Chapter 19: Aethan II

Aethan

"Oh, stop fidgeting," Elmo Tully scolded him, holding him down while the maester treated his wound. "It'll hurt far worse if it gets infected."

Aethan knew all about infections. Healers were few and far between in Fleabottom (never mind proper maesters), and many people were too poor to afford their services. He'd witnessed more than one person grow sick and die from small cuts and lacerations.

And so he forced himself to bite down on a rag to muffle his yelps while the maester cleaned his wound with wine, followed by a healing paste. His third cleansing since the maester removed the arrow from his shoulder when he first arrived.

"It looks to be healing well," the maester assured him as he applied a fresh bandage. "No sign of dying tissue. I predict you will make a full recovery…which would happen faster, if you would rest the shoulder."

"I will rest it after we take Harrenhal and win this war," Aethan assured him, throat cracking. "Until then, I need to climb on and off my dragon. Pain be damned."

Before either Elmo or the maester could comment, a young page ran up to them with a scroll in his hands, bowing respectfully before handing the paper to the Tully lord.

"The raven just arrived from King's Landing, Lord Tully," he said politely, waiting until Elmo dismissed him.

"King's Landing?" Aethan sat up while Elmo broke the seal. He could see the paper, but unfortunately, he'd never learned to read properly and could not recognize more than a few letters. "What news?"

He could not read the letter, but he could read the look of grim determination in Elmo's eyes as he scanned the lines.

"From Lord Borros Baratheon," he said. "The Northerners are still more than a day's march from here, but we have confirmation that Caraxes and Syrax have abandoned Harrenhal. Without Vermithor and Silverwing, that means the only dragon left to guard it is Vermax."

Caraxes isn't here? He grit his teeth. If that fucking coward fled rather than face me…

If that happened, then Aethan would hunt him from the Wall to Sunspear.

I'm no longer powerless. I have a dragon. And I swear on my mother's memory that Daemon Targaryen will answer for what he has done. No matter how long it takes.

But it would not be this day. Today, he needed to fight for his King and ensure that Daemon no longer had an army to lead against the Greens. 

Aethan got to his feet, reaching for his breastplate to reattach it. "We can't squander this chance, then. It's time to move in."

"Precisely," Elmo agreed. "We have three dragons in the area to coordinate, so I will need you to follow my instructions. But if all goes well, by nightfall, Harrenhal will be flying Green banners once again."

Rhaenyra

They say this city once smelled of perfume, Rhaenyra thought, grinning in grim satisfaction. No longer.

They had started with the High Tower itself. Stone did not burn, but working together, Syrax and Caraxes had melted the metalwork, the glass from the windows, and heated the structure until the inside became like an oven, starting fires within. Alas, the layout of the tower made it impossible to render it another Harrenhal, as many within would surely find refuge in the vaults and caverns below. But beyond a doubt, many others had been cooked alive before they could get to safety.

With luck, amongst the burned will be some of Aegon's kin.

Next, and with great satisfaction, they had moved to the Starry Sept.

Daemon had taken pleasure in watching it burn; his laughter echoed across the sky as the magnificent arched windows melted into puddles of molten glass, metal iconology inside glowing hot before melting as well. The stone architecture could not burn, but the wood and whatever religious texts were once inside were long-since incinerated, rendering it an empty stone husk.

Rhaenyra did not share in Daemon's laughter, not when she knew that people within had surely perished, but she would not deny that seeing it go up in flames gave her rush of dark pleasure.

You erased my family's culture from the Red Keep, Alicent. And now I have erased the heart of your family's faith from Oldtown.

She did, however, stop Daemon from burning the attached Motherhouse. They were not here to kill Septas, Silent Sisters, or desperate women seeking refuge.

They did burn Oldtown's City Watch. They burned the ships in the harbor. And they burned the Hightower soldiers that had been left behind to defend the city. Shouts, and screams, and the acrid scent of smoke filled the air, and each gave Rhaenyra another spark of satisfaction. Of vengeance.

Fucking Hightower traitors. All of you. Were it not for you, I'd be sitting on my throne right now. Unopposed. My children enjoying their childhood within the walls of the Red Keep.

Alas, they could not continue to return the city to the dust. Not when they had no army to sack it and stop the endless volleys of arrows and scorpion bolts that were growing harder and harder to evade.

One such scorpion bolt had nearly taken Rhaenyra out of the sky, but mercifully, it tore the base of Syrax's wing membrane instead of striking home in her chest. She was large enough to stay airbone, even with the tear, but her dragon wasn't moving as well.

A problem made a thousand times worse when a volley of arrows managed to hit both her and Caraxes. Their scales shielded their bodies, but their wings took even more damage, and Daemon gestured to her, ordering her to land just outside of city limits.

Just as well, she thought as she dismounted, breaking an arrow free so she could tug it out of Syrax's wing. We have time to rest and collect ourselves while we wait. After Daemon's experience fighting Criston Cole's men, he insisted they carry needles and thread with them to repair wing damage, and Rhaenyra quickly grabbed hers out of her saddle bag.

"One of two things will happen," Daemon reminded her as he pulled an arrow from Caraxes. "One, he comes alone, and we kill him. Two, he comes with another one of their dragons, leaving a portion of their army unguarded. We burn their army. Either way suits me just fine."

Me as well. But she prayed Aegon would be fool enough to come alone.

Selfish. Arrogant. Usurping cunt. Your cock may have helped you steal my throne, but it will serve you no good in the sky. In a battle amongst dragons, cocks lend no advantage.

When Rhaenyra heard Sunfyre's roar through the sky, she thought her prayers had been answered. For it was only his roar, with no second dragon to aide him.

"Now!" Daemon called to her, as if she were not already climbing into Syrax's saddle and fastening her chains, commanding her dragon to fly. She smiled with each foot Syrax climbed into the sky, exhilarated beyond what she could put into words.

You will die today, brother, she thought, laughing darkly. You will fall from your dragon and die screaming in flames as you plummet to the ground. For you are no true Targaryen. Your blood has been polluted by the blood of traitors.

Her laughter and every trace of mirth died on her lips as she heard a single, terrified word echoing through the sky.

"MOTHER!"

Aegon

"Have you forgotten I have your children?" Aegon bellowed through the sky in High Valyrian. "Allow me to remind you!"

And he shoved Aegon the Younger off of Sunfyre's saddle, making Rhaenyra scream.

Gods forgive me for this, he winced as Aegon the Younger fell, his sobs morphing into unintelligible animal screams. I shall keep him alive as long as it is within my power to do so.

For as terrified as the boy was, the fall posed no assured death.

Before leaving King's Landing, Aegon the Younger had been securely strapped into a harness, and that harness had been welded to a chain attached to Sunfyre's saddle, suspending him in the air rather than allowing him to plummet to his demise. Nonetheless, the boy screamed his throat raw as he dangled helplessly, hanging below Sunfyre's claws as he soared over Oldtown. Every turn the dragon took sent him swinging back and forth violently. A vicious, lethal pendulum.

Look what you've pushed me to do, he thought, snarling at Rhaenyra. All you had to do was take my damn offer and live your life in peace!

And yet as much as it disgusted him, he had not refused when Borros Baratheon suggested it.

This is why we have hostages, your grace, Borros pointed out. To ensure good behavior. To protect our faction. With him as your shield, they will not dare attack you, nor will they continue the attack on Oldtown, lest it gets him killed.

Below him, people cheered, screaming out his name, Sunfyre's name, as he charged bravely towards their enemies.

"Should you venture to King's Landing," he warned. "We have Viserys strapped to a scorpion bolt! Perhaps it will be him who knocks you from the sky!"

Only partially true. Viserys was indeed on the ramparts near the scorpions, but he was playing calmly with his toys under the care of a nursemaid. For now. 

Though perhaps the taunt was a step too far, because with a furious cry, Daemon guided Caraxes directly towards Sunfyre.

His son's safety be damned.

Rhaenyra

"NO!" she screamed as Daemon and Caraxes flew at Aegon, the command to attack falling from Daemon's lips. "NO! DAEMON! STOP!"

"HE'S ALREADY DEAD!" Daemon bellowed. "THEY WILL NOT USE HIM AS A SHIELD AGAINST ME!"

"No!!!!"

In that moment, she was not a queen or a battle strategist. She was a mother, and her son was in lethal danger. And nothing, not a godsdamn fucking thing, mattered more than saving him.

Without hesitation, she yanked on Syrax's reins, praying her dragon would understand what she was too frantic to put into words…and thanking whatever gods were listening that she did. Syrax opened her maw and clamped down hard on Caraxes' leg, digging in her teeth and yanking backwards with every ounce of strength she possessed.

It was enough.

Enough to make Caraxes scream out in pain, trying to yank his leg away and tearing a huge, gaping wound that exposed muscle and ligaments as blood streamed through the air.

Enough to stop the attack long enough for Sunfyre to dodge out of striking distance.

And to her horror, enough to give Aegon a window to counterattack.

"DRACARYS!"

Golden flames washed over Daemon. His helmet, Valyrian steel, withstood the onslaught, but his armor warped and buckled while Daemon screamed in pain. Were it not for Caraxes' instincts, twisting out of the way, he might have been incinerated completely.

"THAT WAS FOR SENDING ASSASSINS AFTER MY FAMILY!" Aegon roared.

If Daemon was capable of giving a command, Caraxes did not obey it. His leg was laid open to the bone, bleeding profusely. His rider was in agony. He no longer trusted Syrax not to hurt him further, and Sunfyre, a far younger and nimbler dragon, was circling around for another attack. Bold as Caraxes was, he was no fool, and he knew continuing meant certain death for him or his rider. And so he turned and fled Oldtown with a screaming Daemon on his back.

Leaving Rhaenyra alone in the sky with her brother.

Fucking Hell. She had to trust that Aegon arrived to chase them away from Oldtown and that he would not kill her if she stayed in formation with Caraxes.

Two against one is suicide for Sunfyre; he's too small. He won't chase me. He won't go on the offensive.

She was half right. Aegon did chase after her, but only for a few seconds until she caught up to Caraxes. Then, with a snarl of outrage, he fell back, and for a blessed second, Rhaenyra thought she and her son were safe…

"DRACARYS!"

Flames hotter than the Seven Hells washed over Rhaenyra's back. The protective leather she wore shielded her from the worst of it, but the end of her braided hair burst into flame, latching onto her hair oil and climbing rapidly up to her scalp.

"No!" she shouted, reaching for the knife she kept in her boot and severing her braid, tossing it away before it could burn her. What little hair remained was a frayed mess, but not one part of her gave a shit.

Because there was nothing she could do to save her son without being directly responsible for his death. And for the second time in a week, she had to flee and leave one of her precious babes in the clutches of an enemy.

Aegon

"KING AEGON!"

"ALL HAIL THE KING!"

"OUR KING HAS COME TO SAVE US!"

"LONG LIVE THE KING!"

Cheers for him rang from every street as he guided Sunfyre to land before the smoking building that was once the beautiful Starry Sept (taking care not to trample Aegon the Younger in the process). But the praise brought Aegon no joy, only a sick twisting in his stomach as he stared up at the sept.

They burned a house of devout worshippers, he thought, balling his leather-clad fists. Non-combatants who did them no harm. My people. And Aegon grew sicker and sicker by the minute as volunteers pulled more and more charred bodies out onto the street.

It was a small mercy that many worshippers had managed to hide in the crypts below, spared from dragonfire by the cool stone, but dozens of bodies soon lined the street from the sept alone.

And how many more from the High Tower? From the burned ships? Dozens more? Scores more? Hundreds more?

He should have done more to protect them. Oldtown belonged to his family. Of course the Blacks would attack it, combatants or not. They cared only for inflicting as much pain as possible. 

Borros warned me of the cost of war. Warning or no, no words could have prepared him for this. 

As he watched, the citizens of Oldtown began to gather, some weeping over the damage. Rich and poor. Maesters and fools. Men and women. Young and old. The crowd grew larger and larger with citizens of all walks of life, looking on as the survivors began to emerge from the sept one by one.

They're looking to you to lead them, he realized as he saw some of them staring at him. A King arriving on dragonback with a crown on his head. Say something poignant.

But nothing poignant or motivational came to mind.

For the first time, Aegon stood alone. He didn't have Aemond's ferocity to make him feel safe. Helaena's light to give him warmth. His grandfather's wisdom and silver tongue, always knowing exactly what to say and how to say it. He didn't have his mother's quiet dignity, her skirts to hide behind. No Kingsguard. No entourage. Just him. A Targaryen King and his dragon.

And he couldn't for the life of him think of a pretty speech to make the crowd feel better.

So don't give them a pretty speech. Leave the pretty speeches to the Septons. Show them who you are. Show them the King that you want to be.

The King he wanted to be would lead their country into a new age of prosperity.

The King he wanted to be would protect the people he could and avenge the ones he could not.

The King he wanted to be…was fucking angry.

And so when he wheeled and faced the crowd, he did not bother to contain the rage clouding his vision with a sea of red.

"Rhaenyra and Daemon Targaryen are a Prince and Princess no longer!" he snarled, while Sunfyre roared behind him, feeding off his anger. "I strip them of their titles. The history books will remember them as traitors! As murderers! War or no war, they have slaughtered unarmed civilians, and IT WILL NOT STAND!"

Sunfyre opened his mouth and cried a fearsome roar to the skies while the crowd burst into angry cheers, roaring alongside their King and his dragon.

Aegon pointed behind him at the smoldering sept. "They have melted the windows. They have melted the metal. They have burned the wood and the paper. But they have NOT destroyed the sept! They have NOT destroyed the High Tower. They have NOT destroyed Oldtown! I shall make it my mission to ensure our city rises from the ashes, standing strong as it always has!"

More angry shouts from the crowd, along with some highly creative slurs towards Daemon and Rhaenyra. 'Maegor with Teats' among them.

Pointing at the sept again, Aegon spat, "Fire or no fire, the Gods can hear me still. And I swear before them here and now that Rhaenyra and Daemon will DIE for what they have done here today! They have forsaken the chance for even a drop of my mercy! They, and any supporters they have left to them, will be answered with Fire and Blood!"

Punctuating his declaration, Sunfyre opened his maw and shot a stream of fire into the sky, a beautiful golden beacon that sent the crowd into an absolute frenzy.

"Kill them!"

"Burn them! Like they burned us!"

"Aegon the King!"

While the crowd roared, a shuffling of feet sounded behind Aegon, and a gentle hand reached out to rest on the crook of his arm. He turned to see a wizened archmaester, his chain so long it nearly reached his knees and caused him to walk with a hunch. But when his watery blue eyes locked with Aegon's, they shone as brightly as a man one third his age. Shone with hope. With conviction.

"Fight your war, my King," he encouraged. "Fight it, lead the realm, and then return here to help us sow the seeds of tomorrow. The blood of House Hightower runs through your veins as strongly as the Blood of the Dragon, but fret not for Oldtown. For we are the most ancient city in all of Westeros. We have survived worse, and nothing that has been burned today cannot be repaired. They have not broken us."

Aegon reached up, gripped the maester's hand in his, and gave it a squeeze, nodding in determination.

"I will return once I have done my duty and ensured the safety of the realm," he swore to the old man. "And upon my return, I want an accounting of the costs to repair or replace everything that my sister destroyed," he said. "Oldtown may be the wealthiest city in the realm, but the Crown shall share the costs nonetheless."

My kin will very likely decline the offer, but it is important that I make it, he decided. The realm needs to know that I am willing to put their needs first. Otherwise, the innovations that I plan to undertake will look like a farce.

And so with one last round of cheers from the crowd, Aegon re-mounted Sunfyre, this time pulling Aegon the Younger back into the saddle with him. And not a minute too soon. Some among the crowd were shooting the young boy hateful looks, knowing that he was Daemon and Rhaenyra's son. Enraged though he may be, he didn't want the boy lynched. Especially when he still had value as a hostage.

I will fly to the High Tower first to assess the damage there, he decided. And then to join my men at Harrenhal after depositing the boy at the Red Keep. I promised Oldtown Fire and Blood, and I mean to deliver.

Rhaenys

Should I try taking it from him again? Rhaenys wondered as she looked at her husband.

The fearsome Sea Snake no longer, Corlys sat on the deck of his own ship, dull-eyed and vacant, not responding to a word from any who tried to get his attention. And in his lap sat a severed human hand in a linen wrap.

The hand of Alyn of Hull. His left hand, it was true, but a hand all the same.

And in the same wrap was a lock of Rhaena's hair wrapped around a brooch that she often wore.

My last grandchild, Rhaenys thought as she stared at the hair. The Greens have my last grandchild.

And there was nothing she could do about it.

When the Old King granted me permission to marry Corlys, he and I together became the most powerful House in all the realm. A powerful legacy to leave behind, even though I would be known as the Queen Who Never Was.

And now my dragon is dead and what's left of my husband's fleet is trapped in the Bay of Crabs, at the mercy of House Manderly and the Sistermen. Labeled traitors who will likely die in poverty.

That shall be our mark on the world. How history remembers us. 

"They want the rest of our ships," Corlys said vacantly, his tone uninflected.

"I know."

Corlys didn't move. Even to blink. "They will allow me to keep only one ship, which I must use to surrender myself to King's Landing."

Rhaenys swallowed, closing her eyes. "I know."

"No mention of what will happen to me there," he said. "Death. Imprisonment. Not that it matters."

She drew a breath. "Corlys…"

"I've been declared a traitor and been stripped of Driftmark," he said, still without the smallest spark of life in his eyes. "Aegon will decide what is to become of it in 'due course', whatever that means. Perhaps one of my relatives. Perhaps someone else entirely. But none from my line will inherit House Velaryon's ancestral seat."

Rhaenys gripped the edge of the ship to steady herself, though it offered little support. "It doesn't have to be that way," she suggested weakly. "Rhaena…we can ask…"

"The time to ask for that was before we transported the Knights of the Vale. Aegon is a new King. He must make an example of traitors so that others will fear him," Corlys said calmly, with no hint of rage or resentment towards her.

Even though it was my fault.

"We have nothing to offer them in exchange," Corlys said. "They will take our ships, or they will sink them. They are not valuable enough to convince them to allow us to keep Driftmark. Not after we aided their enemies. And if I drag my feet, Aegon has made it abundantly clear that he will kill Alyn…" He looked to the brooch in Rhaenys's hand. "And likely Rhaena. Along with my men who still live."

No…She gripped the brooch so hard the metal dug into her palm. I can't lose Rhaena too. I can't lose the one piece of my children that I have left.

Accepting her silence as her answer, Corlys stood, face a blank mask atop lifeless eyes.

"I can make a detour," he offered softly. "Perhaps take you across the Narrow Sea to Pentos before surrendering myself."

To spend my old age as a traitor's widow? With no money and no dragon, hiding in a desperate attempt to save my own life?

No. She had been ready to accept death when Baela was murdered. She would not hide away like a rat now. She would face whatever was to come like the Blood of the Dragon.

"Send a dingy to House Manderly to inform them of our surrender," Rhaenys told him. "And then take me home to the Red Keep."

Rhaenyra

"Y-your grace," the maester swallowed, choking on her title as if forcing her to say it. "Please. It will be far easier if you could persuade him to take milk of the poppy…"

"So you can lace it with poison?" she spat. "Treat his burns, maester. He will drink wine for the pain. From his own skin."

She didn't want to be here at Old Oak, a once-loyal House who had bent the knee to her brother. But she had no choice. She could not risk Daemon flying further without medical treatment, and Old Oak was the closest castle that did not have scorpions, nor enough archers to pose a credible threat.

The Oakhearts had yielded quickly when given the choice between ordering their maester to treat Daemon or being burned alive.

Daemon, however, showed no sign of gratitude to her for securing his care.

"I would not need milk of the poppy or wine if not for your weak spine," he spat. "I would be celebrating the death of the usurper."

She gnashed her teeth. "And the death of our son? Would you celebrate that as well?"

"I would celebrate avenging him…FUCK!" Daemon hissed in pain as the maester started to remove his armor.

"Our son is…"

"Dead, Rhaenyra," he cut her off. "He's dead, and we need to accept that."

"No, he isn't! He's alive! He…"

He called for me to save him. The heartbreaking way he cried out for her while dangling on that chain would haunt Rhaenyra's mind until the day she drew her last breath.

"He's dead," Daemon said, his eyes hardening to stone as the maester gently tried to pull off his breast plate…and found it stuck.

"He's…"

"He's a hostage. We have no means to rescue him. If we win this war, they will kill him before they let us take him back. Even if we bent the knee, they would have to kill him, because his claim to the throne is stronger than the usurper's. He could grow up and press it one day. And after what they did to Baela…FUCK!!!" He arched off the bed, screaming as he maester peeked below his breastplate to try to see what was stuck.

"If we want any chance of avenging the children we've lost and making the Hightowers pay, we need to press the attack," Daemon puffed. "Even if they parade him in front of us like a shield."

They had to halt their discussion when the maester showed her three spots on Daemon's chest where the dragonfire had melted the metal, fusing it with the skin beneath. Three small spots, mercifully, no larger than a coin, but the flesh would need to be cut to free Daemon from the armor.

"Just fucking do it," Daemon ordered, gritting his teeth. "Won't be the worst pain I've lived through."

In fairness to the maester, he respected his craft enough to make every effort to ensure Daemon was not harmed more than he needed to be, but it was obviously still painful. Breastplate removed, he was left with three bloody flesh wounds on his chest and some angry red burns and blisters from the hot metal. Burns and blisters that were mirrored on Rhaenyra's own back. But mercifully, it was nowhere near as bad as it could have been.

I could have lost him altogether had Caraxes not dodged out of the way in time, she realized, heart sinking. If she lost Daemon, all was lost. She and Jace knew nothing of warfare, and while she had loyalists, there were none she could truly trust not to betray her to the Greens. 

But even with Daemon, the ground was rapidly crumbling beneath her feet. Returning to Harrenhal now would leave them in the same hopeless position they were in before they flew to Oldtown. Worse, because Daemon and Caraxes were both injured. The Bloodwyrm could not stand on his injured leg yet, relying on his good one and laying down to rest.

As if hearing her thoughts, Daemon met her gaze, a look of determination in his eyes.

"It's not over until we are dead," he said softly. "And there is still one last chance for us to prevail."

Jace

For the second time in it's life, Harrenhal was surrounded in flame.

He wished he could say they gave it a good fight. That he would go down in the history books as a Prince who stood his ground and defended his men. That he had been a force to be reckoned with.

But the truth of it was that the battle should have been over within minutes. It would have been over within minutes if Vermithor and The Cannibal attacked the castle, rather than circling around the perimeter protectively, in case Caraxes and Syrax returned to defend it. Which they never did.

Nonetheless, Jace fought. He did his best to aid the Darrys, the Rootes, and the Freys as they attempted to fight off the Tullys, the Lannisters, the Hightowers, and Criston Cole's men from the Crownlands. He even managed to burn a few score men before Daeron and Tessarion met him in the sky. Vermax was larger and stronger, but Tessarion was nimbler, and she kept goading Vermax into coming into range of the Hightower arrows.

Cuts appeared on both dragons from talons and arrows, blood trickling down to the earth below. Men on both sides perished, but Jace didn't even need to look down to know that his men were being slaughtered at a much faster rate, drastically outnumbered.

And not a trace of Syrax or Caraxes returning to help him.

The battle is lost, he accepted grimly. Even if I should succeed in killing Tessarion, Vermax will fall prey to The Cannibal or Vermithor. The only matter up for debate is whether we will all die or whether some of us may live.

And so as Tessarion rushed in for another attack, Jace cried out, "YIELD!". Both a surrender to Daeron and a command to the men who fought below him.

The hours that followed passed slowly. The gates of Harrenhal were thrown open, and the Greens seized control. Jace was fettered hand and foot in manacles. Vermax, thankfully, was not killed. A mercy from Daeron who was reluctant to slay a dragon unnecessarily. However, Vermax was fettered in chains as well, ordered to accept them by Jace. The Darrys, Rootes, and Freys who had not been killed in combat were given the option to bend the knee or die as traitors. To Jace's relief, most of them accepted, leaving only a few handfuls to be killed by dragonfire from Tessarion and Vermithor, while the Cannibal still protectively circled the castle.

At least it isn't Aemond, Jace thought as Daeron approached him, fire blazing in his violet eyes. I can endure kneeling to Daeron.

"You're to be taken to King's Landing," Daeron declared coolly. "To answer for your crimes of treason against the Crown. King Aegon, Second of his Name, shall decide your fate."

And it is far too late to ask for leniency. But at least he had spared the lives of most of his fighting men. At least Vermax was alive. Even if Aegon sentenced him to death, it was far better than the alternative. 

"Do what you will with me," Jace said. "But my brothers and Rhaena are innocent."

There was a glimmer in Daeron's eye, vanishing before Jace could catch it.

"They will be kept alive as hostages until Daemon and Rhaenyra are dealt with," Daeron said, a bit more gently than he had before. "Afterwards, I cannot say."

Hesitating, he added, "The King might be more inclined to show you leniency if you help us bring them to justice," he offered. "Tell us what they are planning next."

Assuming the attack on Oldtown failed (or perhaps Daeron had not yet heard of it), Jace knew exactly what his mother and Daemon were planning next. He was one of the few they still trusted, and he was meant to be a part of the next stage of their plan.

But now? Jace had no faith that their plan would bear fruit. Especially without him, Vermax, or their remaining supporters. And so had to take the path that would cause the least amount of damage.

"Leniency for them," Jace insisted. "My brothers and Rhaena. If the King swears to me they will not be killed, then…"

Forgive me, mother, but I must put them first.

"Then I will tell him everything."

And it seemed Jace would be getting his chance sooner rather than late. A roar echoed through the sky, approaching Harrenhal from the south.

A roar he immediately recognized as Sunfyre's.