Alban POV
283 AC, two weeks after the Battle of the Trident, in King's Landing
The news from the Trident had fallen upon the Red Keep like a headsman's axe. Prince Rhaegar was dead. The royal army was shattered. And the name on everyone's lips was Julius Harlane, the Eagle Knight, the Champion of the Trident—the man who had broken Barristan the Bold.
To Alban and Alfy, it was not news. It was confirmation.
Chaos was the new king in King's Landing. Queen Rhaella was a ghost of grief. But King Aerys… the king had plunged into a deeper, more terrifying madness. The defeat was not his failure; it was a grand conspiracy of traitors.
Alban walked the halls of Maegor's Holdfast, the weight of his new duty heavy on his shoulders. After the raven arrived, the king had raged. He blamed everyone: his counselors, the Dornish, and especially Tywin Lannister. He had burned the messengers who brought the tidings, a horrific spectacle that still haunted Alban's dreams.
Then, in his paranoia, Aerys had turned on his own good-daughter. He declared Princess Elia Martell and her children hostages against the "treachery" of Dorne. He gave Alban the duty of guarding them.
Hostages. The word was a bitter taste in Alban's mouth. This woman had just lost her husband and her uncle. Now she was a prisoner, her children used as pawns. When he first took his post, her dark eyes had been full of fear and hostility. He had to quietly assure her he was no threat, a former loyalist to her husband. The hostility faded, replaced by a weary, watchful tension.
Alban reached Alfy's post. From behind the door, he heard muffled voices and a faint, feminine giggle. He knocked sharply. "Oi, Alfy. You in there?"
A moment of silence, then Alfy's slightly flustered voice. "Is that you, Alban? Give me a moment!"
A few seconds later, the door cracked open and a woman—Princess Elia's handmaiden, Wyla—slipped out, her face flushed, smoothing down her dress as she hurried away without a word.
Alban stepped inside and shut the door, his face grim. "By the Seven, Alfy. That was the princess's handmaiden. Are you trying to get us burned? The king needs no excuse!"
Alfy shrugged, a reckless glint in his eye. "The king will have us burned with or without a reason. I'd rather have a good story to tell in the seven hells."
"Don't be a fool," Alban snapped, his voice low. "How did you even manage that?"
A smirk touched Alfy's lips. "Wyla is… agreeable. Now, what's so important it couldn't wait?"
Alban sighed, the anger draining away to be replaced by urgency. "I gave you the duty to guard Princess Rhaenys, not seduce her caretaker. Where is the girl?"
"In the gardens," Alfy said, his tone turning serious. "Playing with that black cat of hers. Balerion the Black Dread." A shared, grim smile passed between them at the absurdity of it.
Then Alfy's expression hardened. "The Targaryens are finished, Alban. There's no one coming to save them. We need to get out of this city before it falls."
"I know," Alban replied, his voice dropping to a whisper. "I've spoken with Lord Varys. He's agreed to help us, but there's a price. I have to do a task for him."
"I don't trust the eunuch," Alfy stated flatly.
"Neither do I," Alban admitted. "But he's offering something I cannot refuse. Something for my family's legacy."
Alfy leaned closer. "What could be that valuable? What does he want you to do?"
Alban's eyes gleamed with a newfound, fierce ambition. "He wants me to escort the babe, Aegon, to Jon Connington in exile. In return… he will give me the last surviving son of the female Blackfyre line."
Alfy stared, confusion warring with disbelief. "The Blackfyres are all dead. And what use is some exiled boy to us? What do you gain?"
"Varys claims the boy's mother was Serra Blackfyre, wife to Magister Illyrio of Pentos," Alban explained, his voice intense. "And I believe him because Varys is one of them. My ancestor, Aegor Bittersteel, spent his life fighting to put a Blackfyre on the Iron Throne. That is my legacy. My plan is to go to Essos, join the Golden Company, and earn their trust. I will raise this boy to be a king worthy of the name Blackfyre. The throne was stolen from his bloodline. I will see it returned."
"And Ser Julius?" Alfy asked, aghast. "He fights for Robert Baratheon! Are you going to betray him?"
"No, you idiot," Alban said, rolling his eyes. "Listen. I killed Ser Daenys and nearly killed Hoster Tully. If I stay, that truth could come out and ruin Julius. This is a new path. A greater plan. You won't understand, so just do as I say."
"Then what is my part in this 'greater plan'?" Alfy asked, his arms crossed.
"You will take Princess Rhaenys," Alban commanded. "Get her to Braavos, to my mother at the inn. She will know what to do. You can take the handmaiden and the damned cat, for all I care."
Alfy nodded slowly, the weight of the conspiracy settling on him. "And Princess Elia?"
Alban's face softened for a moment, then hardened with resolve. "We cannot take her. It would be impossible. Her children are the threats to the new regime, not her. To save them, we must leave her behind. I will give you the final details tomorrow. Stay alert."