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"I thought finding Daenerys was the end of my search for family," Aenar said, his voice distant as memory pulled him back across years and an ocean. "Two Targaryens left in all the world—or so I believed. Then one day, a ship arrived in Meereen's harbor flying Martell and House Targaryen colors."
Daemon shifted against the weirwood, his attention sharpening. "Rhaegar's daughter. The one supposedly killed with her mother."
"Supposedly." Aenar's fingers traced the direwolf pendant. "The Kingslayer saved her, and she was smuggled out of King's Landing before the Mountain came for Elia. She'd been raised in hiding, moved from place to place, never safe, never settled. Until she heard rumors of the Dragon Queen across the Narrow Sea and decided to find the last of her family."
"And you were there when she arrived."
"I was." Aenar closed his eyes, letting the memory take him.
' The afternoon sun turned Meereen's golden pyramid into a beacon of light. Jon stood on one of the lower terraces with Daenerys, watching a Ghiscari merchant ship navigate the harbor. Behind them, Missandei was translating a petition from the Guild of Weavers.
"Another ship," Daenerys said, sounding tired. "More people wanting something we cannot give."
Jon was about to respond when he noticed the banners. Orange sun pierced by a red spear and the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen. His heart stuttered.
"Dany," he said quietly. "Those are Martell colors."
Her head snapped around. "Martell? What would Dorne want with us?"
"I don't know."
They received the visitors in the throne room—or what passed for one in the Great Pyramid. Daenerys sat on the carved bench that served as her seat of power, Barristan Selmy at her right hand, Jon at her left. Grey Worm and twenty Unsullied lined the walls.
The Dornish party was small. An older knight with sun-weathered skin led them, followed by two younger guards, and behind them—
Jon's breath stopped.
She was around 19 years old, with olive skin that spoke of Dornish heritage and dark hair that fell in waves past her shoulders. But it was her eyes that made his heart hammer against his ribs. Purple. The purple of House Targaryen, the same shade he saw when he looked in a mirror.
She wore traveling leathers, practical and well-worn, with a sword at her hip. She walked like a warrior. When those purple eyes found him, her eyes showed surprise.
"Your Grace," the older knight said, kneeling. "I am Ser Archibald. May I present Rhaenys Targaryen, daughter of Prince Rhaegar Targaryen and Princess Elia Martell."
The throne room erupted in whispers. Jon couldn't breathe, couldn't think. Rhaegar's daughter. His sister.
Daenerys rose slowly, her face a mask of shock. "Rhaenys died," she said, her voice barely carrying. "She died with her mother when the Mountain—"
"Lord Varys smuggled me out hours before," Rhaenys interrupted, her voice clear and strong, carrying a slight Dornish accent. "He had me hidden in a barrel of salted fish. Not particularly dignified for a princess, but it saved my life."
She stepped forward, and Jon could see the tension in her shoulders, the way her hand stayed near her sword. "I've spent over a decade in hiding. I heard the Mother of Dragons had returned to the world with fire and wonder. I came to see if the stories were true. To see if any of my blood still lived."
"You're really her," Daenerys whispered. "Rhaegar's daughter."
"I am." Those purple eyes slid to Jon. "And who is this? Another hidden Targaryen?"
Jon stood, his throat tight. "My name is Jon Snow. I was raised in the North as Eddard Stark's bastard, but I'm—"
"Rhaegar's son." Rhaenys's expression didn't change, but something cold entered her voice. "By Lyanna Stark."
The way she said his mother's name—like a curse, like poison on her tongue—made Jon flinch.
"Yes," he said quietly.
Rhaenys was silent for a long moment. Then she looked away, back to Daenerys.
"I've come to pledge my service to the last true Queen of Westeros," she said, her voice formal now, emptied of warmth. "To help reclaim what was stolen from our family. If you'll have me."
Barristan, who had been silent, looked at Rhaenys. His old face looked so happy, and Dany waited for the knight to say something. He approached slowly, wanting to make it clear that he was not going to harm the supposed Princess, and once he was close enough. "I still remember the little girl tugging at my cloak, before running away laughing. You are Rhaegar's daughter. You have his eyes."
"So I'm told." Rhaenys said with a little smile. "But I don't remember much of my father anymore,"
"We'll talk," Daenerys said, tears threatening. "We have so much to discuss, so much lost time. Missandei, prepare chambers for Princess Rhaenys and her escort. The finest we have."
As the group began to disperse, Jon moved toward Rhaenys. She was his sister. His actual blood sister, not a cousin like the Stark children, but someone who shared both his father's and the Targaryen legacy.
"Princess," he said, trying to keep his voice steady. "I know this must be overwhelming, but I'd like to—"
"Don't." She cut him off, her voice sharp as broken glass. "Don't call me princess. Don't presume we have anything to discuss."
Jon stopped as if she'd struck him. "I just thought—"
"You thought wrong." She turned to face him fully, and the hatred in her eyes was so raw, so absolute, it stole his breath. "You're Lyanna Stark's son. The son of the woman who destroyed everything."
"My mother didn't—"
"Your mother," Rhaenys said, her voice dropping to something deadly quiet, "seduced my father. Drew him away from his wife, from his duties, from his children. Because of her, because of their selfish passion, Robert Baratheon went to war. Because of her, my mother was raped by Gregor Clegane until she died. Because of her, my baby brother's head was smashed against a wall so hard his skull shattered."
Each word was a dagger. Jon felt them all strike home.
"I was a little girl," Rhaenys continued, her composure cracking, fury bleeding through. "I had to hide who I was for fifteen years. I grew up knowing my mother died screaming, that my brother died before he could speak his first words. And it was all because Rhaegar Targaryen couldn't keep his cock in his breeches and Lyanna Stark couldn't remember she was betrothed to Robert Baratheon."
"That's not—" Jon started, but she talked over him.
"My mother was his wife. His lawful wife. She gave him a daughter and a son. She did everything expected of her. And how was she repaid? Cast aside for a Northern girl with wolf's blood and no sense."
"They loved each other," Jon said, his voice barely a whisper.
Rhaenys laughed, bitter and broken. "Love. How romantic. I'm sure my mother found great comfort in that thought while the Mountain raped her. I'm sure my brother appreciated love very much as his brain leaked onto the floor."
"Rhaenys," Daenerys interjected, appearing at Jon's side. "He's your brother."
"Half-brother," Rhaenys corrected coldly. "We share a father who chose his mother over mine. That's all we share. That's all we'll ever share."
She turned and walked away, her Dornish escort following. Jon stood frozen, feeling like the walls of the pyramid were closing in.
"She didn't mean it," Daenerys said softly, placing a hand on his arm. "She's hurt. Angry. Many years of hiding, of fear—"
"She meant every word." Jon's voice was hollow. "And she's not wrong. If my parents had never met, if they'd never... Elia would still be alive. Aegon would still be alive. Rhaenys would have grown up a princess instead of a fugitive."
"You can't blame yourself for what others did before you were born."
But Jon did. He'd blamed himself for Ned Stark's dishonor his entire life. Now he had a new burden to carry—the knowledge that his very existence was built on someone else's tragedy. '
"She hated me," Aenar said, opening his eyes to find Daemon watching him intently. "From that first moment, she hated me for being born."
"She was a fool," Daemon said flatly. "You didn't choose your parents any more than she did. Blaming a child for the sins of his father—"
"Can you honestly tell me you wouldn't feel the same?" Aenar challenged. "If someone you loved died because of a choice someone else made, could you look at their child and feel nothing but hate?"
Daemon's jaw worked. "No. But I wouldn't punish an innocent for it either."
"Wouldn't you?" Aenar met his father's eyes. "Lady Catelyn punished me for existing. Every cold look, every reminder that I wasn't truly her son's brother, every time she made me sit below the salt or turned away when I entered a room. She punished me for Ned Stark's supposed dishonor."
"She was a bitch." Daemon said right away.
"Maybe?" Aenar shook his head. "Or is it just easier to condemn strangers than to admit we're all capable of the same cruelty?"
Daemon was quiet, his fingers drumming against Dark Sister's pommel—a sign he was thinking, weighing something heavy.
"What happened next?" he finally asked. "She couldn't have hated you forever if you..."
He trailed off, the implication clear. If they'd fallen in love.
"No," Aenar agreed, a sad smile touching his lips. "She couldn't hate me forever. But it took time. And blood. And music."
"Music?"
"I'll get to that." Aenar drew in a breath. "The first weeks after Rhaenys arrived were hell. She and Daenerys became close almost immediately—they were both princesses who'd grown up in exile, both survivors who'd learned to be strong in a world that wanted them weak. But me? Every time I entered a room, she'd leave. If Dany insisted we share a meal, Rhaenys would sit as far from me as possible and speak as if I weren't there."
"Childish," Daemon muttered.
"Perhaps. But understandable." Aenar picked at the bark of the weirwood. "I tried giving her space, tried pretending it didn't hurt. But every dismissal, every cold shoulder, every time she'd laugh with Daenerys and fall silent when I approached—it was like being back at Winterfell, being the bastard no one wanted around."
"Then what changed?"
"Meereen rebelled."
"Meereen rebelled?" Daemon leaned forward. "I thought the Dragon Queen had conquered the city."
"Conquered, yes. But holding a city is different from taking it." Aenar's voice grew harder, remembering. "The Great Masters didn't appreciate their former slaves being freed. They funded an uprising—the Sons of the Harpy, they called themselves. Cowards who wore masks and struck from shadows."
"Honorless dogs."
"Exactly what Rhaenys called them." A ghost of a smile crossed Aenar's face. "It was the first time I heard her speak with real passion since she'd arrived. She hated them. Hated what they represented."
The attack came at dusk, three weeks after Rhaenys's arrival. Jon was walking through one of Meereen's lower markets with Grey Worm and six Unsullied when the first scream split the air.
"Harpy!" someone shouted in Ghiscari.
Jon's hand went to Longclaw as masked figures emerged from alleys and rooftops. Gold masks shaped like harpies, curved blades in their hands. There were at least twenty of them.
"Protect the—" Grey Worm started, but Jon was already moving.
The Unsullied formed a defensive ring, their spears a forest of bronze death. Jon fought beside them, Longclaw singing as it met Harpy steel. Walls turned red with blood, and Jon fought like a beast.
A scream from above made him look up. A woman was being dragged from her home by three Harpies. Without thinking, Jon broke from the formation.
"Jon, no!" Grey Worm shouted, but Jon was already climbing.
He reached the balcony as one Harpy raised his blade to strike the woman. Longclaw took his head before the blow could fall. The other two turned on Jon.
He was managing—barely—when a roar split the sky.
The dragon was smaller than Drogon or Rhaegal, perhaps three years of growth, but no less magnificent. Red scales like fresh blood, black wings. It dove from the evening sky.
Dragonfire turned the two Harpies to ash before they could scream. The dragon—Meraxes, it had to be—landed on the rooftop with enough force to crack tiles. And on her back sat Rhaenys, her dark hair wild, her purple eyes blazing with fury.
"Get down!" she shouted at Jon.
He didn't argue. He grabbed the woman and half-climbed, half-fell to the street level. Above, Meraxes unleashed fire, clearing the roads of Harpies below like a farmer burning weeds.
More dragons came. Drogon, black and red, with Daenerys on his back. Rhaegal, green and bronze, riderless but answering Jon's bond with him from across the city. The three dragons turned the ambush into a rout.
When it was over, Jon stood in a street full of ash and corpses, his sword bloody. Rhaenys landed Meraxes nearby.
"You're an idiot," she said, striding toward him. "Breaking formation like that. You could have been killed."
"There was a woman—"
"There are always people in danger." She stopped in front of him, and for the first time since they'd met, she really looked at him. "But you saved her. You could have stayed safe with the Unsullied, but you didn't."
"Would you have?"
She appeared as if she was fighting back a smile. "No. I suppose I wouldn't have."
That night, for the first time, when Jon entered the dining hall, Rhaenys didn't leave.
"She had her own dragon," Daemon interrupted, his voice sharp with interest. "You didn't mention that before."
"Meraxes came to her the night the red comet appeared in the sky, the comet appeared the day Dany's dragon were born into this world," Aenar explained. "Rhaenys told Daenerys it was like the dragon had simply... found her. Emerged from nowhere, a hatchling seeking its rider. She'd been raising it in secret during her years in hiding."
"Three dragons, then four." Daemon shook his head in wonder. "And she revealed this to Daenerys immediately?"
"The same day she arrived. I wasn't there—they were having a private conversation. I only learned later." Aenar's expression softened. "Three dragons for three Targaryens, plus Viserion still without a rider. It should have been perfect."
"But it wasn't."
"Not yet." Aenar continued. "The Sons of the Harpy kept striking. Ambushes, assassinations, poison. Daenerys wanted to root them out, burn their families, but Rhaenys..." He paused. "Rhaenys argued for mercy. For trials, for justice tempered with wisdom. She'd say, 'My mother died because men chose vengeance over honor. I won't become them.'"
"She had a soft heart," Daemon observed.
"She had a strong heart," Aenar corrected firmly. "There's a difference. She could be ruthless when needed—I saw her burn Harpies without hesitation when they threatened innocents. But she refused to punish children for their fathers' crimes. Refused to become the monster she'd been taught to hate."
They started fighting together after that first battle. Not by design, but by necessity. When the Harpies struck, when dragons took to the sky, Jon and Rhaenys found themselves side by side more often than not.
She was brilliant in combat. While Daenerys was the better rider, Dany was no swordswoman, unlike Rhaenys.
"You're getting slow," Rhaenys said one afternoon as they sparred in the pyramid's training yard. Her practice blade tapped his ribs. "Dead again."
Jon stepped back, breathing hard. "You're faster than anyone I've fought."
"The Red Garden of Braavos." She circled him. "My Master At Arms sent me there to train when I was eight. Said if I was going to survive in a world that wanted me dead, I needed to be better than good."
"He was right." Jon blocked her next strike, twisted, tried a move Robb had taught him a lifetime ago. She read it, sidestepped, and her blade kissed his throat.
"Yield?"
"Yield." He lowered his sword, and found himself actually smiling. "Teach me that move."
Rhaenys looked like she wanted to say, but she frowned and her eyes glared at him. "Why would I help you beat me?"
"Because we're family." The words were out before he could stop them. "Because we're stronger together than apart."
Rhaenys stared at him for a long moment. Then, slowly, she demonstrated the footwork.
That became their routine. Dawn sparring sessions, where she'd teach him Dornish techniques and he'd show her Northern tricks. She was still cold most of the time, still withdrew when emotions threatened, but there was less hostility. More... acknowledgment.
Three months after she'd arrived, they were walking through one of Meereen's gardens when she suddenly spoke.
"I was four when they came for my mother."
Jon stopped. She'd never volunteered anything personal before.
"I don't remember much. Hiding in a barrel, the smell of fish making me sick, being terrified to cry because someone might hear." Her fingers traced the petals of a night-blooming flower. "But I remember my mother's voice. She sang to me every night. Dornish lullabies, songs about the sun and the sea."
"I'm sorry," Jon said quietly. "I'm so sorry for what happened to her. To you."
"It's not your fault." The words came slowly, reluctantly. "I've been telling myself that for weeks. Daenerys keeps reminding me. You didn't kill them. You weren't even born yet."
"But if my parents—"
"If your parents had never met, would my mother and brother still be alive?" She turned to face him, moonlight catching in her purple eyes. "Maybe. Or maybe Robert would have found another excuse for war. Maybe the Mad King would have burned someone else's family. Maybe Tywin Lannister would have still sent the Mountain to do what monsters do."
She wrapped her arms around herself. "I've spent fifteen years hating Lyanna Stark. Hating the woman who 'stole' my father. But Daenerys asked me something the other day that I can't stop thinking about."
"What?"
"She asked if I'd ever heard my father sing." Rhaenys smiled sadly. "I have heard stories. Said Rhaegar loved music more than fighting, that he'd play his harp by the river for hours. That he was gentle and sad and filled with prophecy."
"Maester Aemon said the same thing."
"I've been so angry for so long. It was easier to hate than to accept that maybe—maybe they really did love each other. That my mother's death wasn't anyone's fault except the monsters who killed her."
Jon didn't know what to say. He reached out slowly, giving her time to pull away, and rested his hand on her shoulder.
She didn't pull away.
"I'm trying," she whispered. "To not hate you. To see you instead of her. It's... harder than I thought it would be."
"Take your time," Jon said. "I'm not going anywhere."
"Six months," Aenar told Daemon. "Six months of slow progress. Training together, fighting together, slowly learning to be siblings instead of strangers. Then one night, everything changed."
"What happened?"
"There was a feast. A celebration after we'd finally captured the leaders of the Sons of the Harpy. Daenerys was in high spirits, the city was celebrating, and someone—I don't remember who—asked if anyone knew any songs."
Daemon's eyebrows rose. "You sang."
"I didn't want to. But Daenerys insisted, and refusing would have been rude." Aenar's voice grew soft with memory. "So I sang. An old song, one I'd heard in Winterfell as a boy. 'Jenny of Oldstones.'"
Jon's voice carried through the hall. He'd never thought much of his singing—it was just something he did sometimes, when he was alone.
"High in the halls of the kings who are gone, Jenny would dance with her ghosts..."
The room fell silent. Even the servants stopped moving. Jon kept his eyes closed, lost in the melody, in memories of Winterfell and the family he'd lost.
"The ones she had lost and the ones she had found, and the ones who had loved her the most..."
When the last note faded, he opened his eyes. Daenerys was smiling, tears on her cheeks. But it was Rhaenys who made his breath catch.
She was crying. Not quiet tears, but open, honest grief. Her hand was pressed to her mouth, her whole body shaking.
"Rhaenys?" Jon stood, concerned. "Are you—"
She fled. Just turned and ran from the hall, leaving stunned silence behind her.
Jon followed without thinking, catching up to her in one of the pyramid's open-air gardens. She stood at the edge, overlooking the city, her shoulders heaving with sobs.
"I'm sorry," he said, approaching carefully. "If the song upset you—"
"You sound like him." Her voice was broken, raw. "Daenerys told me, but I didn't... you sound exactly like him. I can hardly remember him, but...hearing you now. You reminded him of the many songs he sang for me."
"Rhaenys..."
"I'm sorry." She crossed the distance between them suddenly, desperately. "I'm so sorry for how I treated you. You're my brother. My blood. And I've been cruel to you because I was too angry to see past my own pain."
"You don't have to—"
"Yes, I do." She grabbed his hands, holding tight. "You lost your mother. You grew up a bastard, treated like you were less than everyone around you. You lost siblings, you lost your home, you lost everything just like I did. And when you finally found family, I made you feel unwanted all over again."
"You were hurting," Jon said. "I understood."
"Understanding doesn't make it right." She stepped closer, and he could see every detail of her face—so like his own, the purple eyes they'd both inherited, the Targaryen features mixing with their mothers' influences. "I want to try again. To be your sister, truly. If you'll let me."
Jon pulled her into an embrace. She clung to him like a drowning person to driftwood, and they stood there as the moon rose over Meereen, two lost Targaryens finding their way home.
"She changed after that night," Aenar said, his voice thick with emotion. "Stopped being cold, stopped keeping distance. We'd talk for hours about everything. She told me about growing up in hiding, about the terror of never feeling safe. I told her about Winterfell, about the Wall, about all the lives I'd lived."
"And you fell in love," Daemon said quietly.
"Not immediately. For months, it was just... sibling affection. The joy of having family who understood. But then..." Aenar paused. "We were hunting rebels in the hills outside Meereen. Just the two of us and our dragons. We'd tracked them to a cave system, went in on foot while the dragons waited outside."
"Dangerous."
"Very. There were more rebels than we'd thought. We fought our way through, but Rhaenys took a blade to her side. Not deep, but bleeding badly. I got her out, back to Meraxes, and we flew to a clearing to tend the wound."
"Hold still," Jon said, his hands shaking as he pressed cloth against her side. Blood seeped through despite his pressure.
"It's not that bad," Rhaenys said, her voice tight with pain.
"You're bleeding everywhere."
"I've had worse." She tried to smile. "You should have seen what happened in Volantis when—" She winced as he applied more pressure.
"Stop talking. Save your strength."
"Jon." Her hand covered his. "Look at me."
He met her eyes, and found her smiling despite the pain.
"Thank you," she said softly. "For protecting me. For being there. For being my brother."
"Always," he promised.
"I love you." The words were simple, honest. "I don't tell you enough, but I do. You're the best brother I could have asked for."
Jon felt something shift in his chest. The way she looked at him, the warmth in her eyes, the trust—
"I love you too," he said.
She pulled him closer, resting her forehead against his. They stayed that way, breathing together, until the bleeding stopped and the world resumed spinning.
The kiss came a month after that. They were alone in the pyramid late at night, discussing strategy for the Westerosi invasion. The conversation drifted to personal matters, to fears and hopes.
"I never thought I'd have this," Rhaenys said, her hand finding his across the map they'd been studying. "Family. Safety. Someone who understands."
"Neither did I."
"Jon..." She looked at him, and he saw it in her eyes—the same confusing tangle of emotions he'd been fighting. "What are we doing?"
"I don't know," he admitted.
"We shouldn't—"
"I know."
"It's wrong—"
"I know."
"Then why do I want—" She stopped, biting her lip.
Jon made the decision for both of them. He leaned in slowly, giving her every chance to pull away, and pressed his lips to hers.
She didn't pull away. Instead, she kissed him back, fierce and desperate and certain. Her hands tangled in his dark hair, pulling him closer, and he lost himself in the taste of her, the feel of her.
When they finally broke apart, both breathing hard, Rhaenys pressed her forehead to his.
"This is insane," she whispered.
"Yes."
"We're going to regret this."
"Probably."
"I don't care." She kissed him again, softer this time. "I don't care about anything except this. Except you."
Aenar fell silent, tears streaming down his face. Daemon reached out, gripping his son's shoulder.
"You loved her," he said simply.
"With everything I had, her and Daenerys," Aenar whispered. "She was my sister, my partner, my other half. And I lost her because I wasn't strong enough, wasn't smart enough to see what was coming."
"What happened?" Daemon asked.
Aenar looked up, meeting his father's eyes, and Daemon saw such profound grief there that it took his breath away.
"House Martell happened," Aenar said, his voice turning to ice. "Oberyn Martell happened. And I learned that some poisons kill slower than others."
"Rhaenys wanted to meet them," Aenar continued, his voice hollow. "Her mother's family. The people who should have protected Elia, who should have avenged her."
"She'd never met them before?" Daemon asked, surprised.
"Never. She'd spent fifteen years running, hiding, never staying anywhere long enough to form connections. House Martell didn't even know she was alive—Varys kept that secret well." Aenar's fingers dug into the earth beside him. "When we started planning the invasion of Westeros, Rhaenys suggested reaching out to Dorne. They had reason to hate the Lannisters, reason to want vengeance. It made strategic sense."
"And you agreed?"
"Both Daenerys and I did. We needed allies. The Reach was uncertain, the Stormlands loyal to Stannis Baratheon, the Westerlands were Lannister heartland. But Dorne..." He shook his head. "Dorne remembered. They remembered Elia's screams, remembered baby Aegon's shattered skull. We thought their hatred of the Lannisters would override everything else."
"You thought wrong."
"I thought wrong about many things." Aenar's voice turned bitter. "We sent ravens from Meereen. Rhaenys wrote the letter herself, explaining who she was, offering proof. Prince Doran Martell responded within weeks. He was cautious—demanded we meet at Dragonstone once we landed in Westeros, neutral ground where treachery would be difficult."
"Wise of him."
"Very wise. We agreed. A month after we left Meereen with our fleet, after we'd taken Dragonstone without resistance, Dornish ships arrived in Blackwater Bay."
Dragonstone's throne room was ancient stone and dragon carvings, built by Aegon the Conqueror himself. Aenar—he was using that name now, leaving Jon Snow behind in Essos—stood with Daenerys on one side and Rhaenys on the other. Three dragons perched on the fortress walls outside, visible through the windows. A statement of power.
The Dornish party entered. At their head walked a man in a wheeled chair, his legs twisted and useless, but his dark eyes sharp as obsidian. Prince Doran Martell, Lord of Sunspear.
Beside him walked death itself.
Prince Oberyn Martell was everything the songs claimed and more. Tall, lean, moving like a viper ready to strike. Dark hair shot through with silver, olive skin, and eyes that burned with fury. He wore light armor despite this being a diplomatic meeting, and eight daggers were visible on his person—likely twice as many hidden.
Behind them came others—knights, advisors, guards—but Aenar's attention fixed on Oberyn. The Red Viper.
"Your Grace," Doran said. "We come in response to your invitation."
"Prince Doran." Daenerys descended from the throne—she'd insisted on the formal reception. "Thank you for making the journey. House Martell's support would be—"
"Is it true?" Oberyn interrupted, his voice sharp as a blade. His eyes locked on Rhaenys. "Are you really Elia's daughter?"
Rhaenys stepped forward, her spine straight, chin high. "I am Rhaenys Targaryen, daughter of Prince Rhaegar Targaryen and Princess Elia Martell. Varys smuggled me from King's Landing hours before Ser Gregor Clegane came for my mother."
Something cracked in Oberyn's expression. He moved toward her, and every Unsullied in the room tensed. But he only stopped a few feet away, studying her face. There was a long moment of silence. Oberyn kept looking at Rhaenys, then his eyes became foggy.
"You have her face," he whispered. "Elia's face. I thought I'd see it again."
"Uncle," Rhaenys said softly, and Aenar heard the hope in her voice, the desperate need for family.
Oberyn reached out, touching her face gently, almost reverently. "My sister's daughter. Alive. All these years, I thought..." He pulled her into an embrace, and Rhaenys wrapped her arms around him, tears streaming down her face.
Aenar felt something loosen in his chest. This was what she needed. What she deserved.
Then Oberyn's eyes found him over Rhaenys's shoulder, and Aenar felt that relief turn to ice.
The hatred in those eyes was absolute. Not anger, not mere dislike—pure, undiluted loathing.
"And who," Oberyn said, his voice still gentle but with an edge like poisoned steel, "is this?"
Rhaenys pulled back, wiping her eyes. "This is Aenar Targaryen. My half-brother. Rhaegar's son by—"
"Lyanna Stark." Oberyn's voice could have frozen the Narrow Sea. "Yes. I can see it. He has the bastard's look. Targaryen features wrapped in Northern coloring."
"I'm not a bastard," Aenar said quietly. "My parents were married—"
"Your parents were the reason my sister died screaming." Oberyn released Rhaenys and stalked toward Aenar. "Rhaegar Targaryen, that prophecy-obsessed fool, who had a wife and two children, decided he needed another. Decided that his legal vows, his honor, his family meant nothing compared to his precious songs and dreams."
"That's not how it happened—"
"No?" Oberyn's hand moved to one of his daggers. "Then tell me, boy, how did it happen? Did your father not abandon his wife to chase a Northern girl? Did he not leave Elia alone in King's Landing with two small children while he played at love? Did his actions not start a war that got thousands killed?"
"My mother didn't ask for any of this—"
"Your mother was a stupid girl who thought love mattered more than duty!" Oberyn's composure cracked, rage bleeding through. "She had a betrothed. Robert Baratheon was a drunk and a fool, but he was her betrothed. Instead, she ran off with a married man and got herself killed. Got my sister killed. Got my nephew killed. And now I'm supposed to smile and accept that her whelp stands before me claiming to be a prince?"
"Enough!" Rhaenys's voice cracked through the throne room like a whip. She stepped between Oberyn and Aenar, her purple eyes blazing with fury that matched her uncle's. "Uncle, stop. I won't have you speak to him like that."
Oberyn stared at her, shock replacing some of his rage. "Rhaenys—"
"No." She held up a hand. "I know what happened to my mother. I know what my father did. But Aenar is not his father. He didn't ask for any of this." Her voice broke slightly. "And he's my brother. My blood. If you want me in your life, you will treat him with respect."
"He is the proof of—"
"He is a victim of circumstance, just as I am!" Rhaenys's hands clenched into fists. "I spent months hating him for existing. Months blaming him for crimes committed before his birth. I was wrong. And so are you."
"Oberyn." Doran's voice cut through the tension, quiet but commanding. "That is enough."
Oberyn turned to his brother, conflict clear on his face. "Doran—"
"I said enough." Doran wheeled himself forward, positioning himself between the Martells and the Targaryens. He looked at Daenerys, his expression apologetic. "Your Grace, please forgive my brother's... passion. He has carried this grief for many years."
"Grief I understand," Daenerys said coolly. "But I will not tolerate disrespect toward my nephew in my own hall."
"Nor should you." Doran inclined his head. "Oberyn, apologize."
For a long moment, Oberyn stood rigid, his jaw working. Then, through what seemed like tremendous effort, he spoke. "I apologize, Your Grace. My words were... inappropriate."
It wasn't much of an apology, and the hatred in his eyes when they slid to Aenar hadn't dimmed, but it was something.
"We came here to discuss an alliance," Doran continued smoothly. "To speak of destroying House Lannister and restoring House Targaryen to its rightful place. May we proceed with that discussion?"
Daenerys exchanged glances with Aenar and Rhaenys, then nodded slowly. "We may. But let me be clear, Prince Doran—Dorne's support is welcome, but not at the cost of my family's dignity."
"Understood, Your Grace." Doran's eyes found Aenar. "Prince Aenar, I knew your father, if briefly. Rhaegar was... complicated. A man caught between duty and prophecy, between love and responsibility. His choices had terrible consequences, and those consequences fell hardest on innocent people." He paused. "You are not responsible for his choices. And while Oberyn's pain is real, his anger should not fall on you."
"Thank you, Prince Doran," he said quietly.
Doran turned to Rhaenys. "And you, niece. We have much to discuss, you and I. About your mother, about family, about the years you lost." His voice softened. "I'm sorry we couldn't find you sooner. I'm sorry you had to hide for so long."
The meeting continued after that, moving to discussions of troops and supplies, of strategic targets and political alliances. But Aenar couldn't shake the feeling of Oberyn's eyes on him throughout, burning with hatred.
And when Oberyn smiled—a cold, viper's smile—Aenar felt something dark settle in his chest.
This alliance would cost them. He just didn't know how much yet.
"Oberyn never forgave me," Aenar told Daemon. "Even after Rhaenys defended me, even after Doran's attempts at reconciliation. Every war council, every strategy meeting, he'd find ways to undermine me. Subtle ways that couldn't be directly challenged but made it clear he saw me as an enemy masquerading as an ally."
"And Rhaenys?"
"Was caught in the middle." Aenar's voice was heavy with old pain. "She loved her uncle, loved having family, but she loved me too. It tore at her, trying to bridge that gap."
"You should have challenged him," Daemon said. "Made him put his steel where his mouth was."
"Rhaenys begged me not to." Aenar looked at his father. "She'd finally found her mother's family. How could I take that from her by killing her uncle?"
Daemon's expression softened slightly. "You loved her more than your pride."
"I loved her more than anything." Aenar's voice broke. "And that's why what happened next destroyed me so completely. Because I thought love would be enough. I thought if we could just win the war, take the throne, build peace—everything would work out."
"But it didn't."
"No," Aenar whispered. "Because while I was watching Oberyn's obvious hatred, I missed the real threat. The one who smiled and welcomed us with open arms and poisoned wine. Princess Arianne Martell."
Note: Remember that Aenar (Jon) is the one telling the story; the flashbacks are all his, so remember that Aenar might be wrong in some aspects because of his emotions and his hatred.
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