A/N : ahaha sooo dark content, blades, blood and more !
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The dim torchlight flickered in the narrow passage beneath the Red Keep, casting long shadows across stone walls that had seen secrets and whispers for centuries. Daemon Targaryenâs cloak whispered against the damp stone, his steps steady and determined. In the darkness of a forgotten corner, a small figure awaited him, half cloaked in shadowâthe ratcatcher of Kingâs Landing, men as elusive as the rodents they hunted.
âYou know why Iâm here.â Daemonâs voice was low, just above a murmur.
The ratcatcherâs eyes gleamed with something between fear and intrigue. He inclined his head, the grease-stained cloth hood slipping back to reveal a face more familiar with grime than sunlight.
âSheâs kin, isnât she?â he ventured, a hint of disbelief coloring his words. âOne of your blood, the second youngest targaryen of viserys and queen alicent.â
Daemonâs eyes narrowed, the violet depths becoming cold as ice. âSheâs a threat to all that I seek to build. My kin, yes. My blood⊠perhaps. But loyalty? Hers has never been clear.â
The ratcatcherâs fingers twitched at the mention of betrayal. His knowledge of hidden passages and secret exits made him one of the most dangerous men in the Keepânot because of his strength but because of his reach. He looked up, waiting.
âIf I choose this path,â the ratcatcher whispered, âit must be with precision. The girl is young⊠fragile, as Iâve seen.â
Daemonâs gaze held steady. âSheâs weak. And weakness, when unchecked, can rot the entire tree. You are to approach her subtly. No blades, no noise⊠only shadows. Fear can be as potent as any poison.â
The ratcatcher nodded, the hint of a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. âConsider it done, my prince.â
As Daemon turned to leave, the ratcatcherâs voice followed him down the corridor. âYou may find her weak, my prince, but even the weakest rat can bite when it feels threatened.â
Daemonâs lips curled into a knowing smile. âThen make sure she never has the chance.â
Back inside the Red Keep, Lyannaâs hands trembled as she walked through the corridors of the Red Keep. She could feel something watching her, something unseen and insidious, a shadow waiting just out of sight. For days, sheâd been plagued by a growing unease, the weight of eyes she couldnât place, footsteps that vanished the moment she turned her head. But tonight, the walls themselves seemed to close in, and every flickering torch cast her shadow longer and darker.
Her chest grew tight, a cold knot settling in her stomach as the breath escaped her lips in short, shallow gasps. She had thought herself strongâresilient, evenâbut tonight, the very air felt thick, suffocating her as if it held secrets it dared not reveal.
âI⊠Iâm safe,â she whispered to herself, hugging her arms close. Her words barely broke the silence, her voice trembling. âThereâs nothing here. Itâs just the dark⊠itâs only shadows.â
But the comforting words she forced upon herself only seemed to echo mockingly in her ears. Her vision blurred, and a heavy wave of dizziness washed over her. She stumbled against the wall, clutching at the stone for support, as the world spun around her.
A dark figure lingered in her thoughts, the silhouette of someone with eyes sharp as daggers. She tried to shake it off, to ground herself, but the thought persisted, burrowing deeper until it clawed at her mind like a feverish dream.
âDaemon,â she murmured, the name slipping out before she could catch it.
A shudder wracked her body as she slid down the wall, knees pulled to her chest. Her breathing became more erratic, the sounds around her intensifyingâthe creak of floorboards, the hum of distant voices. She was trapped, drowning in the very corridors that had been her home. She didnt know what was happening but she could sense her uncle,
She clamped her hands over her ears, trying to block out the haunting whispers that seemed to linger in the shadows, whispers of secrets she feared to know, of dangers she couldnât bear to face. The pressure in her chest mounted, tightening like a vice.
Tears began to slip down her cheeks, mingling with the chill sweat on her skin. She was lost, adrift in the suffocating darkness, unable to find a way out of the terror that gripped her heart.
Daemon returned to his chambers, a heavy silence settling around him as he shut the door. He poured a goblet of wine, letting the sharp taste linger on his tongue as he considered the delicate web heâd woven. The Red Keep was filled with those who could whisper secrets, but it took true skill to turn those whispers into fearâsomething to gnaw at a personâs very spirit.
Lyanna had always been a complication. Young, innocent, and unpredictable, she stirred sympathy among those who found her weakness endearing. But for Daemon, the price of compassion was too high. He had no room for softness in his plans. His gaze fell on the map spread across his table, a map of Westeros littered with marks indicating power plays, alliances, andâof courseâthreats.
She was small, a single piece on the grand board, but if she fell⊠it would send a message.
"Blood may bind us, but loyalty binds us stronger," he whispered to himself, fingers tracing the edge of the map.
A knock at the door startled him from his thoughts. He strode across the room, nodding to the silent messenger who handed him a folded slip of paper. The seal was brokenâno doubt by the ratcatcher himself.
âHer mind is weakening,â it read in scrawled, hasty ink. âQueen Rhaenyra will earn her throne.â
Daemon crumpled the note, his satisfaction marred by an unusual pang. He was a Targaryen, after all, and the familyâs legacy was as precious to him as his own blood. Yet his pride and ambition told him otherwise: Lyanna was a risk to his wifes throne he could no longer afford.
The silence in Lyannaâs room was shattered by a faint creak. She opened her eyes, heart pounding as the familiar dread seeped into her veins. There, standing beside her bed, was a ratcatcher, a wicked glint in his eyes and a dagger gleaming in his hand. This time, he wasnât lingering in the shadows or playing games; he was here to finish it.
âStay quiet, princess,â he murmured, his voice like oil sliding across stone. He brought the dagger closer, the tip hovering just above her throat.
Panic surged through her as her hands gripped the bedsheets, knuckles white with terror. She tried to stay silent, tried to keep calm, but her instincts screamed otherwise. With a sudden, fierce defiance, she took a deep breath and let out a screamâloud, piercing, enough to cut through the stillness of the night.
The ratcatcherâs face twisted with rage as he pressed the blade closer to her throat, his eyes flashing with a dangerous gleam. âShouldnât have done that,â he hissed. âNow youâll beââ
The door burst open, and Ser Criston Cole stormed into the room, his sword already drawn. His gaze swept the scene, taking in Lyannaâs terrified expression and the ratcatcherâs weapon raised against her.
âStep away from her!â Cristonâs voice was low, deadly. The ratcatcher hesitated, his grip tightening, but before he could respond, another figure appeared in the doorway.
His eye blazed with fury as he took in the sight of his sister, held at knifepoint by a man who dared to lay hands on her. In a blur, he unsheathed his sword, the steel gleaming with lethal intent as he moved forward.
âYouâve chosen your last target, you coward,â Aemond snarled, his tone as cold and sharp as winterâs edge. His eye never left the ratcatcher, his steps deliberate and deadly.
Trapped between two armed men, the ratcatcherâs confidence wavered. He tried to shift his grip on the knife, pressing it a fraction closer to Lyannaâs skin in a desperate bid to maintain control. But in that instant, Criston lunged, his sword slicing down to knock the dagger from the ratcatcherâs hand. The blade clattered to the floor, and before the man could react, Aemond was upon him.
Aemondâs fist collided with the ratcatcherâs jaw, sending him sprawling backward. The assassin scrambled to his feet, but Criston blocked the doorway, his sword leveled and ready. The ratcatcher glanced between the two, realizing too late that he was trapped.
âDid you think you'd get away after murdering my sisters children? And now my sweet sister?â Aemondâs voice was deadly calm as he advanced on the man, his sword pointed at the ratcatcherâs heart.
Lyannaâs breaths came in shuddering gasps as she scrambled away, watching with wide eyes as Aemond and Criston cornered her assailant.
The ratcatcherâs face twisted with defiance as he spat at Aemond, his voice laced with venom. âThis was never about you, princeling. Your sister is the one who threatens the plans of those far greater than you.â
Aemondâs expression darkened, the fury simmering just beneath his calm exterior. With one swift motion, he drove the tip of his blade just close enough to graze the ratcatcherâs chest.
âWho sent you?â Aemond demanded, his voice low and dangerous.
The ratcatcher sneered, even as his face paled. âI serve loyalties that you would never understand,â he muttered, his gaze defiant.
Aemondâs eye narrowed, and for a moment, it seemed as if he might drive the sword through the manâs heart then and there. But instead, he nodded to Criston, who stepped forward, grabbing the ratcatcher by the collar and dragging him toward the door.
âWeâll get answers soon enough,â Criston said, casting a reassuring glance back at Lyanna. âYouâll be safe now, princess.â
As the door closed behind them, Lyannaâs fear slowly began to ebb, leaving behind a sense of shock and exhaustion. Her heart was still pounding, but she looked up to find Cristonsâs gaze fixed on her, his face mimicking a worried father.
âAre you hurt?â he asked, his tone gentle as he knelt beside her.
She shook her head, swallowing back the tears that threatened to fall. âNo⊠no, Iâm fine,â she managed, her voice barely a whisper. âThank you, Sir Criston..â
Aemond walked out with blood dripping from his sword, approaching Lyanna he brought his sister into a hug and kissed her forehead.
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