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"Jace…"
Baela lowered her head, staring at the dagger deeply embedded in her abdomen. She struggled to turn her head, wanting to catch one last glimpse of the man she so deeply admired.
The moment she saw Ser Rickard launch his attack, she had acted purely on instinct, throwing herself forward without hesitation to shield Jacaerys from the deadly blade.
Her years of training in the Water Dance had honed her speed and agility, allowing her to reach him just in time.
However, Jacaerys had no time to concern himself with her. His hand swiftly reached for the slender rapier at Baela's waist, pulling it free in one fluid motion.
With a fierce thrust, he drove the blade toward the gap in Ser Rickard's throat armor.
CLANG!
Ser Rickard abruptly yanked the dagger from Baela's abdomen, causing her body to lose all strength. She crumpled to the ground, collapsing in a heap.
CLANG!
The sharp edge of the dagger struck the tip of the rapier with pinpoint precision.
The force of impact altered the rapier's trajectory, deflecting it away from Ser Rickard's exposed throat and sending it scraping harmlessly against the reinforced silver-white shoulder plate of his armor.
Seizing the advantage, Ser Rickard pressed forward, fully clad in armor and willing to trade injury for victory.
But Jacaerys, realizing his strike had failed, had already darted behind the massive stone throne for cover.
Ser Rickard attempted to outmaneuver him, sidestepping left to launch an attack—only for Jacaerys to immediately move right in response.
The two moved in a tense rhythm, circling the throne as if locked in a game. No matter which direction Ser Rickard tried to approach from, the imposing stone seat remained between them, serving as an unyielding barrier.
THUD! THUD! THUD!
Sudden, hurried footsteps echoed across the chamber.
From the shadows, Baelor emerged, gripping a one-handed axe that he had somehow procured. With a roar, he swung it forcefully toward Ser Rickard's unguarded back.
Even clad in the sturdy, meticulously crafted armor of the Kingsguard, Ser Rickard dared not test his luck against the savage force of the axe.
Forced to evade, he knew then that the assassination attempt had failed.
Turning sharply, he bellowed at the still-stunned attendants and guards at his side, his voice filled with urgency.
"The kingdom's mission has failed—run!"
CRASH!
The moment the words left his lips, Ser Rickard pulled a round object from his cloak and smashed it against the ground.
Thick smoke erupted instantly, spreading rapidly throughout the chamber.
"Seal the doors! Let none escape!"
Before the smoke could fully consume the room, Jacaerys shouted his command to the Velaryon soldiers guarding the entrance.
*BOOOOM!!!*
At that very moment, the fortress trembled as Vermex, responding to the bond he shared with his rider, landed heavily upon the underground stronghold's rooftop.
CRACK! CRACK!
His razor-sharp talons clawed furiously at the red sandstone above, tearing into it with relentless force. Chunks of shattered rock rained down, scattering in every direction.
"Charge!"
Ser Rickard's attendants and guards hesitated for only a fleeting second before bolting toward the exit.
They understood the gravity of the situation. If Ser Rickard were captured, he might yet have a chance to survive.
But they—mere servants of the kingdom's scheme—would undoubtedly be fed to the monstrous dragon belonging to the Kingdom's Scourge.
CRASH!
Just as they reached the door, a massive section of the fortress's ceiling crumbled.
The swiftest among them were immediately buried beneath the cascading rubble, disappearing beneath a mound of jagged stone.
The slower ones fared no better, for they now found themselves facing Vermex directly.
From the gaping hole in the ceiling, the dragon's long, powerful neck snaked downward. Like a beast at a lavish feast, he casually plucked a screaming attendant into his maw.
CRUNCH!
His powerful jaws snapped shut, reducing the unfortunate man to nothing more than a pulp of blood and bone.
The horrific sight shattered whatever courage remained in the others. Their legs gave out beneath them, and they collapsed onto the floor, paralyzed with fear.
They were not warriors—merely attendants and servants assigned to Ser Rickard.
Only a few of the guards, seizing the brief moment in which Vermex was occupied, made a desperate break for the hall's entrance.
But the Velaryon soldiers, already standing in disciplined formation, awaited them with drawn blades.
Against their well-practiced, synchronized assault, the struggling men fell swiftly, cut down in mere moments.
"Vermax, that is enough."
Jacaerys's voice rang clear through the hall.
The dragon, having already devoured two or three men, slowly withdrew his bloodstained maw, retreating through the shattered ceiling.
The thick smoke and dust, unsettled by the carnage, had begun to settle, revealing the grim aftermath.
The members of the Stone's Squad had long since encircled Jacaerys, forming a protective barrier around him.
Yet, as Baelor surveyed the battlefield near the remnants of the skirmish, there was no trace of Ser Rickard.
All that remained was a scattered heap of silver-white armor, discarded like the husk of a molted insect.
Jacaerys, drawing upon the emergency medical knowledge carried from his past life, swiftly administered bandages to Baela's wounds, ensuring her bleeding was temporarily controlled.
Then, he ordered two of his personal guards to carry her to the maester's chambers for immediate treatment.
During his brief inspection of the wound, he had found that the dagger had struck deep—but by sheer luck, it had missed any vital organs.
However, the delay in tending to her injury while he battled Ser Rickard had already cost her dearly; she had lost a significant amount of blood.
With the medical knowledge of this era far too primitive for blood transfusions, her survival now depended entirely on the strength of her own body.
"Stone, send someone to notify Rudy's squad. Search every inch of this underground fortress if you must, but do not let Rickard Thorne escape. As for these prisoners—deliver them to Coleman. Tell him that by the end of today, I expect their tongues to be loosened."
"Yes, my lord!"
Issuing his orders with a cold, unwavering expression, Jacaerys then turned to Baelor.
"My dear friend, I am grateful for your timely assistance. Given the circumstances, we shall have to postpone our discussion on cooperation. I have prepared rooms for you and your men in the adjacent stronghold—please, take some rest there for now."
"Prince Jacaerys, you are too kind. As friends, it is only natural that we aid one another," Baelor replied with a composed smile. With effortless grace, he slid his single-handed axe back into the folds of his loose robes before offering Jacaerys a respectful bow.
"Then, I shall take my leave."
With that, he and his men were 'escorted' away under the watchful eyes of the Velaryon soldiers.
Jacaerys slowly sank back into his stone throne, his mind a storm of thoughts. If Ser Rickard had truly acted on the orders of Alicent and her father, then he should have led an entire force of assassins—fanatics sworn to die if necessary—striking in perfect unison.
But that was not the case. Most of the men Ser Rickard had brought were ordinary fighters, and from their reactions, it was clear they had no knowledge of any assassination attempt.
If not the Hightowers, then who else wanted him dead?
That day, every inch of the underground stronghold was thoroughly searched, turned upside down in an effort to find the vanished Ser Rickard. But it was as though he had disappeared into thin air, leaving behind not even a trace.
Meanwhile, Coleman, feeling ever more trusted and valued by Jacaerys, had pulled every string at his disposal and finally extracted some useful information.
The first assassin—the one who had stumbled—had been bribed with a hundred gold dragons by a man in a golden robe. His mission was simple: to kill Jacaerys.
But the second assassin was even more intriguing. He was a hired killer from Flea Bottom, one who had been paid handsomely by a "rat-catcher." His objectives were twofold. First, to prevent the first assassin from completing his task. And second, to strike at Jacaerys himself—but without dealing a fatal wound.
As Jacaerys pieced together these scattered fragments of information, his mind drew upon the knowledge from his past life, allowing him to gradually map out the various factions that had played a role in orchestrating this attempt on his life.
Yet, one question remained unanswered: whom had Ser Rickard sworn his allegiance to?
That mystery, however, did not remain unsolved for long. By the following day, the answer revealed itself.
With everyone so focused on hunting down the missing Ser Rickard the day before, it was only today that the soldiers of the underground stronghold began the task of clearing away the corpses and rubble in the great hall.
And that was when they stumbled upon a familiar face buried beneath the debris.
It was one of the Velaryon soldiers who had been on guard duty in the hall the previous day.
According to the maester's examination, the man had perished during the assassination attempt.
Yet many swore they had seen him just last night—searching for Ser Rickard alongside them, even dining at the same table.
But today, he was nowhere to be found.
Upon hearing this report, a surge of fury exploded within Jacaerys, a blistering rage that seemed to burn straight through his skull.
No wonder Ser Rickard, a sworn White Sword, had dared to make such a brazen assassination attempt in broad daylight.
No wonder he had vanished without a trace.
He was a Faceless Man.
Truthfully, ever since he had been transported to this world of Ice And Fire,Jacaerys had always treated everything—whether it be discreet power struggles or outright bloody battles—as though he were merely a high-level player navigating a grand, immersive game.
Even when acting with caution, ensuring his survival, or engaging in daring, calculated gambits, he had always played within the established rules of the Game of Thrones.
Never had he sought to overturn the board outright.
But this assassination attempt on Bloodstone Island…
It had crossed the line.
Yes, Baela was indeed a shield—one willing to take a blade for him.
But it was his shield, to be used when he deemed it necessary.
No one else had the right to force that upon him.
More importantly, while he could partake in this grand game—maneuvering, scheming, and striking as needed…
He would not allow himself to become a mere pawn in someone else's game.
This attack on Dragonstone was not just an assassination attempt.
It was an insult.
And an insult of this magnitude could only be cleansed with Blood And Fire.
..
..
[IMAGE]
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[Chapter End's]
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