Since you mentioned welcoming prompts: B&C fix-it, where B&C do in fact encounter someone (Aegon? Aemond? Otto? random Kingsguard candidate #6 who was there for try-outs?) on their way and things end differently.
Im sorry this is massively late, how embarrassing. But I absolutely love this idea and was so excited to give it a try.
I added my own spin to things and included my own character. I hope you like it!!
- I did your job for you-
Aerra tossed and turned, unable to sleep. Her chest was tight, her instincts gnawing at her. She sat up, eyes fixed on the door, straining to catch even the faintest sound.
Her hand found the hilt of her sword. Rising from her bed, she crept to the door and eased it open. The corridor lay still, lit only by the steady flicker of torchlight. Too still. Too quiet. Her brows knit, her stomach twisting. Something was wrong.
Blade in hand, she slipped into the hall, moving soundlessly toward her sister’s chamber. Every shadow felt alive, every crackle of flame too loud. Then—her breath caught. The door ahead stood ajar, torchlight spilling through the narrow gap. At this hour? Her pulse quickened. Something was wrong.
She pressed herself against the wall, listening. A faint whisper bled through the crack. “No…” The voice was unmistakable. Helaena.
Aerra’s eyes widened. She didn’t hesitate. She burst through the door—then froze.
Her sister clutched her daughter, trembling. Before them stood two men, blood-drenched, one of them gripping the severed head of her little nephew.
For a moment, Aerra couldn’t breathe. Then rage surged through her veins, hot and merciless, the fire of her bloodline igniting in her eyes. “Helaena, go.”
Her sister fled, clutching her child, leaving Aerra alone with the butchers.
They knew her. How could they not? Fear clung to them like sweat. They understood one thing well enough: at least one of them would not leave this room alive.
Blood lunged first. A mistake. Aerra slipped beneath his swing, seized his arm, and wrenched it into a grotesque angle that made the brute howl. She flung him against the wall.
The other—Cheese—snatched his chance. He bolted for the door, the boy’s head still in his grip.
Aerra moved to intercept, but Blood was on her again, dragging her down. He slammed her face against the floor. White-hot pain seared through her skull.
“He screamed like that too,” Blood sneered into her ear. His greatest mistake.
Aerra roared, smashing her head back into his face. The crunch of his nose breaking fueled her fury. She shoved him off, rising unsteadily, blood dripping down her face.
“He was just a boy. A child. And you killed him,” she growled, voice trembling with both grief and wrath, as she reclaimed her sword.
Blood lay on the floor clutching his shattered nose, fear creeping into his eyes.
“It was worth the price,” he spat.
Her chest constricted. Someone had paid them—to slaughter her sister’s child. She tightened her grip on the blade.
“Who sent you?” she whispered, though part of her dreaded the answer.
That was enough. The cord inside her snapped. Aerra screamed, pouncing on him, driving her sword into his chest, missing his heart by inches. His cries filled the chamber, blood pouring from him.
“Who sent you?!” she roared again, face streaked with blood—his and hers alike—eyes blazing with madness.
When he stayed silent, she ripped the blade free and plunged it into the other side of his chest. Again. And again. His agony echoed through the room, feeding her fury.
Finally, gasping, he choked out: “The boy was the best option. We… we couldn’t find him…”
The words crashed over her. Realization struck like ice. Jaehaerys was never meant to be the target.
Her jaw locked, her blood freezing. She knew then who had sent them.
Her scream shattered the room as she drove the sword into him over and over, each strike fueled by anguish and vengeance, until the life drained out of his body and he lay still beneath her.
So consumed by fury, she didn’t hear the footsteps until strong arms wrapped around her, pulling her back. She thrashed, wild, desperate to finish what she’d started.
“Aerra!” a voice cut through the haze. Her mother’s. “Look at me—look at me!”
Her bloodshot eyes lifted. Her mother’s hand reached out, gentle, to brush the blood-matted hair from her face. “It is done,” she whispered.
But before her touch could land, Aerra jerked back, cold and trembling, and stormed from the room. Her mother’s voice faded behind her as she went searching for her sister, rage and grief burning hotter than any fire.
Hours passed and the king had been made aware of his son’s death.
Aegon sat at the head of the table, his crown cast aside, his head buried in his hands. His shoulders shook, his breath ragged. The silence pressing in around him was unbearable.
“How… how did this happen?” His voice cracked like glass, breaking on every word. No one answered. His mother and grandfather sat rigid to his left, their faces masks of control. Ser Criston loomed behind him, silent, unmoving.
At the far end of the table, Aerra sat like a statue, her gaze fixed on the slab before her. Blood still streaked her face, dried into her pale skin. She hadn’t washed it away. She wouldn’t.
Then, the stillness broke. Aegon’s fists crashed onto the table with a sound like thunder.
“My son… my boy…” His tears streamed freely, his voice raw, guttural.
“They took him from me!” His words tore from his throat like an animal’s howl. He lurched to his feet, rage consuming him. “He was my legacy! My heir! My blood!” His hand seized a goblet and hurled it across the chamber. It shattered against the wall, wine bleeding down the stone like spilled blood.
“They stole him from me!” His scream echoed, shaking with grief and fury. He tore at the table, upending plates, sending them crashing to the floor. His sobs twisted into furious curses as he gripped whatever his hands found, breaking, smashing, destroying—because he could not undo what had been done.
Otto leaned forward, his voice calm, steady, too measured. “We will have vengeance, my king. I swear it. Your grandson will be avenged.”
But Aerra did not speak. She did not cry. She did not rage. Her silence was heavier than Aegon’s screams, her eyes still haunted by the image of the man she had butchered. His blood was on her hands. His screams still rang in her ears. And yet, it had not been enough.
Then her mother’s voice cut through the wreckage, sharp and sudden. “Where is Aemond?”
The question struck Aerra like a blade. Her breath caught, her jaw clenched. Yes. Where was her brother? The man who should have been their shield. The man who should have stood between their family and death. Instead, she had been the one to wield the sword. She had been the one to face the horror.
Aerra didn’t knock. She slammed the door open, the wood striking the stone wall with a crack.
Aemond turned, hair damp with the night air. He froze when he saw her, blood still smeared across her face, her eyes lit with fire.
Her gaze flicked to the cloak tossed over his chair, the faint perfume clinging to it. Realization hit like a blade twisting in her gut. He had been out. He had been with her.
Her voice came like a snarl. “While Helaena’s screams echoed through these halls, while her child was butchered, you were rutting in a whore’s bed?”
His eye narrowed. He stood taller, his face a mask of cold defiance. “Do not speak to me like I am some faithless drunk, Aerra.” His voice was low, sharp. “You know nothing of what I carry.”
She stepped closer, trembling with fury, pointing a blood-stained hand at her chest. “Nothing? I had to carve a man open tonight. I had to watch him laugh about killing our nephew while I split him apart piece by piece! His blood is still on me!” Her voice broke. “That should have been you!”
For a moment, silence. Then his lips curled, his voice laced with venom. “And what good would it do? If it had been me, the boy would still be dead. My presence would not have changed fate.”
Her chest heaved, tears stinging her eyes, but her anger burned hotter. “You think that excuses you? Our family needed you, Aemond. Helaena needed you. I needed you. And instead, you chose her.” Her voice dropped to a ragged whisper. “You left us. You left me.”
Something flickered in his eye, anger, yes, but beneath it, shame he couldn’t mask. His jaw clenched as he looked away, his silence betraying him more than words ever could.
Aerra’s voice trembled, but her words cut clean. “You’re supposed to be our sword. Our shield. Tonight, you were nothing.”
Aemond’s chest rose and fell, the muscle in his jaw ticking as if he might snap back again. But when he finally turned his gaze back to her, no words came. The silence between them was heavier than any blow.
Aerra stared at him, her heart pounding with fury and grief. For a fleeting moment she searched his face—for remorse, for defiance, for something—but found only the emptiness of a man too proud to speak, too ashamed to meet her rage head-on.
Her lip trembled, her throat burning, but she refused to let him see her break. Instead she straightened, her voice sharp and final. “You disgust me.”
Then she turned on her heel, her braid whipping over her shoulder, and stormed from his chambers. The door slammed shut behind her, the echo rattling through the stone like the crack of a sword on steel.
Aemond stood where she had left him, jaw tight, fists curled at his sides. Alone, surrounded by silence, he let out the breath he had been holding—ragged, unsteady. But he did not call her back.
Aerra stormed down the corridors, her breath sharp, her hands trembling as if her sword were still in them. The blood on her face itched, dried and cracked, but she left it there—she wanted it there. Let them all see what she had done.
She pushed open the doors to Helaena’s chambers without a word.
The room was dim, lit only by the faint glow of torches outside the windows. Helaena sat on the floor, her back against the bed, rocking slightly as she clutched her daughter tight to her chest. The child had finally fallen into a fitful sleep, but Helaena’s eyes were red, swollen, her lips trembling with the ghosts of sobs that would not stop.
The sight stole the air from Aerra’s lungs. Her fury cracked, splintering into grief.
She crossed the room and dropped to her knees beside her sister. For a moment she said nothing, only reached out, hesitant, almost afraid, before wrapping her arms around both Helaena and the child.
Helaena broke then, a raw sob tearing out of her as she buried her face against Aerra’s shoulder. Aerra held her tighter, her own tears spilling freely now, streaking down her blood-stained cheeks.
“I’m sorry,” Aerra whispered, voice hoarse. “I’m so sorry, Helaena. I tried… gods, I tried…” Her chest shook with the words.
Helaena didn’t answer, only clung to her, trembling, as if Aerra were the only thing keeping her from shattering completely.
Aerra pressed her cheek against her sister’s hair, her eyes burning. “They’ll pay for this,” she whispered fiercely. “Every last one of them. I swear it.”
For the first time since the night began, her fury and her grief joined as one, not just rage to be unleashed, not just sorrow to be carried, but a vow. A vow for revenge.
And Aerra Targaryen would see it fulfilled.
titsay