Mid 279 AC — King's Landing
Two weeks after the rescue at Dragonstone
POV I — Prince Rhaegar Targaryen
The Tower of the Hand smelled faintly of wine and old parchment. One man stood by the tall window, looking out over the city as a faint breeze stirred his silver hair. A cup of wine rested lightly in his hand, its crimson surface rippling with each movement. Behind him, another man sat at his desk, studying the standing man with sharp, calculating eyes. His presence filled the chamber—commanding without effort. The thinning of his golden hair only emphasized the crown-like shape of his brow, a silent reminder of his authority.
The silver-haired prince broke the quiet at last, he spoke without turning, but with clear purpose.
"You see it now, Lord Hand—the madness that has taken hold of my father. To burn an heir of one of the great houses, who knows which heir is next…" He left the sentence unfinished; its weight hovered between them.
Tywin Lannister watched him steadily. "Do not compare us to those falcons of the Vale," he said flatly. "We are lions! Had my heir been taken, I would have unleashed the Westerlands on King's Landing. Don't test me, prince Rhaegar—speak plainly. What are you proposing?"
Rhaegar's smile was small and controlled, the smile of a man who delighted in chess played with human pieces. He turned, set his glass on the desk, and sat. "No games, Lord Hand. Only the continuation of our earlier arrangements."
'That's right, I'm reminding him that we are still tied together. He's as much a traitor as I, but I am the heir,' Rhaegar thought, a cold pleasure at the back of his throat.
Tywin's expression narrowed. "Prince—" he began carefully, choosing each word, "you are already married. Witnessed by the realm… It was only this year. Our agreement has ended."
Rhaegar's smile widened a hair. "I do not deny it." He leaned forward, voice dipped in casual certainty. "But, my father's madness will splinter the realm. This war won't end easily, you know this—Robert Baratheon is just the beginning. Perhaps the king will die in the chaos; perhaps we will march in and claim what should be mine. Either way, when I sit on the Iron Throne I will need a queen—one who can secure my rule…"
Tywin's eyes flicked with the calculation of a man constantly measuring advantage and cost. "And Elia? She is with child. To set her aside—"
"If it is a daughter, the problem is small," Rhaegar said, almost lazily. "If a son, he may be disinherited, take the Martell name… He could even be fostered with the Martells. Dorne and the Stepstones will be mollified by the prospect of family ties—so long as I keep Elia by my side, she can work as a political anchor, they will be less likely to rebel, afraid of what would happen to her."
Tywin made no immediate answer, but the corners of his mouth tightened. He had not been unprepared for ambition; he merely wished to be certain it benefited him.
A knock shattered the fragile calm. Tywin snapped, "I said not to be disturbed! What is it?"
A flunkey opened the door, voice small and trembling. "My lord Hand, Prince Rhaegar… the king has called you to court. At once."
Rhaegar and Tywin exchanged a look, then rose together. "Curious," Rhaegar murmured. "Let us oblige his grace."
The Throne Room
Rhaegar and Tywin entered the throne room, their footsteps echoing faintly beneath the vaulted ceiling. The air was thick with the scent of smoke and incense. There was no one here, save some members of the council and the Kingsguard. At the far end, the Iron Throne loomed—its jagged blades catching the torchlight like a crown of knives.
They stopped at the foot of the dais and knelt in unison.
"Your Grace," they said together, heads bowed low before King Aerys II Targaryen.
The Mad King did not answer at once. His fingers twitched upon the arm of his throne, his eyes bright with feverish light as they darted between them. When he finally spoke, his voice was thin, sharp, and unpredictable.
"Ah… my Hand and my heir. Come to plot, or to beg? I wonder what new schemes you plot to have me killed."
He kept murmuring, but it was incomprehensible.
King Aerys sat slouched upon the Iron Throne, little more than a shadow of the man he once was. His robes hung loose over a frame grown gaunt; his silver hair had gone wild and matted, and his nails—long, yellowed, curling like talons—tapped restlessly against the blades of the throne.
His head jerked up suddenly, as if he had not been talking to them and only noticed them now.
"Ah—there you are!" he rasped, voice cracking with glee. His eyes gleamed with a mad light. "Tywin! Now that I see Rhaegar, I do not wish to see you. Begone!"
A thin, broken laugh escaped him—half cackle, half wheeze—echoing through the silent hall as Tywin's jaw tightened imperceptibly.
Tywin bowed and moved aside. Aerys's attention snapped to Rhaegar. "Rhaegar! What is this I hear of a fight at Dragonstone?"
Rhaegar kept his face carefully benign. "Your Grace, I am not certain of the details."
Aerys pointed, and Varys, always near the candlelit edges, glided forward. "Spider, tell him."
Varys inclined his head. "It seems there was a skirmish on Dragonstone, prince Rhaegar. Witnesses say banners of the Stepstones were seen."
Rhaegar's composure did not waver openly, but a small calculation passed through his features as he glanced at Tywin. He answered in a tone of mock regret. "A curious contest between kin; a mundane familial quarrel at most." He sighed openly, as if he had just been bested in a board game instead of armed conflict. "Our cousin proved fleet-footed… I shall consider my reply."
Aerys's face twisted through confusion to furious delight. "Good! Very good! This is how dragons breed strength. But enough—enough. I Don't want us weaken! Kill Robert Baratheon first. No killing each other—maiming and injury is acceptable, perhaps—there are too few of us Targaryen left, too few… That boy Viserys needs to grow quickly. If only dragons still walked the sky—" He regarded Rhaegar with sudden malice. "Step it up, boy. Fail me and I may name Mors Targaryen heir instead of you!" He laughed again, mad and careless.
Rhaegar's hands tightened imperceptibly, hidden under his cloak. 'You dare!', he thought, fury flaring and sinking like a blade. He bowed with the practiced ease of a man who wears his restraint like armor. "Your son will not disappoint, Your Grace."
Aerys waved them away. "Dismissed!"
As Rhaegar departed, his mind raced—not with rage at his father's threat, but with calculation. Elia's escape had shattered his initial design, yet Dorne and the Stepstones were only dangerous if they joined the rebels together. They could still be drawn back into his web—but Mors would need to be removed. Tywin Lannister's cooperation was essential; their ambitions aligned better than either would ever admit. And with Varys whispering in his favor, Rhaegar felt certain he could master the board. He was the prince that was promised—the one with divine glorious purpose.
'The Faceless Men refused my summons again…' he thought, his jaw tightening. 'Perhaps the Sorrowful Men will prove more accommodating.'
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End 279 AC – Riverrun
After the routing of the Rebel Army
POV II — Petyr Baelish
Petyr watched from the shadowed archway as Brandon Stark walked Catelyn Tully and Lysa Tully through the courtyard, their voices light, sunlight catching on her vibrant auburn hair. Every laugh pricked at him like a splinter. They were laughing—laughing—as if the war hadn't reached their very gates.
Every smile Catelyn gave Brandon felt like a knife twisting in his stomach.
'He should be out there fighting the loyalists, not charming my Cat. Does he think this is a courtship tour!'
He watched Brandon brush a flower petal from her cheek. Then they held each other's eyes and Catelyn turned away, blushing. That was the moment the splinter broke. He had watched them enough—every tilt of a smile, every careless touch—and the envy had hardened into resolve.
He was clever; even at thirteen he knew how to read people and how to use them. For too long he'd restrained himself for the sake of honor and to not show such an ugly side to the Tullys who had taken him in, especially Brynden who's care could almost be called father-like. But no more! He knew what he wanted now: Catelyn Tully. It was clear that Catelyn only saw him as a younger brother, but he would grow, and as long as Brandon wasn't in the picture, he would have her, and he had already worked out how.
'Brandon, how dare you touch my Cat that way! I'll make sure you regret it!'
That night, cloaked and alone, he slipped through the camp to find the man he needed—the one people whispered about in fear and disgust. He found him by a half-lit tent, polishing his sword. The grin was already there, the one that never left his face.
Even before he spoke, Petyr knew it—the Smiling Knight.
He hesitated, but it was too late to turn back. "Ser," he said quietly, trying to sound older than he was.
The man didn't look up. "What do you want, boy?" His voice was calm, and amused. But Petyr felt it was unusually eerie.
"I have a task," Petyr said, swallowing. "One that would suit your... talents."
The knight's head tilted, that smile cutting deeper. "Oh, do tell."
Petyr steadied his breath. "A great kill. One to make even the lords take notice. The heir of the North—and his father."
The smile widened. "Bold words from a little lord. And why," he said, leaning closer, "would I do anything for you?"
Petyr met his gaze. "Because if you don't, some might learn that every man that has died mysteriously around camp does so with a smile carved into his face."
The words hung in the air like a blade.
For the first time, the knight stopped smiling—then it returned, wider than before. He laughed, low and quiet. "So the cub thinks he's found his claws." He rose, slow and deliberate, towering over Petyr. "You're clever. I like clever."
He closed the distance until Petyr could feel his breath. Mirth curled his lips, but beneath it lay something cruel. The smell of iron clung to him. "Very well," he said softly. "Tell me where I'll find the wolf."
Petyr exhaled, half relief, half terror. He gave the knight just enough to keep him interested—names, habits, where Brandon liked to walk, who guarded Rickard's tent. The man listened intently, like a hunter memorizing a trail.
When Petyr finished, he turned to leave, desperate to be gone. But a hand clamped down on his shoulder.
"One more thing," the knight whispered, his grin inches from Petyr's ear. "Interest. For wasting my time if this turns out dull."
Petyr froze, throat tight. "Interest?"
'This bastard, I'll make sure he is crushed after he kills those bastards for me!'
The knight chuckled, low and cruel. "Don't worry, little lord. Just enough to make sure you remember me… Just a little flesh, yes?"
"No—" Petyr tried to yell, but the knight shut his mouth, struck him in the stomach, then entered the tent with him.
"Let's see, Oh, I know, a bit a cheek, some brow… hmm, eye?"
'No, no, please no! Stop you bastard!' Petyr thought in pain, crying as the smiling Knight did his work.
Muffled screamed could barely be heard, but no one was around to hear it.
Later, Petyr stumbled back into his tent, trembling, many bruise darkening his face, specially around his eyes and jaw. He reached to where his left ear should have been, then trembling looked at the blood in his fingers. His plan had worked—the Smiling Knight would go after Brandon—but the cost, it had been more than he would have been willing to give.
He sat in the dark until dawn, whispering to himself, "Next time, I'll be the one who smiles."
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Beginning of 280 AC — The Throne Room, King's Landing
After the defeat of the loyalist army
POV III — Aerys Targaryen
Varys's voice came thin and careful. "—and the loyalist armies were shattered. Prince Mors's presence broke them, it's not clear how, but resistance collapsed with the remaining armies surrendering. Prince Rhaegar was mortally wounded and horribly disfigured. We do not yet know if he will live—"
Aerys cut him off with a rasp. "Enough. Begone. All of you—begone!" The courtiers scattered like frightened birds. Even Ser Harlan Grandison, who lingered at the doorway, bowed and stepped out to take his post.
Left alone, the king's muttering rose into a fevered pitch. "Mors… oh, Mors. You betrayed me. Instead of blood, you sided with them—THEM!" He slammed a hand down on the iron of the throne. The metal bit his palm; a ribbon of red welled up and trickled down his fingers. He watched it as if the sight fed him. "Another cut… another wound… the betrayal!"
His voice flattened into a keening whisper, then snapped back to a terrible clarity. "I don't care if Rhaegar dies—no. But to side with them… they will burn. All of them will burn!"
Aerys's eyes widened; his gaunt face split into a bright, terrible smile, yellow teeth catching torchlight. "Yes. Burn. Let it all burn. We will all burn!"
He called to the empty doorway. "Harlan!"
The door opened and Ser Harlan Grandison entered, face hard with duty and loyalty to his king.
"You—" Aerys croaked, smiling as if at a private joke. "Call Grand Master Rossart. Tell him to come. Tell him to be ready."
Harlan Grandison bowed. "At once, Your Grace."
The door shut. Aerys began to laugh—softly at first, then growing and cracking until it became a high, manic peal that rolled off the stone and filled the hollow throne room. He laughed as the blood darkened the iron beneath him, and the sound echoed long after the courtiers had fled.
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Early 280 AC — Dragonstone
After the Explosion of King's Landing
POV IV — Varys
'Nothing is going to plan.'
A plump, bald man with soft hands and rounded shoulders hurried down the corridor. He kept his face neutral; he always did when anyone watched.
'How did it all unravel until this point.'
He stopped before a bedroom. A mountain of a man stood guard outside; the new scars across his face only made him look more fearsome.
"Lord Commander," Varys said softly, "I need to speak with Her Grace."
Gerold Hightower gave a curt nod and stepped aside.
Varys approached the door and knocked lightly. "Your Grace, may I enter?"
A soft voice answered, "Come in, Varys."
Varys opened the door. On the bed sat the queen of the Iron Throne, gently running her hands through the hair of the sleeping Prince Viserys, only four years old. Rhaella Targaryen still had the Valyrian beauty of her house, but she looked fragile. Old bruises from Aerys's mistreatment lingered in the shadows beneath her skin.
'They leave marks that do not fade,' Varys thought, with a small, quiet pity.
Rhaella glanced up and raised a finger for silence. She caressed Viserys's cheek, then stood and walked to the patio with Varys in step behind.
She sat then sighed heavily, as if preparing herself.
"What is it, Varys? You look troubled. Do we have more bad news?" she asked softly.
Varys bowed slightly. "I'm afraid so, my queen. The loyalists have reorganized, and I believe Robert Baratheon intends to finish off what they started. Fortunately, thanks to their infighting, the only significant fleet within the Narrow Sea to worry about is at White Harbor and it would take some time for then to arrive. Prince Mors has returned to Dorne to bury his brother and has declared the Stepstones and Dorne independent… But, It won't be long before they come for us. Our fifty ships sound like many, but a war it could not win."
Rhaella stared down at her lap. "…Do we truly need to leave?"
Varys said nothing.
"How… how is he?" she asked at last.
Varys tried for words, then shook his head.
Tears slid down Rhaella's face. "Can't we… ask Mors for safe harbor? We are kin, cousins."
Varys's expression darkened. "I'm afraid, my queen, we are beyond such hope. If we mean to keep any hope of resurgence, exile is the only path."
Her shoulders sagged. Between sobs she whispered, "Thank you, Varys. For saving us. For everything."
Varys inclined his head. "It is my duty, my queen. I will excuse myself."
He took one last look at Rhaella as he left. She sat small and broken in the candlelight, her sobs quiet and endless.
Outside, letters waited, plans to be set in motion, troops to find. Varys tightened his jaw.
'Damn Aerys,' he muttered under his breath. 'Why burn King's Landing? It will make keeping the kingdoms together almost impossible.'
'And damn that Mors. The war was meant to weaken the realm, not ruin it.'
He touched his lips as if tasting a name and sighed, then murmured aloud, "We will find a way—one way or another, House Blackfyre will regain its birthright."
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Early 280 AC — Storm's End, The Stormlands
POV V — Robert Baratheon
"Damn those bastards! How dare they turn their backs! How dare they refuse me!" Robert roared, flinging a heavy desk against the wall. Across the chamber Stannis ground his teeth. Edwyn and Eldon Estermont stood silent; Hoster Tully sighed, and Brynden Tully watched with a look of quiet disappointment.
"Robert," Hoster said, "now is not the time for this. There is much to do. If you mean to be king, you must declare it soon and finish the Targaryens. That will give you the legitimacy you need."
Robert paced, voice raw. "Then what? The Reach took advantage of the chaos and scurried back to their flowery fields. Mace—that craven buffoon—has declared himself king. King Mace! He styles himself a king, can you believe it! What is that if not an open challenge? Worse, he didn't secure the prisoners when he left. Tywin retreated to the Westerlands and has fortified his lands. Then Denys Arryn went back to the Vale, saying their work is done. Nobody listens to me. And the North…"
Hoster's jaw tightened. "Yes—the North. With Rickard dead from his wounds, their situation is precarious. They had to withdraw to ensure Brandon's succession… They were worried the Boltons would use this opportunity to spread dissent."
Robert laughed, a strange, rough sound. "Of course. With Catelyn to secure the alliance, we wouldn't want trouble there… but even Ned left." He dropped into a chair, rubbing his brow.
Silence settled.
Edwyn broke it. "Robert, perhaps now that King's Landing lies in ruin, you should style yourself properly—as Storm King, ruling from Storm's End."
Robert's eyes lit. He repeated the words, tasting them. "Storm King. Storm King…" A grin spread across his face and then he rose with sudden vigor. "Yes. The Storm King. We'll bring back the old days—like the Durrandons of old. Hoster."
He turned to Hoster. "I formally ask you to join me. I will allow the Tullys to style themselves Princes of the Riverlands; with Stannis set to wed Lysa, we are family. Do you accept?"
Hoster's eyes widened. He sank to one knee. "I hail the Storm King!"
Robert's smile widened until it seemed to split his face. "Good. Grandfather, Send letters to the other realms. Give them a chance to bend the knee. If they do not, I will bring the storm to them and they will feel our fury! I will start with Dorne—those bastards!"
Stannis exhaled and rose, then left the chamber without a word. Robert's shouts continued behind the closed door; when he started raging about Prince Mors Martell, he did not stop for a long while.
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Early 280 AC – Sunfort, The Stepstones
Arc IV Epilogue
POV – Ashara Dayne
After ensuring that Mellario and little Arianne were secretly escorted back to Norvos, and presiding over his brother's funeral, Prince Doran, Mors delayed any formal matters of succession until he could see his newborn son—and Elia's newborn daughter. The two had been born within a fortnight of each other, baby Daeron Martell older than baby Nymeria Martell by two weeks.
The process for Doran's funeral had been quick—only a week—and after a few days of travel he finally arrived back to her that afternoon; Sunny was finally back at Sunfort. The moment his eyes fell upon his son, Ashara's heart nearly burst in joy as she witnessed their first meeting. Yet even through the joy she could see it—Mors had changed. His brother's death had cut too deep, and though he stood tall, something in him had gone still and quiet. It would take time for that wound to mend.
Ashara, however, had her own idea of how to begin helping him heal.
That night, when Mors entered their chambers, he found her waiting. Now recovered from childbirth, she wore an impossibly alluring outfit from Lys—the sort Mors had always favored. Her recovery had been remarkable; both the maester and the midwives had been astonished. During her pregnancy she had often felt stronger than most women claimed to, but she'd thought little of it. Only after speaking with Elia had she realized something was different.
Now, after giving birth, the change was unmistakable. She felt stronger, faster, clearer of mind—her body healed quicker, her endurance greater—just as she had felt when touched by Mors's aura. It was something she meant to speak to him about soon.
But not tonight.
Tonight, she would bring back his fire.
"You came back to me, like you promised." She said in a sensual tone, while lying across the bed.
His steps faltered. He swallowed at the sight, then pushed a wide smile across his face.
"Like I said, there was no way I wouldn't see you and our child again. But I must say, Ashara—you're a vision. This will be a very long night." His voice low, it rattled with a hungry note.
"Oh, you have no idea," Ashara replied, mischief warming her tone. "I promised you something special if you came back, and you've earned it."
Mors smirked. "You had my curiosity. Now you have my full attention." He extended his hand to her in invitation.
"That's good—because we'll need it." She rose to meet his touch, smile widening. "Girls, come out."
The side door creaked open, and Alyssa and Malora stepped inside. Both wore gossamer silks from Lys that left little to the imagination—Alyssa hesitant, Malora twirling with shameless pride.
Mors blinked, lips parting. "Ashara… what is this?"
She came close, tracing his cheek with her fingers. "We are Dornish, my love. You need not worry—I would never bring strangers into our home, nor would I force others into something they don't want. But Alyssa and Malora… you know what they feel for you. And I know how much fondness you have for them; we are all very close."
Mors's expression softened, torn between surprise and inevitability. He murmured softly, 'Yes… we are Dornish."
Ashara's eyes glinted. "Look at them. Are they not beautiful?"
Mors looked—and there was no denying it. Alyssa's strong, graceful form. Malora's delicate, playful charm. Both radiated devotion… and more.
Ashara's hand slipped into his. "Then let the night begin."
Malora cheered, "Yay! I don't have to keep spying from the closet anymore!"
The three women stepped closer. Mors drew a long breath, the weight of the war, of what he'd lost and the unknown melting away, at least for this moment.
"It's good to be a prince," he murmured, as their laughter mingled with his—and the chamber doors closed on the rest of the world.
Fade to black.