c2: Escape from King's Landing
Soon, the old maid led Viserys down from Maegor's Holdfast toward the great hall prepared within the inner keep.
Maegor's Holdfast often called Maegor's Tower stood at the heart of the Red Keep, surrounded by its own dry moat and protected by walls so thick that even wildfire might struggle to breach them. Built by King Maegor the Cruel, it was a fortress within a fortress, designed precisely for moments like this when treachery and siege loomed over King's Landing.
The hall on the lower level, though sometimes used for feasts and courtly gatherings, was now stripped of music and laughter. It could indeed hold a hundred nobles in times of celebration, but today it was filled with armed men instead.
Sunlight poured through tall arched windows, striking polished shields and catching on the steel edges of swords. Silver mirrors along the walls reflected flickering candlelight, multiplying the glow until the chamber seemed unnaturally bright, as if the castle itself were trying to deny the darkness gathering outside its walls.
Above, a narrow gallery ran along the second level, its carved wooden panels depicting dragons in flight. Heavy brocades hung between stone pillars, embroidered with the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen black on a field of red. Two great banners flanked the entrance, their fabric barely stirring in the still air.
But the mood was anything but ceremonial.
Viserys stepped inside beside the old maid and immediately noticed the tension. Guards clustered in small groups, fastening sword belts, checking crossbows, strapping on greaves. The red cloaks of the City Watch mingled with household guards loyal to the crown.
The rebellion had reached the capital.
After the death of Rhaegar Targaryen at the Battle of the Trident slain by Robert Baratheon the balance of the war had shattered. Lord Tywin Lannister was said to be marching toward King's Landing under the pretense of loyalty. No one within the Red Keep truly believed that anymore.
Viserys and the maid drew several glances as they entered, but most of the men quickly returned to their preparations. Steel rasped against whetstone. Leather creaked. Low voices murmured of gates, of betrayal, of wildfire.
"Your Highness."
A middle-aged knight with greying black hair looked up from the longsword he was wiping clean. He wore practical leather armor rather than gilded plate, his riding boots still dusted from patrol.
He inclined his head respectfully.
Viserys recognized him at once.
"Ser Willem," he replied.
Willem Darry had long served House Targaryen with quiet loyalty. Though not a Kingsguard knight clad in white, he was trusted within the Red Keep and had close ties to the royal family. In years to come should fate follow its cruel course, it would be Ser Willem who spirited Viserys and his newborn sister across the Narrow Sea to Braavos.
But that future had not yet fully unfolded.
Ser Willem's brother, Ser Jon Darry of the Kingsguard, had ridden with Prince Rhaegar and survived the Trident, though the realm was in chaos and allegiances uncertain.
Another figure turned at the sound of voices a tall young knight in white enameled armor, the cloak of the Kingsguard falling in pale folds behind him.
His golden hair caught the sunlight.
Viserys met his gaze.
"Ser Jaime."
Jaime Lannister inclined his head only slightly. He was newly sworn to the Kingsguard, the youngest ever appointed, chosen by King Aerys in part to spite Lord Tywin Lannister by taking his heir from Casterly Rock.
His hand rested lightly on the hilt of his sword.
Though Jaime had not served long at court, he was no fool. He studied the boy before him with a faint, unreadable expression. The second prince had always been proud, quick-tempered, prone to childish outbursts.
Today, however, something seemed altered.
Viserys stood straighter.
His bow was measured, almost formal.
His eyesnpale lilac like his brother Rhaegar's held an intensity uncommon in a child of seven.
Jaime's fingers tightened subtly around the pommel of his blade. In these halls, loyalties were shifting like sand. The king raved of burning the city rather than surrendering it. The Alchemists' Guild had been summoned repeatedly. Whispers of hidden caches of wildfire beneath King's Landing spread among the guards.
Everyone sensed that something irreversible was approaching.
Viserys walked past them, ignoring the weight of their stares. Though his heart pounded fiercely against his ribs, he forced his steps to remain even.
Resilience had always been part of him.
In the memories that now blended within his mind, he had endured hunger in foreign cities, insults from magisters, and the constant humiliation of dependence. Whether those experiences belonged to the future or some other life, the endurance remained.
Adversity did not crush him.
It hardened him.
Beyond the walls of the Red Keep, the bells of King's Landing had not yet begun to ring but soon they would. Soon the Lannister banners would enter the city. Soon blood would stain the steps of the Iron Throne.
And when that moment came, escape would no longer be a choice.
It would be survival.
Viserys stepped forward through the guarded hall until he reached the raised seat at its center. There, beneath hanging banners of the three-headed dragon, sat a silver-haired woman dressed in black and deep crimson velvet, her hands resting protectively over her swollen belly.
He lowered his head at once and bowed.
"Mother."
The air inside Maegor's Holdfast felt suffocating, thick with dread. Armed men lined the walls, and even the candles seemed to burn more dimly, as though afraid of what the day would bring. Viserys sensed the tension but had not yet been told everything.
"Viserys."
A weary voice drifted down to him.
Queen Rhaella Targaryen leaned forward and wrapped her arms around the boy, pulling him against her. Her embrace was tight—desperate. She pressed her cheek against his silver hair.
"My child…"
"There is something terrible I must tell you."
Viserys felt it then her body trembling. Not from weakness alone, but from grief and exhaustion. Rhaella had endured years of fear under her husband's growing madness. Since the Defiance of Duskendale, King Aerys had changed paranoid, cruel, obsessed with betrayal and wildfire. The previous night, when word had arrived from the Trident, his fury had erupted once more.
Prince Rhaegar Targaryen was dead.
Slain in single combat by Robert Baratheon, his rubies scattered into the river as his armor shattered beneath a warhammer's blow.
The crown prince was gone.
The rebellion was no longer a distant threat, it was at the gates.
Beneath Queen Rhaella's heavy velvet sleeves, faint bruises and scratches marked her pale skin, remnants of a violent night that followed the news. Yet she held herself together. She had survived stillbirths, miscarriages, and humiliation. She would survive this too for the sake of Viserys and the child growing within her womb.
That unborn child would later be named Daenerys Targaryen.
King Aerys II Targaryen, despite his spiraling madness, had made one decision with chilling clarity: the queen and his second son were to be sent away at once to Dragonstone, the ancient Targaryen stronghold in Blackwater Bay.
If King's Landing fell, at least the bloodline might endure.
Aerys himself would remain in the capital. He had no intention of surrendering the Iron Throne forged by Aegon the Conqueror. Whispers spread among the guards that he had ordered caches of wildfire placed beneath the city. If the rebels breached the gates, he would burn King's Landing rather than let it fall intact.
Ravens had arrived claiming that Lord Tywin Lannister marched toward the city in support of the crown. But no one trusted that claim fully not even the king.
And so the evacuation began.
---
With a sharp command, armored men formed ranks around the courtyard. The gates of Maegor's Holdfast opened just long enough to admit a small, tightly guarded procession.
Servants hurried to assist Queen Rhaella into a covered carriage reinforced with iron fittings. She moved carefully, one hand over her belly. The curtains were drawn shut at once.
Viserys stood nearby, escorted by loyal household knights, including Willem Darry, whose stern face betrayed both urgency and sorrow.
Viserys stepped toward the second carriage prepared for him.
Then
A flicker of movement.
A small brown-haired girl darted across the courtyard, slipping between distracted guards before anyone could stop her.
She was perhaps eight years old, dressed in a simple noble gown, her dark hair bouncing as she ran.
Ser Willem hesitated when he saw her, recognition flashing in his eyes. He opened his mouth as if to object then slowly closed it again.
The little girl reached Viserys and grabbed at his sleeve.
Her wide violet eyes looked up at him.
"Where are you going?" her expression seemed to ask. "Why am I not coming?"
Viserys froze.
He knew her.
Princess Rhaenys Targaryen, daughter of Prince Rhaegar. His niece.
In the chaos following the Trident, she and her infant brother Aegon Targaryen remained in the Red Keep with their mother, Elia of Dorne.
Rationally, Viserys understood the danger. The evacuation was meant to be secret and swift. Any delay could be fatal. He was only a child, powerless in the grand design of war.
But he also understood something else.
If Rhaenys remained…
History whether remembered or newly unfolding whispered of blood and sack and betrayal.
His fist clenched.
For a heartbeat, he hesitated.
Then the silver-haired boy made his choice.
He reached down and lifted Rhaenys into the carriage beside him.
Behind them, a sleek black cat sprinted across the cobblestones and leapt lightly onto the carriage roof.
"Hey! Balerion!" the girl squealed with sudden delight, recognizing her pet.
Viserys quickly covered her mouth.
"Mmmph!"
He glanced sharply toward the surrounding guards. A few noticed, but none intervened. Ser Willem merely looked away, jaw tight.
Viserys lowered his voice to a whisper.
"Quiet, Rhaenys," he murmured urgently.
Outside, commands rang out.
The heavy gates of the Red Keep creaked open.
Horses stamped and snorted. Steel armor clinked. The wheels of the carriages began to turn, grinding over the cobbled streets of King's Landing.
The procession moved swiftly through the inner yard and toward the outer gate, bound for the harbor where a ship awaited to carry them across Blackwater Bay to Dragonstone.
Behind them, the city stood on the brink of catastrophe.
Ahead lay exile, storm, and uncertainty.
The last Targaryens were leaving the capital.
....