As he darted through the dim hallways, James’s heart thumped wildly against his ribs, each beat echoing the frantic terror churning in his chest. His father’s words played over and over in his head—“Get your mother, sweetheart.” But the haunting image of his Kepa, slumped and bleeding, was far louder than any instruction could be.
He had never seen his father like that. He was supposed to be invincible, larger than life—a force that nothing and no one could ever harm. But tonight, he’d fallen at Sirion’s feet, skin turning an awful shade of blue, body crumpling like a broken puppet. The dagger’s bloody hilt glinted in James’s hand, and he fought back the urge to drop it, to throw it away as if that could erase what he’d just seen.
He could hardly catch his breath, stumbling as he rounded another corner. The dark, winding passages felt like they were stretching endlessly, each step forward feeling slower and more agonizing than the last. The thought of not reaching his mother in time clawed at him, tearing through the thin threads of calm he had left. What if she wasn’t there? What if he didn’t reach her before… No. He couldn’t let himself think that. His father had told him to find her, and that’s exactly what he’d do.
Every shadow seemed to twist and shift in the flickering torchlight, each sound amplified by his terror. His thoughts jumbled together, a swirl of panic and disbelief. He was only eleven; he shouldn’t be carrying a bloody dagger through the castle halls, or feeling like he was racing against the grim reaper himself. And yet here he was, alone, praying desperately that his mother would be waiting just behind the next corner, that somehow, she could make everything all right.
“Please,” he whispered to himself, feeling hot tears prick at the corners of his eyes. He hated how shaky he felt, how powerless he was to do anything but run. He wasn’t like Sirion; he didn’t know how to patch up wounds, didn’t have the magic or the skill to keep someone from dying. All he had was this task, this one chance to find his mother and hope she’d know what to do.
Finally, as he rounded another corner, he spotted her figure up ahead. Relief crashed over him like a wave, nearly sending him to his knees. He pushed forward, his steps unsteady but driven by sheer desperation. His voice, normally strong, came out as a choked whisper.
“kepa…” He barely managed, pressing the dagger into her hands, unable to explain beyond that. His breath heaved, and he looked up into her eyes, hoping against hope she’d understand the terror he couldn’t put into words.
That night, Alicent and Severus had made it their personal mission to track down the source of the poison that had allegedly been used to kill Queen Emma. Let’s just say that by the time they found the culprit, that individual received a particularly unpleasant bout of Fiendfyre straight to the chest, reducing him to ash before his remains were unceremoniously tossed into the dragon pit.
As they crept back to her chambers under the cover of darkness, Alicent heard hurried footsteps echoing down the hall. She turned, only to see her third son, Prince Jaemarys —known to the world as "James"—sprinting toward her, eyes wide, breathless, his face flushed crimson.
She rushed forward, immediately cupping his face, scanning him for any sign of injury. “James! What are you doing, running and shouting like this? Anyone could hear you in the dead of night!” she whispered, her voice a mix of worry and reprimand.
“Kepa!” he gasped, relief washing over him at the sight of his mother. Alicent’s heart plummeted. Kepa—his word for his father, Daemon. Something was wrong.
“What happened to your Kepa?” she asked, forcing herself to stay calm despite the mounting dread that twisted in her stomach.
James, still panting, pulled a small, sinister-looking dagger from his belt and held it out to her, his hands trembling. Alicent’s breath caught as she took the blade, her eyes narrowing as she inspected it. Though she didn’t recognize the design, she could instantly tell from the faint glisten on the tip that it was laced with poison. She turned, handing it to Severus, who eyed the blade with grim interest.
“What do you make of this?” she asked.
Severus leaned forward, studying the dagger closely, and barely brushed the tip of his finger against it. His hand recoiled immediately. “Gods’ hell,” he muttered, shaking his hand with a wince. “This is one of the strongest poisons out of Braavos. They say even a scratch from this could rot flesh within days and cause a death slow, agonizing, and downright horrific.”
Alicent’s gaze dropped to the dagger, her heart hammering. Blood streaked the blade—Daemon’s blood, she was certain. What in the Seven Hells was going on in King’s Landing?
“Where is your father?” she asked James, her voice wavering as she gripped his shoulders.
“In your chambers,” James replied, voice frantic. “Sirion is with him, trying to… to slow the poison.”
Alicent’s eyes widened. “Sirion? Your brother is trying to counteract a Braavosi poison?” she asked, feeling both pride and fear flooding her at once.
Severus raised an eyebrow, clearly astonished. “Sirion, you mean… the Dark Lord reincarnate?” he asked, looking somewhere between impressed and horrified. "Yes!" Came her curt reply
“Oh,” Severus said, the realization sinking in. “Alright, then.”
“Alright?” she echoed in disbelief.
But there was no time to think. With James guiding her, Alicent let him pull her down the hallway. Her legs felt like lead, but her son’s grip kept her from stumbling as they made their way back to her chambers.
Daemon Targaryen was, quite frankly, not having a good time. Not at all. First, there was the attack on the streets of Essos—of all places—by the House of Black and White. Really? He couldn’t quite wrap his mind around it. He’d hardly done anything worthy of assassination lately; he’d even been remarkably tame, for his standards, thanks to a certain love of his life.
The journey back to Westeros had been no better. Attacked two more times along the way, Daemon had managed to fend off the second assault well enough, lighting his assailants on fire without so much as a second thought. But then, just as he was climbing onto Caraxes, one of those bastards managed to land a shot right to the back of his head. He’d nearly laughed at the absurdity of it—until he felt the poison seep in, spreading like a slow, burning fire through his veins.
By the time he reached Westeros, he knew he was in real trouble. He wasn’t a fool; he could tell this was no ordinary poison. Probably some twisted concoction from Braavos, the kind designed to make death as slow and excruciating as possible. He’d taken basic antidotes—he wasn’t entirely unprepared—but none of them had worked. His strength was slipping, his head was swimming, and all he could think about was getting home.
With his last reserves of strength, he managed to steer Caraxes toward a clearing, then used the enchanted ruby on his wedding band. The moment his fingers pressed against the center of it, he was transported behind the secret door to Alicent’s chambers. Stumbling in, he half-expected to find her reading, or perhaps lecturing their children on some strategy or scheme.
Instead, he saw Sirion, their thirteen-year-old, hunched over a potion with his younger brother James, who was watching in rapt attention. Daemon’s vision blurred as he took in the scene, and he felt his legs begin to buckle. He tried to say something—anything—but the words tangled on his tongue, slipping away before he could grasp them. He sank to his knees, the world tipping sideways as he looked at James.
With the last of his strength, he managed to whisper, “Get your mother, sweetheart,” and then everything went dark. As he felt his consciousness slipping, his thoughts turned to his family, to all the things he’d brought back from Essos for them, and to a quiet, desperate hope that he might live long enough to give them. But the world faded, and he was left only with the sound of his own heartbeat echoing in the blackness, each beat softer than the last.
