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Chapter 57, Chapter 58, Chapter 59, Chapter 60, Chapter 61, Chapter 62, Chapter 63, Chapter 64, Chapter 65, Chapter 66, Chapter 67, Chapter 68, Chapter 69, Chapter 70, Chapter 71, Chapter 72, Chapter 73, and Chapter 74 are already available for Patrons.
The morning sun painted Dragonstone in shades of gray and purple, the volcanic stone seeming to shift and move in the early light. Aenar Targaryen stood before his mirror, adjusting the black and red leather doublet that bore his house's three-headed dragon. His dark curls, so unlike the typical Targaryen silver-gold, were pulled back with a leather cord, though a few stubborn strands insisted on falling across his face.
His purple eyes – the only obvious mark of his Targaryen blood – were heavy with lack of sleep. The dreams had kept him tossing and turning all night, fragments of memories mixing together in a confusing whirl. He could still hear Lykard Martell's words echoing in his mind: "See you around...bastard."
How could he know? The question had plagued Aenar since word reached him of Lykard's involvement in Laenor's death. It wasn't just the reference to his past life – it was the way Lykard had said it, with the certainty of someone who knew exactly what they were talking about.
Aenar's hand unconsciously moved to his chest, though in this life, it bore no scars. The memories of another time, another life, were his alone – a secret he had never shared with anyone, not even those closest to him.
"My prince?" A servant's soft voice interrupted his thoughts. "Lady Kinvara awaits you in the Chamber of the Painted Table."
Aenar nodded, dismissing the servant with a wave. He pulled on his black leather gloves, each embossed with a red dragon on the palm, and strapped Dragon's Bone on his hip. The Valyrian steel dagger had been a gift from his great-grandfather, Jaehaerys.
The walk to the Chamber of the Painted Table gave him time to think. His boots echoed on the stone floors as he climbed the winding stairs of the Stone Drum. The question kept turning over in his mind: how could Lykard Martell know things that no one else could possibly know? What other secrets might the exiled prince be keeping?
The Chamber of the Painted Table was lit by both torches and the morning sun streaming through the eastern windows. The massive table itself, carved in the shape of Westeros, cast strange shadows across the room. Kinvara stood at the far end, her red robes seeming to glow in the mixed light.
"My prince," she greeted him with a slight bow, her ruby choker pulsing gently at her throat. "You seem troubled."
Aenar moved to stand beside her, his eyes drawn to Dorne on the painted table. "What do you know of Lykard Martell?"
Kinvara's expression remained serene, but her eyes sharpened with interest. "The exiled prince of Dorne? Not as much as I would like. He was sent from Sunspear nine years ago, though the reason remains a closely guarded secret. He spent time in the Free Cities, building connections, gathering information." She paused, studying Aenar's face. "And now we know he orchestrated the wildfire trap that killed Laenor Velaryon."
"That's all?" Aenar's fingers drummed on the painted table. "Nothing about his... connections? His sources of information?"
"Should there be?" Kinvara asked carefully.
Aenar turned to face her fully. "He knows things he shouldn't know. Things about me that no one could possibly know."
The priestess's eyes widened slightly. "What kind of things, my prince?"
But Aenar shook his head, unwilling to reveal more. "That's not important. What matters is that he has knowledge he shouldn't possess. Knowledge that makes him dangerous."
Kinvara moved to one of the torches, staring into its flames. "I will look for him in the fires, my prince. Perhaps R'hllor will grant us insight into this mystery."
"See what you can learn," Aenar agreed. "But be careful. Lykard Martell is more dangerous than we realized."
He moved to the window, looking out over the Narrow Sea. Somewhere in the distance, Cannibal was hunting, the great black dragon barely visible against the morning sky.
"If you see anything in the flames – anything at all – tell me immediately," he ordered, not turning from the window.
"Of course, my prince," Kinvara replied softly. "But perhaps we should consider that Lykard Martell's knowledge might not be his only secret. Nine years is a long time to plan, and Dorne has always kept its mysteries close."
Aenar nodded slowly. "Have your spies in Sunspear keep watch. I want to know everything about his exile – why he was sent away, where he went, who he met with. Every detail, no matter how small."
"It will be done," Kinvara assured him. "Though I fear Lykard Martell may prove as difficult to understand as the flames themselves."
"Then we'll have to make our own light," Aenar said grimly, his hand resting on Dragon bone's hilt. "One way or another, I'll have my answers."
Aenar soon left her alone, knowing his father wanted to talk with her. He didn't know what was happening between them, but if his father desired her, either for pleasure or to not feel alone, then that was his business.
As he pushed open the heavy wooden door carved with the Targaryen sigil, he found Alysanne Targaryen seated in one of the plush chairs near the fire. Despite her advanced age, she maintained the regal bearing that had made her such a beloved queen. Her silver hair, now more white than gold, was arranged in an elegant style, and she wore a gown of black silk trimmed with red lace – the colors of their house.
"Grandmother," Aenar greeted warmly, crossing the room to kiss her cheek. The familiar scent of lavender and old books that always surrounded her brought comfort, as it had since his childhood. "How are you feeling today?"
Alysanne's violet eyes, still sharp despite her years, studied his face carefully. "I should be asking you that question, my dear boy. How are you feeling?"
Aenar paused in the act of removing his sword belt, confusion crossing his features. "What do you mean?"
"Something troubles you," she stated simply, her fingers absently stroking the arm of her chair. "I can see it in your eyes. I've known you since you were a babe, Aenar. You cannot hide your burdens from me."
Aenar hung his sword on its stand and moved to sit in the chair opposite her. He was dressed formally, as befit his station – a black doublet with red piping, dark trousers, and boots polished to a mirror shine. "I was thinking about Laenor," he said after a moment, the partial truth coming easily to his lips.
Alysanne gave him a look that suggested she knew there was more to it, but she didn't press directly. Instead, she leaned forward slightly, her voice softening. "I'm concerned about you, my dear. You carry so much darkness within you."
"Darkness?" Aenar's brow furrowed. "What do you mean?"
"I think you know exactly what I mean," she replied, her gaze unwavering. "There's something in you, something that goes beyond the usual cares of a young prince. Sometimes, when you think no one is watching, I see it in your eyes – a weight, a knowledge that seems..." she paused, choosing her words carefully, "...beyond your years."
Aenar shifted uncomfortably in his chair, acutely aware of how perceptive his great-grandmother could be. To change the subject, he asked, "Have you seen Laena today? She shouldn't be alone, not after..."
"She's with Rhaenys," Alysanne answered, allowing the deflection. "A mother's comfort is what she needs most right now, though I'm sure she'd welcome your presence later." She studied him for a moment longer before adding, "But that's not what you really want to ask me, is it?"
Aenar leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "Has there been any word from your friends in King's Landing?"
A shadow passed over Alysanne's face. "Indeed there has. It seems young Larys Strong has been having quite frequent conversations with your uncle's new wife."
"Alicent? What could she want with Larys?"
"That's what concerns me," Alysanne replied, her fingers tapping thoughtfully on the chair's arm. "Larys is not a man one seeks out for pleasant conversation. He deals in secrets and schemes, and Alicent..." she trailed off meaningfully.
"She's pregnant with my uncle's child," Aenar reminded her. "What could she possibly be planning?"
"The same thing any mother plans for her child – the best possible future." Alysanne's voice carried years of political wisdom. "And sometimes, what a mother considers best isn't necessarily what's right for the realm."
Aenar stood and walked to the window, looking out over the choppy waters of Blackwater Bay. He knew this day would come, but it wasn't the time yet to make their move, he needed a little more time. Soon, House Hightower would crumble like a sandcastle. Just wait a little longer, Aenar told himself. "You think she means to challenge Rhaenyra's position?"
"I think," Alysanne said carefully, "that a woman who weds a king so soon after his wife's death, who immediately seeks out the company of men like Larys Strong, is not content to simply be a royal broodmare."
The implications hung heavy in the air between them. Aenar's hands clenched briefly at his sides before relaxing. "Does Uncle Viserys know?"
"Your uncle sees what he wishes to see," Alysanne sighed. "It has always been his way. He sees a young, beautiful wife who makes him happy, not the ambitious daughter of Otto Hightower who was raised to seize every advantage."
"And what do you suggest we do about it?"
Alysanne rose from her chair with the careful movements of age, but her mind was clearly as sharp as ever. "For now, we watch and we wait. But Aenar," she moved to stand beside him at the window, placing a gentle hand on his arm, "whatever darkness you're carrying, whatever burdens you bear alone – remember that sometimes the greatest strength lies not in keeping secrets, but in knowing when to share them."
Aenar turned to look at her, struck once again by how much she seemed to sense about him without actually knowing the truth. "Some secrets are better left untold, Grandmother."
"Perhaps," she conceded with a small smile. "But remember this – no secret stays buried forever. And when they emerge, it's better to have allies who understand than to face the storm alone."
Aenar turned back from the window, his expression thoughtful. "What of Miche? Is he still intercepting the supplies to King's Landing?"
"He's doing what he can," Alysanne replied, settling back into her chair with a slight grimace. "Though hiding all the shipments has proved... challenging. The City Watch has increased their patrols of the ports."
"That's fine," Aenar said, waving his hand dismissively. "He doesn't need to hide all of them. How many have joined Maria's congregation?"
Alysanne's eyes sparkled with interest. "Almost a thousand now. She's quite persuasive, our red priestess. The septons are beside themselves with worry, they are trying to find her, but they have yet succeed. Not yet." She paused, her wrinkled hands smoothing her skirts. "Of course, we must maintain our distance. If the Faith discovers our involvement in their... predicament, it could complicate matters significantly."
"Agreed," Aenar nodded, understanding the delicate balance they were maintaining. The destruction of the Faith of the Seven needed to appear natural, a gradual erosion rather than a calculated assault. "Has Miche mentioned anything about Larys?"
A knowing look crossed Alysanne's face. "Ah, yes. Our friend remains committed to the cause, but..." she fixed Aenar with a pointed stare, "we will need to fulfill our promise to him eventually. A man's thirst for vengeance can only be delayed for so long before it turns to bitterness."
Aenar ran a hand through his dark curls, acknowledging the truth in her words. Miche's hatred for Larys Strong ran deep, and while his assistance had proved invaluable, such allegiance born of revenge was always precarious.
"Miche will continue," Aenar said with quiet certainty. "A father who watched his son suffer such horrors... he'll never abandon his chance for revenge. The memory of what Larys did to that boy will keep Miche loyal."
Alysanne shifted in her chair, her fingers absently tracing the dragon embroidery on her sleeve. "And what of Alicent? What should we do about our ambitious young queen?" Though she already knew what needed to be done, she wanted to hear her great-grandson's thoughts.
Aenar was quiet for a long moment, his purple eyes distant as he considered. When he finally spoke, his voice was cold and deliberate. "For now, we let her think she's winning. Let her believe her schemes are succeeding, that her web is being woven exactly as she plans." A dark smile played at the corners of his mouth. "And when the moment is right, when she believes herself untouchable, when her victory seems absolute... all that joy will turn to ashes in her mouth."
The venom in his voice made Alysanne study him carefully. She had heard similar tones before, in the voices of men consumed by vengeance, and it unsettled her to hear it from Aenar. There was something in his words that spoke of personal experience, of a deeper understanding of revenge than someone his age should possess. It was yet another piece of the puzzle that was her great-grandson, another glimpse of that mysterious darkness she had mentioned earlier.
"What do you think the Hightowers will do now that Maria is gaining even more power in the city?"
"The Hightowers grow more desperate with each passing day," Aenar observed, standing by the hearth as the flames cast dancing shadows across his face. "Their septons search every corner of King's Landing for Maria, yet somehow she continues to slip through their fingers like smoke." There was a hint of satisfaction in his tone that didn't go unnoticed by Alysanne.
"The Red Faith spreads like wildfire through the city," Alysanne agreed, her weathered fingers drumming thoughtfully against the arm of her chair. "Every time they stamp out one gathering, three more spring up elsewhere. It must terrify them, watching their control slip away, piece by piece. The High Septon himself has been sending ravens to Oldtown almost daily."
"Let them waste their time hunting shadows," Aenar said with a cold smile. "Their own prejudices blind them. They search for a foreign woman with red robes and exotic features, never suspecting that Maria has learned to hide in plain sight, dressed as a common merchant's wife."
Alysanne studied her great-grandson's face carefully. "You seem quite well-informed about her movements."
"I make it my business to know these things," he replied cryptically. After a moment's pause, he moved closer to his great-grandmother, lowering his voice despite them being alone in the chamber. "Some of my men from the City Watch will come to you soon. I need you to help them find evidence linking Old Wyl to Aemma's death."
Alysanne's violet eyes sharpened with interest. They had discussed their suspicions about Aemma's death before – how convenient it had been for certain parties, how quickly both mother and child had failed despite Aemma having successfully carried Rhaenyra to term years earlier. "You think we can prove the Grand Maester's involvement?"
"We've suspected for months that Aemma's death wasn't natural," Aenar replied, his voice hardening. "The timing was too perfect, too convenient for those who would see House Hightower rise to power. Now we need to confirm what we already know in our hearts to be true."
"If we're to make this work," Alysanne cautioned, leaning forward in her chair, "the evidence must be irrefutable. Accusing a Grand Maester of poisoning the queen during childbirth... it would shake the foundations of the Citadel itself. People's trust in maesters would crumble." She paused, considering the implications. "But we'll need proof so compelling that not even Viserys can ignore it. My grandson may be blind to many things, but he loved Aemma truly. If we can prove she was murdered..."
"That's why I'm coming to you," Aenar said, kneeling beside her chair so they were at eye level. "No one knows the game of whispers better than you do, Grandmother. Your network of spies and informants reaches places even the Spider can't access."
"Old Wyl has grown careless in his confidence," Alysanne mused. "He believes himself untouchable under Hightower protection. But every man leaves traces of his crimes, if one knows where to look." She reached out to pat Aenar's hand. "His apprentices might prove useful. Young maesters are often more idealistic, more prone to guilt over their masters' misdeeds."
"And if we can prove the Citadel's corruption," Aenar added, "it will give more people reason to turn to Maria's faith. The timing couldn't be better – the Seven's grip on King's Landing weakens daily, and now we'll show them that even their trusted maesters are corrupt."
"A careful plan," Alysanne acknowledged. "But remember, my dear, when you strike at institutions as ancient as the Citadel and the Faith, you must be certain your blow will be fatal. They're like wounded animals – most dangerous when they're desperate."
Aenar stood, his expression resolute. "Let them be desperate. Let them thrash and bite. In the end, it will only hasten their fall." He moved back to the window, watching as evening shadows began to creep across the waters of Blackwater Bay. "The old powers are dying, Grandmother. The Seven, the Citadel, the traditionalists who cling to their outdated ways – they just don't know it yet."
Alysanne watched him carefully, noting how the fading light seemed to cast a strange shadow around him, almost like a crown. Sometimes, in moments like these, she could swear she saw something ancient in his eyes, something that went far beyond his years. It was both fascinating and terrifying, and she wondered, not for the first time, what secrets her great-grandson carried in his heart.
The Docks
The salt-laden breeze whipped across the docks of Driftmark as Aenar made his way through the bustling harbor. The sounds of hammering, sawing, and shouted commands filled the air, a symphony of preparation for war. Ships of various sizes lined the docks, their crews working tirelessly under the watchful eye of the Sea Snake himself.
Corlys Velaryon stood tall despite his grief, his silver-gold hair whipping in the wind as he directed his men with the same commanding presence he'd always possessed. Yet Aenar could see the weight of loss in the slight stoop of his shoulders, the redness rimming his eyes. The death of Laenor had struck deep, but like a true warrior, Corlys channeled his pain into purpose.
What caught Aenar's attention most was the peculiar construction taking place on one of the larger ships. Men were assembling what appeared to be an oversized crossbow, complete with a seat for an operator. The weapon was massive, its framework suggesting it could launch projectiles large enough to punch through ship hulls or perhaps even... something else.
Clearing his throat deliberately, Aenar approached. Corlys turned at the sound, his sea-green eyes quickly finding the prince. Despite his grief, the Lord of the Tides maintained his dignified bearing, though the slight tremor in his hands betrayed his emotional state.
"Prince Aenar," Corlys greeted him with a respectful nod. "What brings you to the docks this morning?"
"Lord Corlys," Aenar replied, his purple eyes scanning the busy harbor. "I have a request that might seem unusual."
"Oh?" Corlys raised an eyebrow, his interest piqued despite his melancholy. "And what might that be?"
"I want you to teach me how to sail a ship," Aenar stated directly, his voice carrying over the constant background noise of the harbor.
Corlys blinked, caught off guard by the unexpected request. For a moment, he simply stared at the young prince, trying to determine if he was serious. "You want to learn to sail? A prince of the blood, with a dragon at his command, wants to learn the ways of common sailors?"
"I do," Aenar confirmed, his expression resolute. "I have a plan to deal with the pirates hiding in the Stepstones' caves once and for all, but to execute it, I need to understand ships - not just as a passenger or commander, but as a sailor."
This captured Corlys's full attention. The legendary seafarer turned away from his workers, giving Aenar his complete focus. "The caves have been a persistent problem," he admitted, stroking his beard thoughtfully. "The dragons can't reach them, and they're too narrow for our larger ships to navigate. We've lost good men trying to flush them out."
"Exactly," Aenar nodded. "And every time we think we've cleared them out, more take their place. It's not just about killing the current pirates - we need to make the caves themselves unusable as hideouts."
Corlys gestured for Aenar to follow him to a quieter section of the dock, where several maps were spread out on a makeshift table. "Tell me more about this plan of yours," he said, his eyes showing the first real spark of interest they'd held since Laenor's death.
"The pirates have survived this long because they understand something we've overlooked," Aenar began, leaning over the maps. "They don't need to win battles; they just need to survive long enough to strike when we're vulnerable. Their strength isn't in their ships or their numbers - it's in their ability to disappear into those caves and wait us out."
"True enough," Corlys agreed, his finger tracing the coastline of the Stepstones on the map. "The caves are like a warren - hundreds of interconnected passages, some so narrow you have to turn sideways to pass through them. Perfect for small, quick vessels to slip in and out of, impossible for our warships to follow."
"Which is why we need to change our approach," Aenar continued. "Instead of trying to smoke them out or block the entrances, we need to make the caves themselves death traps. But to do that, I need to understand exactly how ships move in tight spaces, how to navigate through narrow channels, and most importantly, how to predict what a desperate captain might do when cornered."
Corlys studied the young prince with newfound respect. "You're not just thinking about winning a battle - you're thinking about changing the entire playing field." He paused, considering. "But learning to sail isn't something you can master in a few days or even weeks. It takes years to truly understand the sea."
"I don't need to become the next Sea Snake," Aenar replied with a slight smile. "I just need to understand enough to make my plan work. Besides, time spent learning is never wasted."
Corlys was quiet for a long moment, his eyes distant as if seeing something beyond the busy harbor before them. When he spoke again, his voice was softer, touched with both grief and determination. "Laenor would have liked this plan. He always said we needed to think differently about the Stepstones problem." His hands clenched briefly on the edge of the table. "He would have been eager to help."
"He was a good man," Aenar said quietly. "And his death will not go unavenged."
"No," Corlys agreed, his voice hardening. "It won't." He straightened up, some of his old energy returning to his bearing. "Very well, Prince Aenar. I'll teach you what you need to know. We'll start with the basics tomorrow morning - be here at dawn, and wear clothes you don't mind getting wet. The sea isn't gentle with beginners, prince or not."
"I'll be here," Aenar promised. "And Lord Corlys... thank you."
"Don't thank me yet," Corlys replied, a ghost of his old smile touching his lips. "You might curse my name before the first lesson is done. The sea is a harsh mistress, and I'm an even harsher teacher."
"Good," Aenar said firmly. "We don't have time for gentle lessons. The longer we wait, the more ships we lose, the more families suffer." He glanced toward the horizon, where the distant shapes of the Stepstones lurked like sleeping beasts. "And I promise you this - by the time we're done, those caves will never shelter another pirate."
As Aenar turned to leave, Corlys called after him. "Prince Aenar... whatever your full plan is, I hope it's as devastating as your expression suggests. House Velaryon doesn't forget its debts - whether they be of gratitude or vengeance."
"Neither do I, Lord Corlys," Aenar replied without turning around. "Neither do I."
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