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As they walked together toward the underground stronghold, Baela suddenly remembered something.
"Oh, that's right, Jace. Grandfather sent a letter. I'll bring it to you once you've finished meeting with your guests."
Jacaerys raised an eyebrow at her, a teasing smirk playing on his lips.
"Hey, why not just tell me now? I don't believe for a second that you didn't sneak a peek!"
Baela stuck out her tongue playfully and grinned. "A White Cloak is on his way to Bloodstone, carrying a royal decree. Judging by the timing, he should be arriving today. King's Landing holds a very low opinion of you. Grandfather suggests you keep a low profile for the next couple of days." She giggled, then added mischievously, "Though his informants are too slow. You just sank a merchant ship trying to force its way through our waters earlier today."
"Merchant ship?" Jacaerys scoffed, his tone laced with disdain. "Those scoundrels swap their banners at sea as easily as they change clothes. They're nothing more than pirates! We fought tooth and nail to secure the trade routes through the Stepstones, and they think they can just sail through without paying the toll? In their dreams!"
He exhaled sharply, his jaw tightening. "And as for this so-called royal decree, I don't even need to read it to know its contents. No doubt another rebuke from Alicent and her father—yet another feeble attempt to pressure me into abandoning the Stepstones. They want to wield the King's authority against me?"
His lips curled into a smirk. "Too bad for them—official channels move far too slowly. The Stepstones are already mine."
His words rang with quiet certainty, a confidence so unwavering that it left no room for doubt.
Baela gazed at him, admiration gleaming in her eyes like stars scattered across the night sky. This was her betrothed—the man she revered, the warrior she adored.
"Not quite, Jace! We haven't secured full control yet. The pirates who took Great-Uncle captive are still hiding somewhere among the islands."
Jacaerys blinked, then let out a soft chuckle. "Ah, you're right, Baela. Thank you for the reminder." With a fond smile, he reached out and ruffled her silvery hair, a gesture of affectionate approval.
Baela closed her eyes, basking in his touch like a contented kitten.
As they stepped into the underground stronghold's main hall, a figure draped in loose Westerosi robes stood waiting. His face was altered by subtle disguises, but Jacaerys recognized him immediately—Baelor (first introduced in Chapter 10).
Baelor knelt on one knee, his followers mirroring the gesture.
"Hail, Prince Jacaerys," he said with solemn respect.
Jacaerys waved a hand dismissively, his voice amiable, yet his actions made it clear he had no intention of lifting Baelor from his kneeling position.
"You're too formal, my friend."
Baelor remained unbothered, offering a small nod before signaling to one of his men. The man stepped forward, carrying a tray shrouded in black cloth. With a swift motion, the fabric was pulled away—revealing severed heads. Pickled, carefully preserved, and unmistakably displayed as trophies.
The guards stationed in the hall instinctively reached for their swords.
Jacaerys, however, remained unfazed. He merely lifted a hand, halting them, before turning back to Baelor with an approving smile.
"My dear friend, I truly appreciate this gift."
He recognized the faces at once—these were the pirates who had ferried Vaemond to the deserted island. This was no mere offering; it was a statement of allegiance.
The shift in Jacaerys's tone was immediate. "My dear friend," he repeated, this time with genuine warmth.
Baelor, still kneeling, spoke calmly. "Prince Jacaerys, after our last meeting, I conveyed your words to my master. A few days ago, I received his reply. I came at once to discuss our next steps."
Jacaerys's eyes gleamed. The chain of events he had set into motion in the Stepstones had finally drawn the attention of the ruling powers of Volantis. Just as he was about to dismiss the unnecessary bystanders to hold a private discussion with Baelor—
BANG!
The hall's great doors burst open with a thunderous crash, and a crowd of figures filled the doorway.
"Prince Jacaerys, they—"
The alarmed voice of a Velaryon guard was cut off as a man in gleaming silver-white armor strode in. A white cloak billowed behind him, the pristine fabric a stark contrast to his dark hair.
"I am Ser Rickard Thorne."
His voice rang out, bold and commanding. He raised a parchment sealed with red wax, its emblem unmistakable—the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen.
"I come bearing the command of the King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men—the ruler of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm, Viserys Targaryen the First. Who dares stand in my way?"
The Velaryon soldiers braced themselves, hands tightening around their weapons, their bodies coiled with tension.
Jacaerys, however, remained still. He narrowed his eyes slightly, searching his memory.
Thorne… Thorne…
He combed through his knowledge of Westerosi noble houses. Almost instantly, he recalled the minor family from the Crownlands.
From his past life's memories, there was only one Thorne who ever truly became noteworthy—a man who, over a hundred years from now, would serve as the master-at-arms at Castle Black. The same man who would take great pleasure in making life miserable for Jon Snow.
A minor house, yet he dares to act with such audacity?
A fool seeking his own demise.
The thought flickered through Jacaerys's mind, but his expression remained composed. The knight before him carried the king's authority. No matter how much he wished otherwise, striking him down in open defiance was not an option.
Not here. Not yet.
However, once they left the Stepstones and returned to King's Landing…
"Let them through," he commanded.
At his order, the Velaryon soldiers—who had been moments away from drawing steel—immediately withdrew to their posts at the doorway.
Hmph.
With a snort of disdain, Ser Rickard strode forward, his every step exuding arrogance, flanked by his retinue.
Baelor, catching on at once, quickly adopted an expression of feigned fright and hurriedly stepped aside with his men.
But Ser Rickard paid him no mind. His gaze never wavered from Jacaerys as he advanced toward the stone throne at the center of the hall. Upon reaching the foot of the steps, he unrolled the parchment in his hands.
Hmm?
Standing parallel to Baela on Jacaerys's other side, Stone's brow furrowed. A subtle movement from one of the knight's attendants caught his eye.
Something was wrong.
Then—suddenly—the attendant's hand shot into his cloak. A dagger flashed in the dim torchlight as he lunged straight for Jacaerys!
An assassin!
CLANG!
Stone reacted instantly. His longsword was in his grasp in a flash as he surged forward to intercept the assailant.
THUD!
The would-be assassin, so fixated on Jacaerys, failed to notice an unseen obstacle—his foot caught, and he stumbled forward, thrown off balance.
He barely had time to process what had happened before Stone reached him, swinging his blade down in one swift motion.
With a sickening slash, the assassin's right hand—still clutching the dagger—was severed cleanly from his wrist.
A bloodcurdling scream tore through the hall as agony twisted the man's face. He had no idea what had just happened. But Stone, positioned at the front, had seen it clearly.
It had been another attendant—one of Ser Rickard's own men—who had subtly extended a foot, deliberately tripping the assassin.
So, the assassin was merely a pawn?
Just as Stone's attention wavered for a fraction of a second, still processing the bizarre turn of events—
The very attendant who had tripped the first assassin suddenly bent down, snatched up the fallen dagger, and lunged forward—continuing the deadly assault as if passing a baton in a lethal relay.
But by then, the six elite guards under Stone's command were ready.
With honed instincts and unwavering discipline, they surged in from all sides. The struggle was swift and decisive—before the second attacker could even reach Jacaerys, he was driven to the ground, his weapon wrenched from his grasp.
A stunned silence rippled through the hall.
Most of those present had yet to process what had just unfolded. The sudden, chaotic nature of the attack had left them frozen in disbelief.
But among them, there were a few exceptions.
One of them was Ser Rickard himself.
At last, he fully unfurled the parchment in his hands.
SHHHRIP!
From within the paper—supposedly bearing the king's decree—something metallic slipped free.
A dagger.
Its blade glowed with an eerie gray sheen.
With the reflexes of a seasoned warrior, Ser Rickard snatched it from the air.
Then, without hesitation—
He sprang forward.
Like an arrow loosed from a taut bow, he crossed the space between them in two swift strides.
SLASH!
SPLASH!
The keen edge of the dagger sliced through soft flesh.
A splash of crimson arced through the air, painting the cold stone floor below.
For a single, suspended moment—time itself seemed to shatter.
Every soul in the underground stronghold stood paralyzed, their eyes wide with horror.
No one—no one—had ever imagined that the knight sent from King's Landing to deliver the royal decree…
…would attempt an assassination in broad daylight.
..
..
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[Chapter End's]
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