"The North was a slaughterhouse," Aenar said, his voice rough as he leaned back against the pale bark of the weirwood tree. "But the South... the South was a game of cyvasse played with fire."
Daemon Targaryen watched his son closely. The moon had climbed higher in the sky, casting long, skeletal shadows across the Godswood. "You divided your strength," Daemon observed. "Risky. Even with dragons, dividing your forces allows an enemy to defeat you in detail."
"We had no choice. The realm was too vast, and the rot too deep. We needed to be everywhere at once to prove that the Dragon had truly returned." Aenar drew a map in the dirt with a fallen twig, slashing lines across the imaginary continent. "I held the North and the Riverlands. My task was to secure the loyalty we had bled for, to integrate Rickon's savagery into a functioning rule, and to ensure the Freys were nothing but ash and bad memories."
"And the Queens?" Daemon asked.
"Daenerys took the center," Aenar said. "She swept through the Crownlands and the Stormlands. She wanted the lords to see her. She wanted them to fear her. She rode Drogon, the Black Dread reborn, and demanded submission with Fire and Blood. Most bent the knee before the shadow of her dragon even touched their walls. Those who didn't... well, they learned that stone burns if the fire is hot enough."
Daemon nodded, a glint of approval in his eyes. "And Rhaenys?"
"Rhaenys took the West," Aenar said softly. "She took Meraxes to the Lion's Den."
Daemon let out a low whistle. "You sent Elia Martell's daughter to the Westerlands? To Tywin Lannister's home?" He shook his head, a dark smirk playing on his lips. "I assume Casterly Rock became a melted slag of stone in your past, or is it the future? Rhaenys must have burned it to the ground. If anyone had a right to hate the Lions, it was her."
"That is what I thought would happen," Aenar admitted. "I thought she would melt the Rock into the sea. I thought she would drown Lannisport in blood for what they did to her mother and brother. But I didn't know Rhaenys as well as I thought I did."
The war council had been brief. The map of Westeros lay spread out on the table at Dragonstone, weighted down by daggers.
"I will take the West," Rhaenys stated, her finger resting on Casterly Rock.
"Are you certain?" Daenerys asked, glancing at Jon. "Tywin Lannister is there. Or at least, his power is."
"That is exactly why it must be me," Rhaenys replied. "They need to see me. They need to see Rhaegar's daughter on a dragon, blotting out their sun, bringing them darkness. They need to know that the debt is being called in."
Jon had worried. He knew the rage that lived inside her, the trauma of her childhood spent hiding in barrels and attics while the Usurper sat on her family's throne. He feared she would unleash Meraxes and leave nothing but a graveyard.
"Leave the innocent be, Rhaenys," Jon had told her quietly before she mounted that day. "Don't become the Monster."
"I am a dragon, Jon," she had replied, adjusting her gloves. "Dragons are not monsters. They are power. And power requires control."'
"She didn't burn it, Father," Aenar said, looking up at the rustling leaves. "She conquered it."
Daemon frowned, clearly surprised. "She spared them? Tywin's bannermen?"
"She offered them a choice. The same choice Aegon the Conqueror offered."
''' The outside of Casterly Rock was filled with soldiers, the red and gold of House Lannister's bannermen bright against the grey stone. But their colors meant nothing beneath the shadow of the dragon. Meraxes looked down at them, her red scales glittering, smoke curling lazily from her nostrils. Her tail twitched, knocking loose stones into the dry moat below.
Rhaenys sat in her saddle, looking down at the man who stood defiant despite the sight before him, a sight that made the entire Westeros kneel. Kevan Lannister. Tywin's brother. His right hand.
"My brother commands me to hold," Kevan shouted up at her. He was a capable man, a soldier, not a monster like Tywin, but his loyalty was absolute. "I will not betray my blood. I will not kneel to the spawn of the Mad King."
"I am not my grandfather," Rhaenys called down, her voice clear and commanding. "I am Rhaegar's daughter. I am here for my birthright. Ser Kevan, I offer you terms. Bend the knee, pledge your sword to House Targaryen, and your house survives. Your son survives. Your men survive. Refuse, and you all die."
Kevan looked at his men. He looked at his son, Lancel, who was trembling. Then he looked back at the dragon.
"I cannot," Kevan said. "I serve Casterly Rock."
Rhaenys closed her eyes for a brief second. There was no joy on her face. No sadistic pleasure.
"Then you serve the grave."
One hour later, Rhaenys returned. She did not come alone. The armies of Dorne and the vanguard of House Tarly swarmed the breach that Meraxes had carved through the stone. Casterly Rock was one of the most formidable castles in Westeros, a mountain carved into a fortress, but against dragonfire, even a rock could melt. Stone ran like rivers of lava down the cliffside. The screams of men trapped in their armor echoed off the melting battlements.
After hours of fighting, the silence finally fell. The Lion banner lay trampled in the mud and ash.
Rhaenys stood in the ruined courtyard, soot staining her face, her sword resting at her hip. Before her, Kevan Lannister was forced to his knees. He was bleeding, covered in dust, his armor dented and scorched. He was in chains.
Around them lay the bodies of his garrison. Thousands of men. Fathers, sons, brothers. Lancel Lannister lay weeping over the corpse of a cousin.
Rhaenys looked at Kevan, and her purple eyes burned hotter than any fire.
"Look at them," she commanded, gesturing to the sea of corpses. "Look at what your loyalty purchased."
Kevan stared at the ground, defeated.
"I offered you mercy," Rhaenys said, her voice shaking. "I offered you life. You spat on my words to keep your pride intact. And because of you, thousands of people died today. Not for a king. Not for a cause. They died because of your ego."
She drew her sword, the steel singing in the quiet courtyard.
"You could have saved them, Ser Kevan. But you chose to be a martyr. And you used their lives to build your pyre."
"Do it," Kevan whispered.
Rhaenys did not order her dragon, Kevan was a man of steel, and he died by it.'''
"She was merciful," Daemon mused, though he sounded skeptical of the wisdom of sparing Lannisters. "Mercy can be a weakness."
"Not with her," Aenar corrected. "With Rhaenys, mercy was a discipline. But she had lines she would not cross. And when they were crossed... the Red Queen's justice was terrifying."
'''The occupation of Lannisport had been largely peaceful. The city, seeing Casterly Rock fall and hearing of the dragon, had opened its gates. Rhaenys had installed her command in the city, using Dornish spears to augment her forces.
But war brings out the worst in men, even allies.
Jon arrived in Lannisport three days after the city fell, riding Rhaegal to coordinate the next phase of the assault on King's Landing. He found Rhaenys in the main square of the city. A crowd of thousands—smallfolk, merchants, Lannister soldiers—stood in absolute silence.
In the center of the square, a gallows had been erected.
Ten men stood upon it with nooses around their necks. They wore Dornish armor. They were Rhaenys's own soldiers, men sent by Prince Doran to aid in the restoration.
Rhaenys stood on a dais, looking at the condemned men. Her face was pale, but her eyes were dry and hard as flint.
"These men," Rhaenys addressed the crowd, her voice carrying over the wind, "broke into a merchant's home last night. They thought that because they carried spears for the Queen, they could take what they wanted. They thought that victory gave them the right to flesh."
Jon moved through the crowd, watching her. He saw the way her hand trembled slightly on the pommel of her sword—not from fear, but from a deep, resonant fury.
"My mother was raped," Rhaenys said. The silence in the square deepened. "She was defiled by men who thought war was an excuse for savagery. I lived my life in the shadow of that crime. I will not command such men. I will not be a queen of beasts."
One of the Dornish soldiers shouted, "Princess! We fought for you! It was just a few women—"
Rhaenys signaled the executioner. She didn't let him finish.
The trapdoors dropped. Ten bodies jerked and swung in the sea breeze. Rhaenys didn't look away. She watched every single one of them die. She forced the army to watch.
When the last body stopped twitching, she turned to her commanders.
"If any man under my banner touches a woman without her consent, he joins them. Is that understood?"
"Yes, Your Grace," the commanders chorused, looking pale. '''
"She won the West with justice, Father," Aenar said softly. "The smallfolk loved her for it. The lords feared her for it. She showed them that a dragon could be more than a destroyer."
Daemon stared into the middle distance, his expression thoughtful. "To execute your own men... to uphold honor over expediency. She was a true queen."
"She was," Aenar agreed, the loss of her hitting him afresh. "She was the best of us."
"With the North secured and the West subdued, the noose tightened," Aenar continued. "We converged on King's Landing. Daenerys from the South, me from the North, Rhaenys from the West. We had the capital surrounded by land, and the Velaryon fleet—what was left of it in that time—blockaded the Blackwater."
"Tywin was trapped," Daemon said with a grim smile. "The old lion finally cornered."
"He was. Tywin, Jaime, Cersei, Tyrion... and the King, Tommen Baratheon. A boy of eight. He was gentle, loved cats. Nothing like his brother Joffrey."
"And the Tyrells?" Daemon asked sharply. "The Roses of Highgarden. You said they controlled the food, the wealth. They were allied to the Lannisters by marriage."
Aenar let out a harsh laugh. "The Tyrells are flowers, Father. They bloom when the sun shines, but when winter comes... they wither or they run. Margaery Tyrell was married to Tommen. She was meant to be the Queen. It was her third marriage to a king, though none had been consummated. She was the key to the alliance."
'''The night before the siege was to begin, the atmosphere in the Red Keep must have been suffocating. Outside the walls, three dragons slept. Inside, Tywin Lannister was planning defenses, moving pieces on a map that offered no escape.
But Olenna Tyrell, the Queen of Thorns, was not a woman who played games she could not win. She looked at the dragons. She looked at the armies. And she made a calculation.
We didn't know until the sun rose. Our scouts reported movement at the harbor, but by the time we realized what was happening, it was too late to stop them.
Under the cover of darkness, the entire Tyrell household, Margaery, her brother Loras, her father Mace, and the old grandmother Olenna had boarded their fastest galleys. They bribed the Gold Cloaks at the Mud Gate, slipped past the blockade which was thinner near the southern cliffs, and fled.
They didn't tell Tywin. They didn't tell Cersei. And they certainly didn't take the little King Tommen, Margaery's husband.
When Cersei Lannister burst into the Maidenvault the next morning, screaming for her good-daughter, she found empty rooms. The Roses had vanished. They abandoned the Lions to the dragons. The Roses were spotted an hour after they left King's Landing, and Margaery Tyrell, Olenna Tyrell, and Mace Tyrell were brought before King Aenar Targaryen, Queen Rhaenys, and Queen Daenerys. '''
Daemon threw his head back and laughed. "Upjumped stewards!" he crowed, slapping his knee. "I knew it! No honor, only ambition. They cling to power like vines, but cut the root and they wither instantly."
He shook his head, still chuckling. "Even now, the Reach knows the truth. They respect the martial power of House Tarly. They respect the ancient blood and knowledge of House Hightower. But the Tyrells? Stewards who got lucky when the Gardener King burned on the Field of Fire. It warms my heart to know their nature does not change in the future."
"It changed nothing in the end," Aenar said. "Except to make the fall of the city faster. Without the Tyrell forces, the defense collapsed."
"We caught them an hour after they slipped the blockade. A Velaryon patrol ship spotted their gilded galleys trying to hug the coast. They didn't fight. They didn't run. They surrendered the moment Viserion roared overhead."
Daemon smirked. "Smart flowers."
"Pragmatic," Aenar corrected. "They were brought to our command tent just as the sun was fully rising over Blackwater Bay. It was the first time the three of us—Daenerys, Rhaenys, and I—sat together in judgment of the Great Houses."
'''The tent was open to the sea breeze, but the air inside was thick with tension. Jon sat in the center. Rhaenys stood to her right, still wearing her armor. Daenerys stood to the left.
The Tyrells were ushered in. Mace Tyrell looked like a man marching to the gallows, sweating profusely in his velvet doublet. Loras Tyrell, the Knight of Flowers, was unarmed and sullen; his eyes were mainly focused on Ser Barristan Selmy, Ser Arthur Dayne, and Ser Gerold Hightower. Margaery was composed, but she had that calculating look in her eyes. And Olenna... the Queen of Thorns looked bored.
"So," Daenerys began, her voice cool and regal. "The Roses have fled the Lion's den."
"Your Grace," Mace blustered, bowing so low he nearly toppled over. "We were not fleeing! We were... extracting ourselves! We realized, upon seeing the truth of your return, that our allegiance had been misplaced! House Tyrell has always been loyal to House Targaryen! We were the only ones who stayed loyal during the Rebellion! We besieged Storm's End for a year!"
"And then you dipped your banners to Robert Baratheon the moment the Trident was lost," Rhaenys cut in, her voice sharp. "And then you married your daughter to Renly Baratheon. Then to Joffrey Baratheon. Then to Tommen Baratheon. You are loyal to whoever sits on the chair, Lord Tyrell."
"We are loyal to the realm!" Mace squeaked, wiping his brow.
"Peace, you oaf," Olenna snapped, stepping forward. She looked at the three Targaryens with unimpressed eyes. "Let us speak plainly, shall we? I am too old for mummer's farces. You have dragons. Tywin Lannister has a crumbling city and a boy king who would much rather play with cats then sit an uncomforable chair. The game is over. We are simply ensuring we are on the winning side of the board before the pieces are swept away."
"You abandoned your allies," Jon said quietly. "You left a child, your King, to face us alone."
"We left a sinking ship," Olenna countered. "And Margaery is a widow twice over, and likely thrice soon enough. I saw no reason to let her die for Cersei Lannister's vanity."
"Tell us of the city," Daenerys commanded.
"Starving," Margaery spoke up. "The blockade has done its work. The smallfolk are eating rats. The Gold Cloaks haven't been paid in two months—Tywin is hoarding the gold in the Red Keep for his own household troops. The city won't fight you, Your Grace. Only the Lannister red cloaks will fight. The gates will open the moment you knock."
"And the wildfire?" Jon asked.
Margaery hesitated, glancing at her grandmother. "Cersei... she speaks of it. She has pyromancers in the cellars. She says if she cannot have the city, no one will."
Daenerys and Jon exchanged a dark look. The Mad King's legacy.
"Valuable information," Daenerys conceded. "It confirms what our spies have told us."
Mace Tyrell, sensing the mood shifting away from immediate execution, puffed up his chest. He looked at Jon, then at the two Queens.
"We bring you the wealth of Highgarden!" Mace declared, a desperate smile plastering onto his face. "The food of the Reach! We can feed your armies, feed the city once you take it! House Tyrell is the most powerful ally you could ask for!"
He took a step forward, his eyes gleaming with a sudden, terrible idea.
"And surely," Mace continued, gesturing to Margaery, "such a powerful alliance requires a seal. A bond of blood! I see that the Dragon has returned to the old ways... two wives for the King. But why stop at two? The Conqueror had two, yes, but Margaery... she is the Rose of Highgarden! Beautiful, fertile, loved by the smallfolk! Perhaps... a third Queen? To truly unite the realm?"
Ser Barristan closed his eyes firmly, while shaking his head. Ser Arthur Dayne let out a sigh, while Ser Gerold looked at Mace like a disappointed parent.
Loras closed his eyes as if in pain. Olenna looked as though she wanted to strike her son with her cane. Margaery's smile froze.
Jon glared at the fat man. It wasn't Daenerys who moved. It was Rhaenys.
She stepped down from the dais, the sound of her boots heavy on the rugs. She walked until she was inches from Mace Tyrell's face, Meraxes outside let out a roar of anger.
"You bold, foolish man," Rhaenys whispered, and her voice was more terrifying than a shout. "I have just come from the West. I have melted castles and burned traitors. I have watched Kevan Lannister turn to ash because he thought he could negotiate with a dragon."
She leaned in, her purple eyes boring into him.
"We are the blood of Old Valyria. We are the Three Heads of the Dragon. We do not need your flower to complete us. We do not need your permission to rule. And we certainly do not need a third queen whose only talent is marrying dead kings."
Mace trembled, his face draining of color.
"You keep your head today because we need your grain, Lord Tyrell," Rhaenys hissed. "Not because we need your daughter. Do not presume to offer us scraps when we have conquered the world. Be grateful you are breathing."
Mace fell to his knees. "Mercy! I meant no offense! Mercy!"
Jon stepped forward then, placing a hand on Rhaenys's shoulder, gently pulling her back. She allowed it, though her glare never wavered.
"Go back to Highgarden," Jon ordered, his voice the cold of the Wall. "Marshal your harvest. Prepare the food shipments for King's Landing. We will need them when the city falls."
"Yes," Mace gasped. "Yes, Your Grace. At once."
"But know this," Jon added. "When the crown is placed on my head, you will return. You will kneel. And you will swear oaths that you will never break again. If you do... Highgarden will burn as bright as the Twins."
Olenna Tyrell stepped forward, her hand gripping Margaery's arm. The old woman looked at Jon, seeing something in him that the others missed.
"We will remain nearby, Your Grace," Olenna said, her voice steady. "Sending my oaf of a son back to manage the carts is wise, but Margaery and I... we will stay with the camp. We will wait for the city to fall."
"Why?" Daenerys asked.
"Because," Margaery said, finding her voice, "when you walk into that throne room, you will want the Roses seen standing behind you, not hiding in a garden three hundred leagues away. We want the realm to know where we stand."
Jon studied them. Opportunists, yes. Survivors, definitely. But useful.
"Very well," Jon said. "You are under our protection. But make no mistake—you are not our guests. You are our subjects." '''
"They stayed," Aenar told Daemon in the Godswood. "And when I sat the Iron Throne, Margaery Tyrell was the first to kneel." He shook his head, a wry smile touching his lips. "Rhaenys terrified them more than the dragons did. She had a way of looking at people... as if she were weighing their souls."
Daemon chuckled softly. "She sounds like Visenya come again. Dark Sister would have suited her."
"She didn't need a sword to cut you," Aenar agreed, his smile fading as the memory of her loss returned to him. "She only needed the truth."
There was a moment of silence until Aenar continued.
"The city fell," Aenar said, his voice becoming monotone, reciting a history written in blood. "The Gold Cloaks, seeing the Tyrells flee and the dragons circle, threw down their spears. The smallfolk opened the gates, terrified that Daenerys would burn them all if they resisted. We walked into the Red Keep not as conquerors storming a breach, but as kings returning home."
"And the Lannisters?" Daemon asked, his eyes hungry for the details of their demise.
"They were defeated," Aenar said. "The Lion's banner was torn down. The three-headed dragon was raised above the Red Keep for the first time in nearly twenty years."
Aenar closed his eyes, and for a moment, he was back there. The Iron Throne loomed before him, ugly and asymmetric and magnificent.
''' The throne room was filled with smoke. Daenerys stood in the center, her black armor gleaming. Rhaenys stood beside her, her hand resting on the hilt of her sword. And Jon... Jon stood with them.
Three Targaryens. Three dragons. The world at their feet.
"It's over," Daenerys had whispered, taking his hand. "We did it."
"Home," Rhaenys had said, looking up at the dragon skulls that they would return to the walls. "We are finally home."
Jon had looked at them, his loves, and he had believed it. He believed the war was won. '''
"I stood there, Father," Aenar whispered in the quiet of the Godswood. "I looked at them, and I thought we would live in peace. I thought we could build that house with the red door and the lemon tree. I thought the threats were gone."
The wind picked up, rustling the weirwood leaves like the whispering of a thousand ghosts. Aenar opened his eyes and looked at Daemon, and the Prince saw his son's eyes had turned foggy.
"I was a fool," Aenar said, his voice breaking. "I thought the lions were the monsters. I thought once Tywin was gone, once the obvious enemies were defeated, we were safe."
"But I had forgotten the lessons of the North. I had forgotten that the cold comes for everyone. And I had forgotten that vipers don't roar before they strike."
A tear slipped down Aenar's cheek.
"I underestimated Oberyn Martell," he confessed, the name tasting like bile. "I let my guard down because Rhaenys loved him. I let him close because I wanted peace. And that mistake... that moment of weakness... it cost me everything. It cost me my daughter."