Game of Thrones: Reign of the Dragonking

Chapter 43: A Promise of Safety

Here are the two chapters since we met the goal!

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The courtyard of the Red Keep was a hall full of anxious voices and scurrying figures. Guards with dented armor and sweat-streaked brows barked frantic orders while ragged courtiers huddled beneath the flicker of torchlight as dusk settled in. Broken crates, overturned benches, and muddy footprints reflected the riot that still churned through the city streets beyond the gates.

Tyrion Lannister stood in the thick of it, a wall of Royal Guards forming a tense ring around him and the shaken royal entourage. "You lots. Have any of you found her yet?" he demanded, his words sharp as his eyes flicked left and right, searching each soldier's face for a hint of news.

A tall guard, helmet askew, shook his head. "No sign of Lady Sansa, my lord. The crowd is still mad… As per your order, a group of guards have been sent to find her. She might still be somewhere in the city, or—" He stopped short at Tyrion's glare.

"She might be dead, is that what you're implying?" Tyrion snapped, voice louder than he intended. A part of him was worried for Sansa as a person, but the Hand of the King part within him worried about the loss of the biggest card they had against the North. Sansa Stark was an essential piece on the board, her death would strengthen King Robb. 

"Well, I…"

"How can all of you be so incompetent?" Tyrion cut him off again. "Spread out again! She's wearing a cloak of blue velvet—someone must've—"

A harsh laugh sliced through Tyrion's words. Joffrey, still flushed with indignation from his incident with the filth-throwing peasants, lounged on a shattered bench, fist clenching and unclenching. "I can't understand why you're so concerned about that daughter of a traitor, Uncle. Her father lost his head for treason. She's as worthless as the rest of them."

Tyrion sent the boy-king a bitter glance. "Your Grace," he forced out, "need I remind you that Lady Sansa is your ward? The entire realm still stands because you have her, believe it or not. Her house has committed crime, true, but she's your key to the North. Alienating her further to the point of death will—"

Joffrey shot to his feet, face twisted in anger. "House Stark is finished! Let them watch what they want, or let them gnash their teeth. It changes nothing. You think I'm scared of- of Robb Stark?!"

Before Tyrion could respond, a commotion drew his attention. 

A clutch of guards—filthy, battered—pushed their way through the crowd. They had the strained look of men who'd scoured a city gone mad and found only horrors. Joffrey also turned to them, craning his neck as if to search Sansa amid them. Tyrion turned to them, his heart pounding. At last, some proper news?

"Your Grace," the guards bowed to Joffrey. "We were the team sent to find Lady Sansa."

"Well?" Joffrey pressed, stepping forward. "Did you find her?"

Of course, they haven't. Why else will they return alone? Tyrion held back an insult at his nephew's stupidity. 

The guards exchanged uneasy glances, each man looking to the next. The tallest one cleared his throat, stepping forward. "No sign of Lady Sansa, Your Grace. We searched every major street."

Tyrion exhaled shakily, alarm gnawing at his insides. Had the worst happened? "Then you come back with nothing?" His voice echoed off the scarred walls.

One guard swallowed hard, turning to him. He loved his title as Imp at times like these; it intimidated these buffoons. "Beg pardon, my lord, but we did hear… something else. From the crowds. They're talking about—about a ghost." 

"What?"

Was this time for ghost stories?

"The ghost of Rhaegar Targaryen."

A stunned quiet descended on the courtyard. His sister, Cersei, was perched on a low step at the far edge of the group and jerked her head up, her eyes flaring at the mention of that name. Joffrey shifted uneasily, mouth half-open, unsure whether to sneer or demand details. And Tyrion—Tyrion felt the air vanish from his lungs.

"What," Cersei started, her voice dangerously quiet, "did you say?" Her green eyes burned with a sudden intensity as though daring reality to confirm this impossible tale.

The guards hesitated, uncertain whether to repeat such heresy. Tyrion's breath caught. Ghost of Rhaegar? This madness was beyond any rumor he'd expected.

"Explain," Tyrion said, voice tight. "What are people saying?"

The guard's eyes darted around as though fearful uttering the words might call forth a demon. "A man in black armor with a red cloak," he said. "Silver hair, killing City Guards and Royal Guards alike. I even saw the bodies—" 

He broke off, voice faltering at the very absurdity of it.

Torchlight played across the courtyard, painting flickers of confusion and dread on every face. The swirling tension felt thick as a coiled snake preparing to strike. Nobody could believe such words. Rhaegar Targaryen. 

Joffrey's knuckles whitened on the handle of his sheathed sword. "What idiocy," he barked, though his tone quivered just slightly. "Some peasant's rumor. Let me see."

He walked toward the large high window, his steps fast. Tyrion didn't know what he expected to see from this high up, but he followed. Both of them paused when they neared the window.

Both stared as a figure jumped into the sky, wings flapping on his back. Thick smoke blocked the rest of the view.

"What…" Cersei was beside Tyrion by then, staring at the sky alongside her son. Her expression teetered on the edge of panic. Her green eyes were as wide as Joffrey's own as House Lannister stared at the soaring dragon amid the smoke.

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I kicked the door to the old mansion, sending it crashing inward with a heavy thud. The wooden slab banged against the wall, the echo rattling down the hall. It felt odd barging into what was supposed to be my safe haven in this enemy territory like a raiding party, but time and subtlety weren't luxuries I had right now. I couldn't risk someone seeing me. 

Sansa was still draped in my arms, trembling under the blanket.

I stepped inside, closing the door back with a kick. Before heading further inside, I paused to see the sudden noise had unleashed a flurry of movement. 

Three figures leaped from behind upturned furniture, sword, spear, and whip at hands. They had that tense, poised-for-battle look, eyes narrowed and fierce. Meanwhile, in the far corner, I caught sight of Kinvara sitting on a chair, sipping tea with all the calm in the world. She didn't even blink at the commotion—only swallowed, set her cup aside, and observed.

"Intruder," one of the girls said, glaring at me, and I sighed.

"Just because I am wearing armor doesn't mean you can't recognize me," I said, and my voice made the three armed girls freeze. Wasn't this embarrassing? They were supposed to be trained on assassination. 

Well, I guess the pair of broad wings still half-unfurled from the flight didn't help my identity. They locked gazes with Kinvara, who took an unhurried sip of her tea. "Rest assured, it's him," she said simply, as though that explained everything. 

The girls lowered their weapons a fraction later, confusion transforming into relief, though their eyes still lingered on my wings. "I was worried when I heard you headed into the city on a killing spree," Nymeria Sand said, and I waved it off.

"I didn't know you were back," I looked at Kinvara and said while focusing a little on folding the draconic membranes against my back. "I thought you'd be waiting there as I asked."

"It's pleasant to hear you worry about me, but I'm not a child, Your Grace," Kinvara smiled, and her gaze drifted to my half-conscious passenger. "Unlike the guest you've brought.

"...Take us upstairs," I said, glancing at the girls. "Find an empty bedroom."

They nodded. One of them led the way with hurried steps. I followed as Sansa's weight grew heavier against my arms. She looked confused but also relieved; perhaps seeing so many girls around made her feel safer. She didn't speak, but her eyes darted across the cramped corridors and then back at the wings that poked from my back. 

My wings might have unnerved her more than the chaos outside.

We reached a small bedroom with a simple bed shoved against one corner. Dust surrounded the beam of torchlight that rested beside the window. 

I laid Sansa on the mattress, gently levering her fingers off the blanket. She sat up, breathing heavily, her gaze flicking from my face to the wings that were barely on my back now. "Are you hurt?" I asked, scanning for bruises or cuts. "You can tell me we have medicine here."

She swallowed, voice quivering. "I—I'm fine. Just…" 

I looked at the Sand girls. "Bring a set of clothes for her; some rapist bastards tore hers." Tyene blinked and nodded, quickly turning around. I turned back to Sansa, who looked at me with further confusion.

"Thank you. But… I don't understand what you—" Her eyes once again slid to where the wings were. "What is that? What are you?"

"He is the one true king," Before I could answer, Kinvara entered, her crimson robes contrasting against the drab walls. She offered Sansa an oddly maternal smile as she stepped close to me. Then she looked at me. "Shall I speak your name openly?"

I went quiet, and Sansa's frightened gaze hovered on us both. I nodded. Might as well. If my next plans were to be fulfilled, my identity had to be clear. "Yes," I said, my voice low. "No more charades."

Kinvara inclined her head. "Then hear me, my lady." She turned to Sansa, gesturing with a measured sweep of her hand. "This is Viserys Targaryen, third of his name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm. King Aerys II crowned him as the next in line after Prince Rhaegar's death, no matter how short that moment may have lasted, he's the rightful heir of the realm. My lady, he saved you because no false king—no child monster like Joffrey—should hold the daughter of honorable Ned Stark as a hostage."

Sansa's expression flickered, uncertainty and distrust flashing across her features. But when she heard her father's name, she looked a little more trusting. Still, her next words revealed her skepticism. "So… you rescued me just to capture me yourself?" She glanced at me, her voice trembling with a mixture of fear and defiance.

I shook my head. "That's not my aim. I- well, let me explain it better. Kinvara," I took a quick look at Kinvara, and when I nodded at her, she cast the illusion over my hair with a subtle motion of her hand. My silver locks turned black again in a soft shimmer, and with a simple mental command, I Equipped my battered cloak and armor with more casual clothes. 

The swirling shimmer of the [Inventory] completed the transformation so swiftly that I saw Sansa's eyes widen in shock. It was magic, after all. Even Kinvara raised an eyebrow, but I ignored her and everyone else. My focus was on Sansa.

I met her gaze. "We've met before, my lady," I said gently, "though under less dramatic circumstances. 'Winter is coming,' I told you that day," A faint, wry smile tugged at my lips as I watched her nod slowly. 

"…I thought you were a northerner," she said.

"I am sorry to give you false hope about that. Then again, no northerner would have been able to save you. I can, and I have," I said. "In truth, winter is already here, and it may be the longest winter in a few generations. Fighting the North right now is senseless, your people are the people of winter. And the realm can't survive more infighting… not with everything else that's coming."

"I… I see," she said and stared at me, her suspicion at war with dawning recognition. 

I offered a small, reassuring gesture. "I really don't have any ulterior motives, my lady. I am not my father, I am not maddened. I simply intend to see you safely returned to your brother, as that's for the better. That's all. Whether you wish it or not, it's my duty… as the protector of the realm. Or at least," I exhaled, "that's the kind of King I aspire to be."

Still trembling, Sansa stared at me as if testing the veracity of my words. And yet, in that moment, it wasn't fear alone that shone in her eyes but a fragile glimmer of hope. Would I truly deliver her to her brother from all this madness? If so, she wouldn't mind if I was a trashy Targaryen.

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