like these. 

The wound still stung with every movement he made, every beat of his heart. And the soreness of his cheek told him a bruise was likely forming there as well. Resentment welled up in him. Tears did, too, but Vaegon pressed his lips together to keep them from spilling out. He was better than that. If he wasn’t actively being tortured, he could not lose himself to despair and cry.

Escape was possible. It had to be. If he focused on that, he could take his mind off the agony of his arm, the way his blood had spilled onto the stones exactly how Dale’s had. He just had to pay attention. Be patient. Wait for an opportunity, use his intelligence to devise a plan. 

He could do that. He had nothing to do, and nothing but time.

Chapter Text

Dragonstone was awful, and Saera already wanted to leave.

It was bad enough that she had been shipped off to ‘safety’ from a currently non-existent threat. Saera had hated it from the moment she arrived. King’s Landing had so much more to do, and the Red Keep was bigger, and there were more people to mess with there. It wasn’t like any enemy armies were currently at their gates. How could it be dangerous? But on top of it all, she wasn’t even stuck with people she wanted to be around. Her friends hadn’t been allowed to come. Viserra and Rhaenys still played with dolls, and Viserys was only four and cried whenever she made fun of him. And despite how much Saera pestered Alyssa, she insisted on staying with baby Daemon and Gael in the nursery instead of sparring with her.

So instead Saera sat near the window of their spacious apartments and sighed dramatically, picking at her embroidery. There was nothing to do. This was utterly useless, and worse than that, boring. She tossed the cloth to the ground in a huff as she stood. “Aunt Jocelyn,” she said, heading over to the corner of the room from where her aunt was watching the other kids play. “It’s not fair that I have to be here instead of King’s Landing. Can you please talk to Aemon for me and get him to tell Father I need to go home?” Even if Aemon could only get the king to come here instead, Saera was sure she would be able to convince him by batting her eyes. It was only because Mother had come to collect her and send her off that she was unable to protest.

Jocelyn gave her a look. “I’ve told you this before, Saera. We need to make sure you’re kept safe. Your brother is in trouble, and your father doesn’t want to take the risk of anything happening to you or your little sisters. Nor Rhaenys, nor your nephews. None of you have dragons. And you are all children, besides! You should not concern yourself with the harshness of warfare.”

That got on Saera’s nerves. “I’m not some little girl. I’m nearly a woman grown.” She was four moons away from five-and-ten, and that was only a year away from adulthood—definitely close enough, by her standards. “Daella’s not much older. And I’m far more capable than her! Why does she get to stay at the Eyrie but I get stuck here?”

“Sweetheart.” Though the word was gentle, her tone was firm. “Daella is a woman grown, not just ‘nearly,’ and is married and with child. The journey here would be taxing. And the Eyrie is likely safe enough for her to be—Queen Visenya was only able to take it via dragonback. And our family holds all the dragons. So your sister is safe, and so are you.”

“Well,” Saera said, drawing the syllable out into a lilt, “why can’t I go to the Eyrie then? If it’s so safe? Alyssa or Aemon or Baelon could fly me, I’m sure.” And then return to Dragonstone or King’s Landing, leaving Saera with a freedom she could not easily get under Jocelyn’s watchful eye. Daella wouldn’t stop her from doing whatever she wanted. She’d even probably be fun to mess around with. She was so easy to scare.

But Jocelyn shook her head. “Your brothers are coordinating Vaegon’s rescue, and Alyssa is not going to leave our family undefended just to fly you to the Vale. I’m sorry. There is plenty for you here, though—perhaps you’d have more fun with Gael and Daemon? Rhaenys has loved playing with the babies, and I’m sure Alyssa would appreciate your help.”

Saera rolled her eyes. “If you insist,” she said curtly. “I’ll suppose I’ll find something to do.”

“That’s the spirit.” Jocelyn smiled at her. Saera didn’t smile back.

Embroidery was still unappealing, so instead she glanced over the rest of the room. Rhaenys was rolling a ball back and forth with Viserys, but Viserra was alone. “Viserra,” she said, striding up to her sister with her hands on her hips.

Viserra looked up from the floor, crosslegged, hands paused in the middle of braiding her doll’s hair. “What?”

Saera sat down next to her and leaned in, voice low. “I think I’m going to sneak off of Dragonstone tonight.”

“Really?” Viserra’s eyes widened. “But isn’t it dangerous? And where would you go?”

“It’s not dangerous,” Saera replied with a huff. “They’re just saying that so we don’t bother them. There are no armies near King’s Landing; Baelon told me! So it’s perfectly safe for me to go and rescue Vaegon myself, instead of waiting around here.”

“But I thought he was taken prisoner by our enemies?” Viserra stood as Saera did, still holding her doll. “How are you going to do that? You don’t even have a dragon!”

“Well neither do you!” Saera crossed her arms. “Besides, nobody will expect a girl like me to be a threat. I can probably walk right in there, charm the guards, and bring him home to raucous applause. And then next time Mother will listen to me when I say I don’t need to cower on Dragonstone.”

“So you’re really going, then?”

“That’s the plan.” She hesitated. “But if you tell aunt Jocelyn or anyone, and they ask me, I’ll make sure you get in trouble for it. So don’t.”

“I won’t. I promise.” Viserra smiled earnestly. “Can I come with you, though?”

“What?” Saera frowned. “No. You’re too little.” Viserra was still a moon shy of her tenth nameday—and her being so young would draw more attention than an almost-woman like herself. It would make her too much of a hindrance on the road. Not to mention rations for two people, two horses, room for two at inns…

Viserra dropped her doll. “I’m not too little! I could help you! Be your lookout, maybe. And I want to rescue Vaegon and be a hero too!”

Saera groaned in exasperation. “You can’t. It wouldn’t work. My plan is set up to go alone.” She thought for a moment. “But… maybe you can still help me with part of it. If you want a taste of the recognition, that is.”

Of course she did. Viserra nodded, and Saera smiled. She may not want a companion, but an accomplice could be useful.

The plan was set in motion that evening. Viserra had gotten her a round of hard cheese, several loaves of bread, and a handful of berries all from the kitchens. Saera wrapped the supplies in a cloth, which she then dropped into a leather bag. She stuffed it the rest of the way up with her hairbrush, changes of gowns and smallclothes, and other odds and ends. She set the bundle on her bed, and grabbed some parchment and ink.

This was the tricky part. How to draft a message that would make sure she had a place to go. The ‘who’ and 'where', though, was clear enough—at least one of Jonah Mooton, Roy Connington, and Braxton Beesbury would surely let her stay with them, and more likely all three would. Then she could travel from the Riverlands to Stormlands to Reach, with a comfortable bed guaranteed at least thrice, and finish close to the Citadel. And she could track Vaegon down from there. It was perfect.

She penned three messages in total, each flattering the recipient in a way she was sure they’d cave to. Saera hadn’t known the boys very long, but they already hung onto her every word, and she considered them all close friends. Maybe even something more. Since she would be leaving before she could get a response, she had phrased it to Jonah that she would be coming, and told the other two to redirect their replies to Maidenpool. And that was all—she finished the letters with a signature, blew on the ink to help it dry, and folded them carefully before stamping them with her brother’s wax seal. Stolen from his chambers, of course. Along with several gold coins taken from her father’s chambers, as retribution for sending her to this dreary, boring island in the first place.

Then she had to be patient. It was hours waiting for evening to turn to night, for Jocelyn and Alyssa and Maester Jafer and the rest of the castle to fall asleep so she could sneak around unopposed, but Saera didn’t dare chance a nap. She wanted to leave tonight. And she would not risk sleeping through it.

When the castle had been still for hours, Saera crept out of her room. Her first stop was the rookery. Saera had sent secret letters before, so she already knew how to attach the messages to the raven’s leg and sent them off in the right direction. Easy enough.

Harder was the actual trek out of the castle. Saera had plotted escapades like this before—so she was familiar with the night guard’s patterns and likely-secluded exits—but she'd never had to chance to put her plan in action, and there was always a chance it would go wrong. She would have to be smart about it.

Her disguise was that of a servant’s—a plain cotton gown and apron, and her silver-gold hair tucked under a hood. (She could buy dye from the Free Cities once she reached King’s Landing, but she had none here, so hiding her hair would have to suffice for now.) And she'd had Viserra make sure the stables would be left unlocked, guaranteeing Saera would have an easy ride to the docks. Once she was there, she'd be well on her way. Fishermen were easy enough to bribe. Especially with a pocket of gold dragons.

She reached the stables without a hitch. As soon as she had secured a horse, Saera was riding off. She had supplies for five days—definitely enough to sail to King’s Landing and restock, and that’s only if whoever captained her boat didn’t feed her. And for a gold dragon, he probably would.

Saera smiled as the wind whipped her face as her palfrey galloped for the port. If her parents thought she was in danger before, she’d show them danger. She was out of the castle now. And she was going to save Vaegon on her own.