The Red Keep's courtyard buzzed with whispered conversations as Aenar dismounted his horse, the sound of steel-shod hooves on ancient stone echoing off the towering walls. Courtiers lined the pathway to the throne room, their faces a mixture of curiosity, calculation, and barely concealed unease. Word of Tyrosh's conquest had preceded them, along with darker rumors of what methods had been employed.
Like vultures circling a fresh corpse, Aenar thought, noting how the nobles maintained careful distances while the servants and guards pressed closer with obvious admiration. The divide was stark—those who lived in comfort feared him, while those who scraped for survival saw him as a champion.
"Prince Aenar!" called a voice from the crowd. A young kitchen maid had broken from her designated position, her face bright with excitement. "We've kept your fountains clean, Your Grace! Just as you showed us!"
Several lords exchanged disapproving glances at the breach of protocol, but Aenar offered the girl a genuine smile. "I thank you. The smallfolk's dedication honors us all."
Lord Lannister—Jason, the elder twin—stepped forward in a way as if he were afraid of him. "Your Grace," he said, the title rolling off his tongue like honey over glass. "All of King's Landing celebrates your triumphant return. Though some question whether Tyrosh's... renovation... was entirely necessary."
"Conquest is rarely tidy, my lord," Aenar replied smoothly. "I'm sure your own ancestors understood this when they carved out Casterly Rock's fortunes."
"Indeed," Lannister's smile didn't reach his eyes. "Though one wonders if such thoroughness might complicate future diplomatic endeavors."
Daemon appeared at Aenar's shoulder, his presence like a sword half-drawn from its sheath. "Diplomacy works best when backed by strength, wouldn't you agree, Lord Jason? Ask the Tyroshi how persuasive our dragons proved."
The procession moved toward the throne room's towering doors. Aenar caught sight of Lord Beesbury speaking in hushed tones with several other council members, their conversation dying as he approached.
"Your Grace," Beesbury offered with a nervous bow. "The Crown's treasury celebrates your success in the Stepstones. The gold from Tyrosh's dye trade will prove... substantial."
"Assuming the trade routes remain stable," interjected Lord Strong, his tone carefully neutral. "Reports suggest some merchant families fled during the conquest."
Of course, they focus on gold and trade routes, Aenar mused. Not the lives lost or the piracy ended. Just the coin that might line their purses.
"Fled merchants can be replaced," he said aloud. "Pirates cannot be reasoned with. We chose the permanent solution."
The throne room doors swung open with a groan of ancient hinges, revealing the Iron Throne in all its twisted glory. King Viserys sat upon the monstrosity of melted swords, one should look like a King upon sitting on that throne. Daenerys loved to tell him that when he sat on the Throne, he looked like a True Targaryen King. His uncle did not. He seemed fragile, his full face was gone, and his silver hair had lost its brightness, now appearing more as grey from old age, despite Viserys being 37 years old.
"Approach," Viserys called, his voice echoing in the vast chamber.
The returning party walked the length of the hall under the watchful eyes of assembled courtiers. Aenar noted the careful positioning—supporters of House Hightower clustered on the throne's right, while those loyal to Rhaenyra gathered on the left. The divide that had begun with Viserys's remarriage had only deepened in their absence.
"My daughter, my brother, brave lords and ladies of House Velaryon," Viserys began formally, "we welcome you home to King's Landing. Your victory in Tyrosh brings great honor to House Targaryen and the Seven Kingdoms."
Rhaenyra stepped forward with perfect courtly grace. "Your Grace, we are grateful for your welcome and proud to have served the realm's interests."
Viserys's gaze shifted to Aenar, and something complicated flickered across his features. "Nephew. Or should we say, Your Grace of Tyrosh?"
Every courtier leaned forward slightly, sensing the delicate balance being tested.
Aenar inclined his head respectfully. "In these halls, Uncle, I remain Prince Aenar, loyal servant of the Iron Throne. My crown is for distant shores, not the Seven Kingdoms."
"Wisely spoken," Viserys said, relief evident in his voice. "The realm benefits from your victories abroad while remaining united at home."
Ser Otto Hightower stepped forward from his position among the courtiers, his green robes rustling. "If I may, Your Grace, there are practical matters to discuss regarding Tyrosh's governance. The appointment of regents, trade agreements, questions of taxation..."
"All in good time, Ser Otto," Aenar replied pleasantly. "Though I'm sure the Crown's interests will be well-served by our arrangements."
Otto's smile was thin as parchment. "Of course. Though one hopes such arrangements consider the stability of the region. Harsh rule can breed resentment, and resentment breeds rebellion."
"I've found that decisiveness prevents more bloodshed than it causes," Aenar countered. "The Tyroshi understand their new reality. Those who accept it prosper. Those who don't..." He shrugged eloquently.
"And what of Dorne?" asked Lord Beesbury, wringing his hands nervously. "Surely Princess Aliandra's overtures deserve consideration? Peace serves the realm better than war."
The temperature in the room seemed to drop several degrees. Aenar's expression remained pleasant, but those who knew him well caught the dangerous glint in his eyes.
"Peace is indeed valuable, Lord Beesbury. But justice is invaluable. House Martell murdered Lord Laenor with wildfire. Some crimes demand fire and blood in answer."
"The Princess Aliandra claims ignorance of her brother's actions," Otto pressed. "Surely we might distinguish between the guilty and the innocent?"
"An interesting perspective, Ser Otto," Rhaenyra interjected smoothly. "Though I wonder if you applied such distinctions when you counseled my father to arm the Faith Militant? Did you consider the innocent smallfolk who might suffer in any resulting conflicts?"
Otto's jaw tightened imperceptibly. The barb had struck home—his role in militarizing the Faith was a source of controversy among the council.
Viserys raised a hand before the exchange could escalate further. "These matters require careful deliberation, not hasty words spoken in open court. Tomorrow's small council will address Dorne properly."
Tomorrow. Aenar filed the information away. When we'll see what terms this Princess Aliandra thinks she can offer.
"Your Grace," called Lord Redwyne from among the assembled nobles, "might we know where Queen Alicent honors us with her presence? Surely such a joyous reunion deserves the Queen's attention?"
An uncomfortable silence stretched across the throne room. Viserys's face flushed slightly, whether from embarrassment or irritation, Aenar couldn't tell.
"My wife tends to our son, Prince Aegon," Viserys said finally. "The Prince is still quite young, and the Queen feels his needs take precedence over court ceremony."
How convenient, Aenar thought. The Queen who fought so hard to be here suddenly finds duties elsewhere when we return.
"Of course," Rhaenyra said with saccharine sweetness. "A mother's devotion is truly admirable. I look forward to meeting my half-brother when the Queen deems it appropriate."
"Perhaps we might withdraw to refresh ourselves after our long journey?" Daemon suggested, his tone suggesting it was less request than statement. "The road from Tyrosh proves taxing, even for dragons."
"Of course," Viserys agreed quickly, perhaps grateful for an escape from the mounting tensions. "You'll find your quarters prepared. Tonight we feast in celebration of your return and the Prince Aegon's continued health."
As they prepared to leave, Aenar caught Otto Hightower's eye. The Hand offered a slight bow, but his expression remained calculating.
He's already planning, Aenar realized. Probably has been since word of our return arrived. Every question about Tyrosh, every mention of Dorne—it's all probing for weaknesses.
The throne room began to empty, courtiers flowing out in carefully orchestrated groups. Aenar lingered a moment, studying the Iron Throne and the man who sat upon it. Viserys looked exhausted, older than his years, burdened by crowns and choices that grew heavier with each passing day.
Is this what ruling truly costs? Aenar wondered. Aenar did not know, not really, he only ruled for two years before the Night King and the Army of the Dead destroyed what was left of his heart.
Then he thought of Tyrosh's eastern quarter, of the dragonfire that had ended the battle in minutes rather than months, and felt no such weariness. Some problems required fire. Some enemies deserved nothing but ash.
As they exited the throne room, he heard Lord Caswell murmur to his companion, "The Prince has certainly changed."
"Dragon fire burns away softness," came the reply. "Let's hope it doesn't burn away wisdom as well."
Later
The solar's afternoon light cast long shadows across the polished table as Aenar followed Rhaenyra and Daemon into the chamber. Queen Alicent sat rigidly in a high-backed chair, her hands folded precisely in her lap, wearing a gown of deep emerald that made her auburn hair gleam like burnished copper. King Viserys stood by the window, his back to them, apparently fascinated by the courtyard below.
"Your Grace," Rhaenyra said with a curtsy that managed to be both technically correct and somehow mocking. "How good of you to finally grace us with your presence."
Alicent's smile could have frozen wine. "Princess Rhaenyra. I trust your... adventures in the East proved educational."
"Quite," Daemon drawled, settling into a chair without invitation. "Nothing teaches like conquest. Though I'm sure Your Grace finds adequate education in nursery duties."
Viserys turned from the window, his face flushed. "Perhaps we might conduct this reunion with some civility?"
"Of course, Your Grace," Aenar said smoothly, offering Alicent a bow that was respectful without being deferential. "Queen Alicent, you look well. Motherhood clearly agrees with you."
"As does kingship with you, Prince Aenar," Alicent replied, her tone carefully neutral. "Though reports from Tyrosh suggest your reign began with considerable... enthusiasm."
"Wars tend to be enthusiastic affairs," Aenar observed. "I'm sure the histories of the Reach contain similar enthusiasm when your ancestors carved out their holdings."
Alicent's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. "The Hightowers have always valued measured responses over excessive force."
"How fortunate that excessive force wasn't needed to place you on that chair," Rhaenyra said sweetly. "Though I suppose some might call a royal marriage within months of a queen's death rather... enthusiastic timing."
Viserys stepped forward hastily. "Rhaenyra, that's quite enough—"
"Is it?" Rhaenyra's violet eyes were like shards of ice. "I was merely observing how quickly things can change. Why, just over a year ago, this very castle rang with declarations that my dear cousin here would marry the then-Lady Alicent. Yet here we all are, arrangements so wonderfully... rearranged."
Daemon's grin was positively feral. "Yes, that was a memorable evening. Something about duty to the realm, wasn't it? Before half the Gold Cloaks decided their duty lay elsewhere."
"Ancient history," Alicent said tightly. "The realm has moved forward."
"Indeed it has," Aenar agreed. "Tyrosh prospers under new management. The Stepstones are clear of pirates. Progress everywhere one looks."
"And Dorne?" Alicent asked pointedly. "I understand Princess Aliandra seeks discourse. Surely that represents progress as well?"
The pleasant mask slipped from Aenar's face for just a moment. "Princess Aliandra can seek whatever she likes. Seeking and receiving are different matters entirely."
"Spoken like a true conqueror," Viserys said with forced lightness. "Though perhaps we might discuss such weighty matters tomorrow at council?"
"Of course," Rhaenyra said, rising gracefully. "But first, I confess myself curious about my new half-brother. Where is young Prince Aegon? Surely he's old enough to meet his sister?"
Alicent's hands clenched in her lap. "The Prince is resting. Infants require careful routines—"
"How considerate," Rhaenyra interrupted. "Though I would hate for him to grow up thinking his family lacks interest in his welfare. Blood is so important in House Targaryen, don't you think?"
"Rhaenyra—" Viserys began.
"Oh, I insist," Rhaenyra continued, her smile bright as a blade. "After all, he is my brother. And I've been away so long, conquering cities and such. Surely a brief visit won't disturb his precious routine?"
Daemon leaned back in his chair, clearly enjoying the spectacle. "Yes, let's meet the boy. I confess curiosity about what a Hightower-Targaryen produces. Will he have your mathematical precision, Your Grace, or our family's more... volatile tendencies?"
Alicent shot him a venomous look. "Prince Aegon is perfectly healthy and perfectly Targaryen."
"Then you won't mind us seeing for ourselves," Aenar said quietly. "Unless there's some reason you'd prefer we didn't?"
"Very well," she said, rising with brittle dignity. "Though I trust you'll remember he's barely two months old. Overstimulation can be harmful to infants."
"We'll be gentle as lambs," Daemon promised with utterly false sincerity.
Viserys looked like a man watching his house burn down around him. "Perhaps... perhaps this would be a good opportunity for family bonding?"
"Absolutely," Rhaenyra agreed, linking her arm through Aenar's with possessive familiarity. "After all, we're all family here. Aren't we, Your Grace?"
Alicent's smile could have curdled milk, but she led them toward the nursery nonetheless.
Nursery
The royal nursery occupied a corner tower of the Red Keep, its tall windows offering views of Blackwater Bay. At the room's center sat an ornate cradle carved from weirwood, its pale surface inlaid with silver dragons that seemed to dance in the shifting light.
Queen Alysanne sat in a cushioned chair beside the cradle, her age-spotted hands folded over a walking stick topped with dragonbone. Despite her seventy-seven years, her violet eyes remained sharp as she looked up at the entering party.
"Grandmother," Rhaenyra said warmly, crossing to kiss the elderly queen's cheek. "You look well."
"Well enough to outlive my enemies," Alysanne replied with a dry chuckle. "Though at my age, that becomes less of an accomplishment."
Viserys moved immediately to the cradle, his face lighting up with genuine joy as he gazed down at the sleeping infant. "Look at him," he said softly. "Perfect in every way."
Aenar approached the cradle, aware that every eye in the room was watching his reaction. The baby was indeed perfect—pale skin dusted with the finest silver-gold hair, tiny fists curled against his chest. Even in sleep, Prince Aegon possessed the beauty that marked true Targaryen blood.
So small, Aenar thought, unexpected emotion tightening his throat. Just as Rhaella would have been.
"He's quite beautiful," he said aloud. "The blood of Old Valyria runs true."
"Indeed it does," Alicent said with barely concealed pride, moving to stand protectively near the cradle. "The maesters say he's unusually strong for his age."
"Strength is certainly valuable in a prince," Rhaenyra observed, her tone pleasant while her eyes remained cold. "Though one hopes it manifests in appropriate ways. Children can be so... unpredictable in their development."
Daemon peered over the cradle's edge with theatrical interest. "He does look remarkably like our family. Though at this age, most babes resemble wrinkled fruit more than anything else."
"Daemon," Viserys warned.
"What? I merely observe that infancy is a temporary condition," Daemon replied innocently. "The true test comes later—when character reveals itself."
Queen Alysanne's eyes twinkled with amusement. "Spoken like a man who was himself quite the handful as a child. As I recall, you once convinced young Viserys to climb the Iron Throne while your father held court."
"Ancient history, Grandmother," Daemon said with a grin. "Though I maintain that showed admirable initiative."
Aenar found himself studying the baby's face. "He seems peaceful enough now. One wonders what dreams occupy such a young mind."
"Pleasant ones, I hope," Alysanne said gently. "Children deserve peaceful dreams, free from the burdens their elders carry."
Aenar caught the old queen's meaningful glance. She knew—or suspected—more about his inner turmoil than she revealed.
Alicent stiffened at the gesture. "The prince needs his rest. Overstimulation can be harmful to infants."
"Of course," Rhaenyra replied smoothly, withdrawing her hand. "I wouldn't dream of disturbing his peace. After all, peaceful succession is so important for the realm's stability."
The double meaning wasn't lost on anyone present. Viserys cleared his throat uncomfortably.
"Perhaps we might sit for a moment?" he suggested. "It's not often we're all together like this."
Servants brought additional chairs, arranging them in a loose circle around the cradle. Alicent positioning herself between the baby and the others, Rhaenyra claiming the chair closest to Queen Alysanne, Daemon choosing a spot where he could observe everyone.
Aenar settled beside his father, his eyes repeatedly drawn to the sleeping infant. "Tell me, Uncle, has he shown any particular temperament yet? I've heard that Targaryen babes can be quite... spirited."
"Oh, he's shown his dragon's fire already," Viserys said proudly. "His cries can wake half the keep when he's hungry."
"How vigorous," Daemon observed. "Nothing like a good pair of lungs to announce one's presence."
"The maesters say his appetite is remarkable," Alicent added, her maternal pride overcoming her wariness momentarily. "He grows stronger each day."
"Growth is indeed wonderful," Rhaenyra said with a serene smile. "Though I've always found it interesting how children can surprise us. One never knows which traits will emerge as they mature."
Queen Alysanne chuckled softly. "Speaking of surprising traits, Aenar, I notice you're wearing your mother's necklace again. It suits you."
Aenar's hand rose unconsciously to touch the silver direwolf pendant. "I'd neglected it for too long. Some gifts shouldn't be forgotten."
"No indeed," Alysanne agreed. "Lyanna Stark was a remarkable woman."
"Mother always said the North remembers," Aenar replied quietly. "Some lessons stay with us longer than others."
"The North does have that reputation," Alicent said carefully. "Though one hopes southern influences might... moderate such tendencies when appropriate."
"Oh, I find northern constancy quite admirable," Rhaenyra interjected sweetly. "There's something to be said for knowing where one stands with people. So much preferable to those who shift with convenience."
The baby stirred in his cradle, making small mewling sounds that drew every eye. Viserys leaned forward anxiously.
"Is he waking? Should we—"
"Hush," Alysanne said gently, reaching into the cradle to stroke the infant's cheek. "There, little dragon. All is well."
Aegon settled back into sleep at her touch, his breathing evening out. The old queen's face softened with genuine tenderness.
"He knows you," Viserys observed with wonder.
"Children often sense safety," Alysanne replied. "They have fewer preconceptions than adults. Less tendency to see threats where none exist."
"How true," Daemon said dryly. "Though sometimes threats are quite real, even if small ones can't perceive them yet."
"Surely not in a nursery," Alicent said sharply. "Here, at least, innocence should be protected."
"Absolutely," Aenar agreed, and he felt his eyes burn. "Children shouldn't suffer for their parents' choices. Whatever conflicts adults might have, the young should remain untouched by them."
'Aenar, where is our daughter?'
His words carried surprising gentleness, and Alicent looked at him with surprise. Queen Alysanne nodded approvingly.
"Wisely spoken," the elderly queen said. "Babes know nothing of politics or succession. They simply exist, trusting the world to care for them."
"Trust is such a precious thing," Rhaenyra observed. "Especially when it's placed in the right hands. One hopes those who accept such trust prove worthy of it."
Viserys beamed, apparently missing the underlying tensions. "This is what I hoped for—family together, welcoming new life. Aegon will grow up knowing he has siblings who care for him."
"Naturally," Rhaenyra said with a bright smile that didn't reach her eyes. "I'm sure we'll all take the greatest interest in his development. Such a responsibility, raising the future of House Targaryen."
"Indeed," Aenar added. "The young prince will have no shortage of... guidance from his family."
Alicent's knuckles were white where she gripped her chair arms. "The prince will be raised with love and proper instruction in his duties."
"Of course," Daemon said languidly. "Though duties can be so varied, can't they? Depending on one's... position in life."
Baby Aegon made another soft sound, his tiny face scrunching momentarily before relaxing again. The gesture was so innocent, so purely infant, that even Rhaenyra's expression softened fractionally.
"Perhaps we shouldn't tire him further," she suggested pointedly. "Infants need their rest."
"Of course," Viserys said quickly. "We should let him sleep. Tonight's feast will be celebration enough."
As they prepared to leave, Queen Alysanne remained seated, her eyes fixed on the sleeping prince.
"I think I'll stay a bit longer," she announced. "These old bones appreciate the chance to rest."
"Are you certain, Grandmother?" Rhaenyra asked. "We could help you back to your chambers."
"Nonsense. I'm not quite decrepit yet," Alysanne replied with spirit. "Besides, someone should ensure our little prince continues sleeping peacefully."
Her meaning was clear—she would guard against any resumption of hostilities near the baby.
As they filed out of the nursery, Aenar cast one last look at the cradle. Prince Aegon slept on, innocent of the complexities that would shape his life, while Queen Alysanne kept her protective vigil.
Some wars spare the innocent, he thought. Others devour them entirely.
The question was which kind of war this would prove to be.
Small Council Meeting
The Small Council chamber felt smaller than Aenar remembered, its familiar shadows and towering windows triggering an unexpected wave of nostalgia. Thirteen months away from King's Landing had been longer than he'd anticipated—this place had been home for most of his new life, and despite everything that had transpired, he found himself oddly comforted by the polished table and high-backed chairs.
"Well then," Viserys said, settling into his chair at the table's head, "Lord Corlys requested this meeting to discuss Dorne before tonight's festivities. I confess the timing seems appropriate."
Daemon poured himself wine from the pitcher on the sideboard. "Before we discuss snakes, brother, shouldn't we properly report on dragons? Our conquest of Tyrosh was rather more eventful than your typical diplomatic missive might convey."
"Please," Viserys gestured for him to continue, genuine interest lighting his tired eyes.
"The Tyroshi proved more prepared than anticipated," Daemon began, settling into his chair. "They had scorpion platforms hidden throughout the harbor, armed with wildfire-tipped bolts. Clever bastards, really."
Corlys nodded grimly. "The trap was well-laid. They let us commit fully before revealing their hand."
"Which is when Princess Rhaenys and Meleys were struck," Daemon continued, his tone growing more serious. "It could have been much worse."
Viserys turned to Rhaenys with obvious concern. "How are you faring, cousin? And Meleys?"
Rhaenys shifted in her chair, her right arm still bound in its wooden cast. "I mend well enough, Your Grace. Pride suffers more than flesh, most days."
"And your dragon?" Viserys pressed.
"Meleys will not fly properly for at least a year," Rhaenys admitted, frustration evident in her voice. "The wing damage was... extensive. She grows restless being grounded."
As would any dragon, Aenar thought, remembering Cannibal's fury during the battle when he'd seen Meleys fall.
"The important thing is you both survived," Viserys said gently. "Dragons and riders can heal. Death is rather more permanent."
"Speaking of permanent solutions," Daemon continued, "after Rhaenys fell, Aenar decided the Tyroshi had played enough games. Cannibal's wildfire proved quite persuasive in ending their resistance."
"The eastern quarter?" Viserys asked quietly.
"Gone," Daemon confirmed.
"The aftermath proved manageable," Corlys added. "Vaemond now rules as regent in Aenar's absence. The trade routes are reopening, and tribute flows steadily to the Crown."
"Vaemond is a good choice," Viserys acknowledged. "Experienced with both ships and governance."
Though father would disagree, Aenar mused, remembering their earlier conversation about Velaryon ambitions.
"Now," Corlys said, his expression darkening, "what of this Dornish correspondence you mentioned? What exactly does Princess Aliandra want?"
Viserys sighed heavily, reaching into a drawer beneath the table to withdraw a scroll. "More than she's prepared to give, I suspect." He broke the seal carefully. "Though she does possess something of value to your house, Lord Corlys."
"Oh?" Corlys raised an eyebrow.
"Your nephew, Daeron Velaryon. Vaemond's eldest son."
Corlys stared at the king, his face cycling through surprise, calculation, and finally grim understanding.
"Daeron," he said slowly. "We haven't heard from his ship in months. Most assumed he'd died."
"According to this letter, he's very much alive," Viserys continued. "In Dornish custody, but unharmed and well-treated."
Rhaenys leaned forward. "How convenient that they mention this now, when they suddenly desire peace talks."
Hostages and bargaining chips, Aenar thought darkly. The oldest games in the book.
"The letter indicates Daeron was captured while sailing to Essos," Viserys continued reading. "His ship was... intercepted."
Aenar's memory stirred. Kinvara's vision in the flames—Lykard Martell attacking ships, taking prisoners. Another piece of the puzzle falling into place.
"They captured him," Corlys said, his voice dangerously quiet. "Took my blood while we fought pirates and Crabfeeder in the Stepstones."
"It appears so," Viserys confirmed. "Though Princess Aliandra promises his safe return as part of broader peace negotiations."
Corlys barked a harsh laugh. "How magnanimous. They hold my nephew hostage and offer to return him in exchange for forgetting they murdered my son."
"Blood calls to blood," Daemon said unexpectedly, drawing surprised looks from around the table. "Daeron carries Velaryon blood. Whatever else transpires, he must be recovered."
"I agree completely," Viserys said, relief evident in his voice. "Which brings us to Princess Aliandra's proposal. She suggests a meeting at the Snake's Pass, one month hence, under a peace banner."
The mention of the 'peace banner' drew nods from most present. In Westeros, few laws were more sacred than the protection offered by the peace banner—it was considered blessed by gods and men alike.
"If she's willing to meet under peace banner, it suggests genuine intent," Rhaenys observed. "No one breaks that covenant lightly."
"I have nothing to discuss with Dornish snakes," Corlys said flatly. "But if it's under peace banner..." He paused, something dark flickering in his eyes. "I confess curiosity to look upon the man who murdered my son."
Lykard won't be there, Aenar realized. Too dangerous for him to appear personally. This Aliandra will come with guards and diplomats, not her brother.
"A meeting might prove beneficial," Daemon added, surprising Viserys further. "Even if only to gauge their true position."
Aenar felt cold dread settling in his stomach. In his memories as Jon Snow, he'd witnessed the breaking of peace banner protections—seen how desperation could drive even honorable houses to unthinkable acts. House Martell had broken the Peace Banner against Daeron Targaryen, the Young Dragon.
"They cannot be trusted," he said firmly. "Peace banner or not, this is a trap. They're afraid, backed into a corner. Desperate enemies do desperate things."
"Aenar," Viserys said gently, "the peace banner has never been broken in the history of Westeros. Even our enemies respect its sanctity."
"Laws mean nothing to cornered animals," Aenar insisted. "They'll use the meeting as cover for some attack or treachery."
"The peace banner is protected by gods, men, and tradition older than the Conquest," Rhaenys said firmly. "Even House Targaryen has always honored it."
"Then we should break it first," he said aloud, the words surprising even himself. "Attend the meeting and take them prisoner. End this war in a single stroke."
The reaction was immediate and violent. Viserys shot to his feet, his face flushed with anger.
"Absolutely not!" he thundered. "I will never be party to breaking sacred law. Never!"
"The peace banner is inviolate," Daemon added, his voice unusually serious. "Break that, and every future negotiation becomes meaningless."
"Some principles transcend strategy," Corlys said quietly. "Even with Laenor dead, I won't stain my house with such dishonor."
Aenar felt isolated, surrounded by people who couldn't see the danger approaching. "You're all being naive—"
"May I read the letter?" Rhaenys interrupted, her voice cutting through the tension.
Viserys handed it over, still glowering at Aenar's suggestion. Rhaenys scanned the parchment quickly, her brow furrowing.
"This is... odd," she said slowly. "Why does Princess Aliandra mention a red door? Here, at the bottom—it seems completely unrelated to the rest."
"I noticed that as well," Viserys admitted. "Some Dornish custom, perhaps? I confess ignorance of their diplomatic traditions."
Aenar felt something cold crawl up his spine. "What exactly does it say?"
Rhaenys squinted at the parchment. "It's addressed to you specifically: 'Aenar, Dany. Once this war is over. I want us to build a House with a Red Door and Lemon Tree Outside.' What does that mean?"
Aenar felt cold fingers on his spine. The council chamber seemed to spin around him as memories flooded back—not from this life, but from before. Daenerys in Braavos, describing her childhood home. The house with the red door and lemon tree outside where she'd been happiest. Their pillow talk about building such a place together, him, Dany and Rhaenys, somewhere peaceful, somewhere their daughter could grow up safe...
How could she know? The question screamed through his mind as flashes of memory cascaded: Daenerys's voice describing the red door, their conversations about the future, dreams of peace after war. How could anyone in this world know about those conversations?
He grabbed the letter from Rhaenys's hands, his eyes devouring the words. There it was, in neat script at the bottom—words that shouldn't exist, couldn't exist.
The room tilted sideways. Voices seemed to come from very far away. He felt as if someone was covering his eyes; he could not see anything anymore.
How could she know about Daenerys? About the red door?
Aenar saw the floor rushing up to meet him, and in that moment, he heard voices, too many voices.
Mother.
Old Man.
Daenerys.
...Rhaenys.