"While we were building our alliance and planning our invasion," Aenar continued, his voice steadying as he moved away from the pain of first meetings, "the political landscape of Westeros had changed a lot after I had left."
"What changed?"
"Everything." Aenar's fingers traced patterns in the dirt. "By the time we were ready to sail from Dragonstone, Joffrey Baratheon was dead."
"Dead?" Daemon leaned forward. "How?"
"Poisoned at his own wedding feast, or so the ravens said. Choked on wine while the whole court watched." A bitter smile crossed Aenar's face. "The gods have a sense of humor, it seems. The boy king who ordered Ned Stark's execution died gasping for air like a fish on a dock."
"And the throne?"
"Passed to his younger brother, Tommen. A sweet boy, barely older than ten, completely controlled by his mother and grandfather." Aenar's voice turned cold. "Cersei Lannister held King's Landing, but it was Tywin Lannister who truly ruled. The old lion had come south from the Riverlands and taken control of everything—the Small Council, the City Watch, the gold. He was preparing for our invasion, gathering armies, making alliances."
"A worthy enemy, then."
"The most dangerous kind, one who understood power and how to wield it." Aenar paused, remembering the war councils. "But we had advantages. Dragons. Three—" he corrected himself, "four dragons, each growing larger by the day. The Unsullied. The Second Sons. And Dorne."
"Despite Oberyn's hatred."
"Despite it, yes." Aenar's expression darkened. "Prince Doran had other news for us at that first meeting. Information that changed our strategic planning entirely."
''' The war council at Dragonstone had moved from the throne room to a more private chamber. A great table dominated the space, maps of Westeros spread across its surface, weighted down with dragon-shaped markers.
Aenar stood between Daenerys and Rhaenys, studying the map while Doran spoke. Oberyn lurked nearby; the man seemed tense, and the way he was eyeing them made Aenar wonder if Oberyn feared that his niece was in danger by being with him and Dany.
"There is something else you should know," Doran said after thirty minutes of talking about all the Houses of Dorne that will support them, especially Princess Rhaenys. "Princess Myrcella Baratheon currently resides in Dorne as our... guest."
Daenerys looked up sharply. "Tywin Lannister's granddaughter is in your custody?"
"She came to us a year ago, the Dwarf send her to make sure we would not raise our banners against House Lannister when Stannis Baratheon and Renly Baratheon were making their moves," Doran explained. "When Joffrey died, we decided it was prudent to keep her in Sunspear. For her own protection, of course."
"Of course," Aenar said dryly, understanding the unspoken message. Myrcella was a hostage, leverage against House Lannister. "How old is she?"
"Eleven, perhaps twelve by now. A sweet child, nothing like her elder brother." Doran's eyes found Aenar's. "She poses no threat to anyone."
Aenar thought of Rhaenys as a child, running and hiding, terrified and alone. He thought of Arya and Sansa, innocents caught in the games of their elders.
"We can use her as leverage," Aenar said finally, his voice firm. "Send word to Tywin Lannister that his granddaughter's safety depends on his cooperation. Threaten to put her on trial for the crimes of her family, to hold her accountable for Lannister sins." He paused for a moment. "But we will not harm her. She's a child. Whatever her family has done, she bears no guilt for it."
"Aenar is right," Rhaenys added right away. "My mother died because of cruel man. I won't dishonor her memory by becoming what killed her." She turned to Doran. "Princess Myrcella will be treated with respect and care. We'll use the threat of harm without following through. That's more than sufficient."
Doran nodded slowly. "Wise counsel, niece. Very well. The princess remains safe but useful."
Aenar wondered how he could use her to get an even bigger advantage against House Lannister; he had his dragons and his army, but every advantage was a welcome one. He would have gladly used Myrcella to make an exchange; they would get Sansa, and the Lannisters would get their girl back. Still, Prince Doran had told him that based on his spies, Sansa Stark disappeared as Joffrey Baratheon was dying, no one knew where she was, and according to him, Arya Stark was sent to Winterfell to marry Ramsay Bolton. Aenar felt a shudder in his body at the thought. He knew from his days in Winterfell that House Bolton was a cruel one, some smallfalk even believed that the first Bolton was a vampire, a man who feasts on blood, it was said that one vampire sneaked into the house of a great lord, and drank all his blood, then the vampire skinned him alive during the night, and wore his skin like a cloak, and the vampire became that man, and no one was able to tell the difference.
"There's one more thing," Doran's voice made Aenar escape his grim thoughts and focus on the prince of Dorne. "My daughter, Princess Arianne, wishes to join our councils. She has a keen mind for strategy and considerable influence in Dorne. Her presence would help smooth our alliance."
"Your daughter is welcome," Daenerys said graciously. "Any support House Martell can provide is valued."
"She arrives tomorrow," Doran said, and something in his tone made Aenar look at him more carefully. Was that amusement? "I should mention that Arianne can be... quite charming when she wishes to be."
Oberyn actually smiled at that, the first genuine expression Aenar had seen from him. "My niece has many talents. Charm is merely one of them."
The next day, Aenar understood what Doran had meant.
Princess Arianne Martell arrived at Dragonstone like summer itself made flesh. She was twenty two years, with the dark hair and olive skin of Dorne, but it was her eyes that caught attention first, large and dark like two black pools. She wore a flowing dress of orange silk that did nothing to hide her generous curves and everything to emphasize them. She had a beautiful body, and she had no shame in showing it.
"Your Grace," she said, sweeping into a curtsy before Daenerys had greeted her. "I've dreamed of meeting the Mother of Dragons. The reality exceeds even my imagination."
Daenerys smiled. "Princess Arianne. Your father speaks highly of your wisdom."
"My father is kind." Arianne's gaze slid to Rhaenys, and her smile widened. "And you must be my cousin. Rhaenys. I've waited so long to meet you. My mother used to tell me stories about your mother—about Elia's kindness, her grace, her strength. I wish I could have remembered her more."
Rhaenys's expression softened. "As do I."
Arianne embraced her then, and Aenar saw Rhaenys melt into the hug. This was what she needed—a family who welcomed her without reservation, who didn't make her feel like she needed to choose sides.
Then Arianne's attention turned to Aenar, and Aenar had to admit that it was a little difficult to think when she was this close, he was no green boy, but he had to admit that the Princess was beautiful.
"And Prince Aenar." She approached slowly, her hips swaying with each step. "The son of Rhaegar Targaryen, beautiful as the dragons he rides." She stopped just close enough to be improper, looking up at him through long lashes. "The songs don't do you justice."
Aenar raised an eyebrow. "There are songs about me?"
"Oh yes. The dark prince with purple eyes who tamed the green dragon. The warrior who fights beside queens. The last son of Rhaegar Targaryen." She moved closer. "Though the songs failed to mention how handsome you are."
Beside him, Rhaenys looked amused, while Dany looked a little surprised by her words.
"I see you don't like to dance around a bush, Princess." Aenar said with a smile.
"Life is too short for games," Arianne replied, though her eyes suggested she enjoyed games very much. She turned to Daenerys. "Your Grace, I hope you'll forgive my boldness. In Dorne, we say what we think."
"I'm beginning to appreciate that about Dorne," Daenerys said.
Arianne's smile widened. "Then perhaps you'll join me for wine later? I'd love to hear about your time in Essos. And you, cousin." She turned to Rhaenys. "We have much to discuss. My mother was your mother's good-sister. I would like to tell you all about Dorne."
"I... yes. I would." '''
"She wasn't like the others who wore the banner of House Martell," Aenar said, opening his eyes to find Daemon watching him with concern. "Out of everyone in House Martell, Arianne was the only one who seemed like she could truly be our friend. She made Rhaenys laugh. She engaged Daenerys in conversation about ruling and power. She treated me like a person, instead of hating me from the start."
"But?" Daemon prompted.
"But nothing obvious. Nothing I could point to and say 'there, that's the problem.'" Aenar's hands clenched into fists. "She flirted constantly—with all of us, really. It was her nature, like breathing. She wasn't trying to seduce me away from Daenerys and Rhaenys. If anything, she encouraged our relationship, celebrated it."
"Then what made you suspicious?"
"Looking back now, with the knowledge of what came after?" Aenar's voice turned bitter. "It was too perfect. Arianne gave us exactly what we needed—acceptance, friendship, political connections in Dorne beyond just her father and uncle. And because she gave us what we needed, because she made Rhaenys so genuinely happy, I ignored the small voice in the back of my mind warning me that people don't just give without expecting something in return."
"What did she want?"
"At the time? I thought she wanted what she claimed—to help her family, to avenge her aunt Elia, to see House Lannister destroyed and House Targaryen restored." Aenar's voice dropped to barely a whisper. "What she actually wanted, what she was really after... I didn't understand until it was far too late. Until the poison had already done its work and my daughter was dying in my arms."
The weirwood's bark was rough beneath Aenar's palm, bits of it crumbling away like dried blood.
"We made a plan," Aenar said after a long minute of silence. "I would take the Vale, the Riverlands, the North. Daenerys would claim the Crownlands and the Stormlands. Rhaenys would bring fire to the Westerlands and burn Casterly Rock to its foundations."
Daemon's eyes narrowed, catching something in his son's tone. "You sound angry."
"I am." The words came out flat, hard. "When I fought beside Robb Stark we waited. Waited for the Knights of the Vale to come save us, to turn the tide of war. After all, Lady Catelyn's sister ruled there. Lysa Arryn, Lady of the Vale, with all those pretty knights and their bright armor." He spat the words like poison. "They never came. Not when Robb needed them. Not when the North was bleeding."
His fingers dug into the earth, nails scraping against roots and stone. "If Lysa Arryn had still been drawing breath when I flew to the Eyrie with Rhaegal, I would have burned her myself. Fed her to dragonfire and watched her scream for every Northern boy who died waiting for her knights."
"But she was already dead," Daemon observed.
"Aye. Thrown from the Moon Door, they said. Some said she jumped. Some said she was pushed." Aenar's jaw worked. "Either way, she died a coward's death, and it was too good for her."
' '' The Vale spread below like a tapestry of grey stone and green valleys, mountains clawing at the sky with snow-crowned peaks. Rhaegal's wings beat steady as a war drum, the sound echoing off cliff faces as they descended toward the Bloody Gate. The wind was cold up here, thin and sharp.
Aenar wore riding leathers, with Dark Sister strapped across his back. Behind him on Rhaegal's massive form rode three guards: Ser Barristan Selmy, his white hair streaming in the wind, and two younger men sworn to House Targaryen's service.
The Bloody Gate rose before them, a fortress carved into the mountain itself. Aenar could see archers on the walls, their bows tracking Rhaegal's approach with the desperation of men who knew their shafts would be useless against scales and fire.
He brought Rhaegal down half a league from the gate. The dragon's claws dug furrows in the frozen earth, and when he roared, birds exploded from nearby trees in a cloud of panicked wings.
They waited.
It took less time than Aenar expected. Four riders came, their horses skittish and rolling their eyes at the dragon's scent. The men wore mail and boiled leather, the moon-and-falcon of House Arryn on their surcoats. Their faces were pale, sweat beading despite the cold.
"I am Aenar Targaryen," he called out, not bothering to dismount. Let them look up at him, at the dragon. Let them understand what refusal would cost. "Prince of the Blood, son of Rhaegar. You've heard my name?"
The eldest rider, a grizzled man with a scar, nodded slowly. "We've heard, my lord. The tales from Essos. The Dragon Prince who took Meereen, who flies with the Dragon Queen, and we heard you took Dragonstone from House Lannister,"
"Good. Then you know I don't make idle threats." Aenar leaned forward in his saddle, the leather creaking. "Gather every lord of the Vale worth his salt. Tell them to come to the Eyrie. Tell them Prince Aenar Targaryen demands an audience."
"Demands?" The word came out strangled.
"Demands," Aenar repeated, his voice cold as the wind off the peaks. "The Vale will choose a side. Support House Targaryen's rightful claim, or the Eyrie becomes a second Harrenhal. Do you know what happened to Harrenhal, ser?"
The man swallowed hard. Every child in Westeros knew that tale. Harren the Black's great fortress, melted like a candle by Balerion's fire.
"I'll... I'll deliver your message, my lord."
"Do that." Aenar straightened. "And do it quickly. My patience has limits." '''
"I flew straight to the Eyrie after that," Aenar told his father, picking at a piece of bark, watching it crumble between his fingers. "Circled the castle for an hour. Let them see Rhaegal's shadow pass over their towers, let them imagine what it would be like when he opened his jaws and bathed their precious white stones in fire."
"Appropriate Targaryen greeting," Daemon said with a smile.
"The only kind some men understand." Aenar's voice carried bitter satisfaction. "When I finally landed in their gardens—trampled some roses, there must have been two hundred soldiers surrounding us within moments. Spears and swords and crossbows, all pointed at me and Rhaegal."
"Not one of them moved. Not when Rhaegal roared so loud I felt it in my bones. They just stood there, pissing themselves in their fine armor, waiting to see if I'd give the command to burn."
''' The Eyrie's solar was cold despite the fire crackling in the hearth. Aenar had accepted guest right—bread and salt, the ancient laws—which meant they couldn't kill him without damning themselves in the eyes of gods and men.
The man who entered wasn't what Aenar expected.
Petyr Baelish was small, neat, wearing fine clothes. His beard was pointed, grey-streaked, and his eyes were grey-green and clever. Too clever.
"Prince Aenar." The man's bow was perfect. "I am Lord Petyr Baelish, Lord Protector of the Vale and guardian to Lord Robin Arryn." He gestured to the boy beside him.
Robin Arryn was perhaps seven, thin and pale as milk, with his mother's auburn hair and eyes that seemed to look at nothing in particular. He fidgeted constantly, picking at his sleeves, biting his lip, never quite meeting anyone's gaze.
"Lord Arryn." Aenar inclined his head the barest degree. The boy was a lord in name only; anyone could see that.
Several other lords had gathered—minor houses, Aenar noted, not the great Vale families. Tactical. Baelish was testing him, seeing how he'd react to being slighted.
"My dragon is in your garden," Aenar said without preamble. "He's hungry. He hasn't eaten since yesterday, and I think he has his eye on your stables. Beautiful horses you have here. Expensive, I'd wager."
Baelish's smile didn't waver, but something flickered in those too-clever eyes. "I'm sure we can arrange something more... appropriate for such a magnificent creature."
"I'm sure you can." Aenar moved to the window, looking down at where Rhaegal crouched among crushed flowerbeds, his bronze-green scales gleaming in the afternoon sun. Soldiers still surrounded him, though they'd backed away to a safer distance. "Let me be clear, Lord Baelish. The Vale will declare for House Targaryen. You will provide men, supplies, and ships for our campaign. In return, I won't turn your mountain fastness into a funeral pyre."
"That's..." One of the minor lords started to protest.
"Not a negotiation," Aenar cut him off, turning from the window. His hand rested casually on Dark Sister's pommel. "Harrenhal thought it was safe too. Stone walls, thick towers, easy to defend. Then Aegon came with Balerion, and those walls melted like wax. Your Eyrie is tall, Lord Baelish, but fire rises."
"Of course, we understand," Baelish said smoothly, though his fingers drummed once against his thigh—the only sign of agitation. "The Vale has no quarrel with House Targaryen. We would be... honored to support your claim."
"Good." Aenar allowed himself a cold smile. "Then we'll speak again in two weeks. Gather your lords—the real ones, not these..." He gestured dismissively at the minor nobles present. "Yohn Royce. The Corbrays. The Waynwoods. Every house that can field a thousand men or more. We have a war to plan." '''
"The boy was wrong," Aenar said to his father, his voice distant with memory. "Robin Arryn. Something about him was just... off. Lost, like he couldn't quite grasp what was happening around him. I heard later his mother had kept him nursing at her breast until he was six. After she died, he just..."
"Broke," Daemon finished.
"Aye. Just... cracked. Like a broken cup."
''' Two weeks later, the Eyrie's great hall was full of Vale lords in their finest. Yohn Royce stood tall despite his age, bronze armor polished to a sheen. The Corbrays wore black and white, their ancestral sword Lady Forlorn displayed prominently. The Waynwoods, the Hunters, the Redforts—all the great houses had come, drawn by dragon-fear and curiosity.
Aenar sat at the high table, Barristan Selmy at his right hand. They'd spent three hours discussing troop movements, supply lines, the best routes through the Mountains of the Moon. Most of the lords had been surprisingly cooperative once they understood refusal meant death.
"Your first target, my prince?" Yohn Royce asked. The man was direct, thank the gods. A soldier, not a schemer.
"The Riverlands," Aenar said, and something in his voice made several lords glance at each other. "House Tully has suffered under Lannister occupation long enough. We'll take back their lands, restore them to power."
"And the Twins?" That was Baelish.
Aenar's jaw tightened. "The Twins burn. House Frey dies. Every last one of them."
"My lord," one of the lesser lords ventured, "that's... the entire house? Even the children?"
"Every. Last. One." The words came out like hammer strikes. "They violated guest right. They murdered their lord and king under his own roof. There is no forgiveness for that. No mercy."
Eventually, Lord Baelish cleared his throat and called for his daughter, saying she could walk back to his chambers, and saying she is a very lovely girl.
"Your daughter?" Aenar asked, already understanding what Baelish wanted to do.
"Yes, my Alayne. She's—"
The door opened.
She was taller than he remembered. Fifteen now, or nearly. Her hair was black as a crow's wing, falling in waves past her shoulders, and she wore a grey gown with white lacing that made her look like a proper Vale lady. But Aenar would have known that face anywhere. Those Tully blue eyes, that delicate bone structure.
"Father, I—" She stopped. Her eyes found Aenar's face, and all the color drained from her own.
"Sansa," Aenar breathed.
The hall erupted in confusion. Aenar was on his feet, hand on Dark Sister, moving toward her. Outside, Rhaegal roared—sensing his rider's rage—and the sound shook dust from the rafters, Aenar's guards quickly positioned themselves near their King.
"What is the meaning of this?" Aenar demanded. "Why is Sansa Stark pretending to be your daughter, Baelish?"
Every eye in the hall turned to the Lord Protector. For the first time since Aenar had met him, Petyr Baelish looked frightened.
"My lord, I assure you, this is my bastard daughter. I don't know who you think—"
"Jon?" Sansa's voice cracked. "Jon, is that really you?"
The hall fell silent.
Yohn Royce rose from his seat, his face like thunder. "Girl, who are you truly?"
Sansa's hands trembled as she reached for a pitcher of water on a nearby table. She poured it over her head, the cold water streaming down her face and neck, and with it came black dye, running like ink down her gown, revealing auburn underneath. Crimson red, bright as blood, the color of House Tully.
"I am Sansa Stark," she said, still sounding shocked from what she was seeing. "Daughter of Eddard Stark and Catelyn Tully. Trueborn daughter of Winterfell."
"Arrest him!" Yohn Royce barked at his guards. "Arrest Lord Baelish for deceiving—"
"No!" Sansa stepped forward, placing herself between Baelish and the advancing guards. "No, he saved me. When Joffrey was poisoned, when the Lannisters would have killed me for it, Lord Baelish got me out of King's Landing. He's kept me safe."
Aenar stared at her, at this girl who was his cousin—his sister, as far as his heart was concerned—and saw a stranger. Where was the dreamy girl who'd loved songs and stories? This Sansa had shadows in her eyes.
"We'll deal with this later," he said, his voice rough. "Sansa. We need to talk. Alone." '''
"How did it go?" Daemon asked quietly.
Aenar was silent for a long moment, his fingers finding the direwolf pendant at his throat. "Not well."
'''The chamber Baelish provided was private, at least. A fire burned in the hearth, and someone had left wine and bread, though neither of them touched it.
"A dragon," she said finally. "You have a dragon. And you're calling yourself Targaryen."
"It's my name. My true name." He said. "Rhaegar Targaryen and Lyanna Stark were my parents. Lord Stark—Father—raised me as his bastard to keep me safe from Robert and the Lannisters."
"So all that time..." Her voice was small. "All those years you were our brother, you were really..."
"I was your cousin. Your brother in all the ways that mattered." He moved closer. "I didn't know, Sansa. Not until the Wall. I thought I was just another bastard."
She turned, and he saw tears tracking through the remnants of black dye on her face. "They said you betrayed Robb."
The words cut deeper than any Valyrian steel. "I left him. I didn't betray him."
"What's the difference?" Her voice cracked. "He was your king. Your brother. He needed you, and you left."
"I had my reasons—"
"What reasons could possibly justify abandoning your family?" She was crying openly now, all her court manners forgotten. "Robb died, Jon. They killed him. Mother. Everyone. And where were you?"
"If I had been there, I would be dead too!" The words exploded from him. "I would be just another corpse rotting at the Twins, and what good would that do? I couldn't save them. I couldn't—" His voice broke.
"You should have tried," she whispered. "You should have died with your king if you couldn't save him. That's what honor demands."
They stared at each other across the space of a few feet that felt like miles.
"You don't have to stay here," Aenar said finally. He did not want to talk about Robb, not now, not ever. "With Baelish. Whatever arrangement you have with him—"
"Where else would I go?" She laughed. "King's Landing wants me dead. The Boltons hold Winterfell. My mother and brothers are gone. Where is there for me?"
"With me." Aenar said with hesitation. "I'm taking the Riverlands. The Twins will burn for what House Frey did—guest right violated, my family murdered. After the Riverlands, after I restore House Tully to power, I'm going North. I'm taking back Winterfell."
Sansa's breath caught. "Winterfell?"
"Our home. And when I take it, I'm going to free Arya from Ramsay Bolton and put his head on a spike."
"Arya..." Fresh tears welled in her eyes. "She's alive? You're certain?"
"She's alive. And I'm going to save her." He reached out, hesitated, then gently touched her shoulder. "You can come with me, Sansa. You don't have to be alone anymore."
Sansa's tears ran freely. "How can I know that you won't abandon me? Just like you abandon, Robb."
'''You are not my Brother. You Never Were, Jon. '''
"Sansa, I swear. I will never abandon you. You do not have to be alone anymore," Aenar promised her. '''
"She said no," Aenar told his father in a quiet voice.
Daemon was quiet, then he asked. "Why did you leave Robb? What happened between you two?"
"He made his decisions, and I made mine," Aenar said, and Daemon merely nodded his head, and did not ask further questions about Robb.
Daemon thought of Viserys, his brother, who had his ups and downs, especially when Viserys told him that his son would marry Alicent, but Daemon could never see himself leaving his brother, abandoning him.
"What happened next?"
"I planned it for a month," Aenar said. "Every detail."
Daemon remained silent, letting his son tell it at his own pace.
"First, I had to get Edmure Tully out." Aenar's fingers traced patterns in the dirt, drawing lines that might have been the Green Fork splitting around the Twins. "He was the key. The rightful Lord of Riverrun, held prisoner by the Freys since the Red Wedding. As long as he lived in their dungeons, I couldn't attack without killing him."
"How did you manage it?"
"Five men. Handpicked. The best infiltrators from the Second Sons." A smile touched Aenar's lips. "They went in during the darkest part of the moon, dressed as merchants, as smallfolk, as anything but soldiers. Took them three weeks just to map the castle's guard rotations. Another week to find where they were holding Edmure."
"And they succeeded."
"Barely. One of them died getting Edmure out, caught a crossbow bolt in the throat while they were climbing down the eastern wall. But they got him to the river, got him on a boat, and three days later he was safe in a camp twenty leagues south." Aenar's voice grew colder. "Once I knew Edmure was alive and free, I could finally burn the Twins to the ground."
'''The Riverlands armies moved like wolves in the night. Three thousand men, divided into hunting packs of fifty to a hundred, sweeping across the territory surrounding the Twins. Every patrol of Frey soldiers. Every minor house that had bent the knee to them. Every keep that had stayed loyal after the Red Wedding.
Aenar flew overhead on Rhaegal, directing the attacks from above. The dragon's shadow passed over villages and holdfasts like a dark omen, and those who saw it knew death was coming.
House Charlton fell first—their small keep stormed at midnight, every man who'd ridden to the Twins that bloody night put to the sword. Then House Erenford, their bridge fortress taken and their bridge torn down stone by stone. House Haigh tried to flee south, but Aenar's cavalry caught them on the road and left their bodies for the crows.
Within two weeks, every house that had supported the Freys was broken. The survivors fled to the Twins itself, seeking shelter behind those walls. But fools, all of them, hadn't they heard what happened to Harrenhal? Right now, those walls were not protection; they were simply the place where they would be burned, like a giant oven made of rocks.
That's when the raven came. Lord Frey might be old, might be a coward, but he wasn't that stupid; he could see that he was surrounded. By now, he must have been told that Edmure Tully was no longer in their cells. Lord Frey knew he had nothing left to give and everything to lose; for this reason, he sent a letter to the Dragon Prince with a rider.
Aenar held the parchment in his tent, reading by lamplight while his commanders waited. The message was written in an old man's shaking hand:
Prince Aenar Targaryen,
I am Lord Walder Frey, and I would speak with you about terms. Whatever grievances exist between our houses, surely they can be resolved through negotiation rather than bloodshed. I invite you to the Twins under guest right, that we might discuss—
Aenar fed the letter to the lamp's flame, watching the parchment curl and blacken.
"No response, my prince?" Ser Barristan asked.
"None." Aenar's voice was empty. "He broke guest right. He murdered Robb under his own roof. There are no terms. There is no negotiation. There is only fire." '''
"I never answered him," Aenar told Daemon. "Let the old bastard wonder. Let him sit in his castle and imagine what was coming."
"When did you attack?"
"Three nights later. New moon. Couldn't see your hand in front of your face." Aenar's eyes grew distant with memory. "Perfect night for dragons."
'''The Twins squatted over the Green Fork like diseased toads, their twin towers dark against a darker sky. Torches burned on the walls, but they were few—the Freys had pulled most of their men inside, huddling behind stone and iron, praying their walls would hold.
They wouldn't.
Aenar sat astride Rhaegal's neck, feeling the dragon's anticipation through their bond. Below, in the darkness, three thousand men waited for his signal. A single torch, raised and lowered three times.
He thought of Robb. Of Grey Wind's head sewn onto his brother's body. Of Catelyn Stark's throat cut while she screamed. Of three thousand northmen murdered while they ate and drank, believing themselves safe under the ancient laws of hospitality.
The torch rose. Fell. Rose again.
"Dracarys."
Rhaegal's flame turned night to day. Red fire, hot enough to melt stone, engulfed the eastern tower. The screams echoed in the night.
The western tower followed. Then the bridge connecting them. Then every gatehouse, every wall, every structure where defenders might shelter.
Aenar felt nothing. No satisfaction. No horror.
Below, his soldiers stormed across makeshift bridges, catching those who tried to flee. The ones smart enough to jump into the river found more soldiers waiting on the banks, nets ready to drag them from the water.
By dawn, the Twins were ruins. Smoke rose in black columns, and what remained of the towers looked like broken teeth jutting from scorched gums. Bodies lay everywhere, burned, crushed by falling stone, or simply dead from smoke that choked the lungs. '''
"By morning, it was over," Aenar said. "The castle was gone. Five hundred years of history turned to rubble and ash in a single night."
"How many survived?" Daemon asked.
"More than I wanted." Aenar's voice was bitter. "Walder Frey, of course, too stubborn to die. Sixteen of his sons still drew breath. Maybe two dozen grandsons. Some granddaughters. A handful of servants and household guards who'd surrendered rather than burn."
"What did you do with them?"
''' They gathered the survivors in a field south of the smoking ruins. Aenar's soldiers formed a perimeter, spears and swords ready, though there was no fight left in these people. They huddled together—old men, young men, children, women, all wearing the twin towers of House Frey.
Aenar walked among them slowly, his boots crushing ash into the trampled grass. He separated them as he moved—children to one side, women to another, men divided by age. His soldiers followed his silent commands.
Lord Walder was being held up by a guard, despite the old man's legs shaking like leaves.
"Came to gloat, have you?" the old man croaked as Aenar approached. "Burned my castle. Killed my family. What more do you want, you little shit?"
"Justice," Aenar replied quietly.
He turned to his guards. "Take Lord Walder. Make him watch."
"Watch what?" Walder demanded as soldiers gripped his arms and dragged him away, with his heels dragging across the ground, turning red with blood. "What are you—"
Then he saw Rhaegal approaching from the ruins, smoke still curling from the dragon's nostrils. Understanding dawned in the old man's face, followed by something that might have been fear.
"No," Walder whispered. "No, you can't—"
"You murdered three thousand men under guest right," Aenar said, his voice carrying across the field. "You violated the most sacred law in Westeros. Every man here bears your name, carries your blood, benefits from your crimes."
His gaze swept over the assembled Freys—the sons, grandsons, great-grandsons. Men who'd ridden to the Red Wedding. Men who'd raised cups to toast Robb Stark before the slaughter began. Men who'd taken Northern lands and gold as payment for murder.
"The children!" one of the granddaughters screamed. "They're innocent! They did nothing!"
Aenar's eyes found her—a girl perhaps sixteen, holding an infant. "Step aside," he commanded. "Take the children with you. All of them. The women too."
Confusion rippled through the crowd. The granddaughter stared at him, not understanding.
"Now," Aenar's voice cracked like a whip. "Before I change my mind."
The women scrambled to obey, gathering children—infants, toddlers, boys and girls who couldn't have been more than ten. They fled to the far side of the field, shepherded by Aenar's soldiers to a safe distance.
What remained were men. Old Walder's sons, grandsons, great-grandsons. Perhaps eighty in total, ranging from boys just past their twelfth nameday to men with grey in their beards. All of them had Frey blood. All of them had benefited from the Red Wedding.
"You killed children at the Twins when you burned the castle," Walder spat. "Northern boys, barely old enough to hold swords. You going to be better than that, Dragon Prince?"
"Yes." Aenar's hand rose. "The women and children will live. But House Frey ends today."
He turned to the assembled women, his voice carrying clearly. "The girls will be married to loyal houses. Blackwoods, Mallisters, Brackens—any house that stayed true during the war. They will take their husbands' names. They will bear their husbands' children. But they will never be Freys again."
"And the boys?" one of the women asked, her voice trembling.
"The moment they reach twelve, they go to the Wall. They'll serve the Night's Watch for the rest of their lives. They'll take no wives, father no children, hold no lands." Aenar's voice was iron. "The Frey name dies with the men standing here."
"You can't—" Walder started.
"I can. I have dragons. I have armies." Aenar's gaze swept over the condemned men. "You broke guest right. You murdered a king under your own roof. This is mercy compared to what you deserve."
"Please," someone begged. One of the younger men, perhaps twenty. "Please, I wasn't even there. I was in Seagard when—"
"But you celebrated when you heard. You took the gold. You wore the name." Aenar's hand stayed raised. "Every man here profited from breaking Guest Rights. Every man here is guilty."
He looked at Rhaegal. The dragon's green eyes gleamed in the morning light, smoke still wisping from his nostrils.
"Dracarys."
The flame washed over them in a terrible wave. The screams lasted perhaps ten seconds—too long, but not long enough. Aenar watched it all with eyes that felt like stone. Watched grown men try to run. Watched fathers and sons burn together. Watched three generations of Freys reduced to ash and the smell of burned meat.
The women and children screamed from their safe distance, held back by soldiers who looked sick but held their positions. Some of the children were crying, calling for fathers they would never see again.
Beside Aenar, forced to watch every moment, Walder Frey started to laugh.
It began as a chuckle, then grew into full-throated laughter. He laughed and laughed, tears streaming down his old face, as he stared at the smoking remains of his male line.
"Five hundred years," he gasped between laughs. "Five hundred years of Freys! The male line—gone! All gone! But you're letting the women live. The children. They'll remember. They'll always remember what you did here." He laughed even harder.
"Good," Aenar said coldly. "Let them remember. Let all the Seven Kingdoms remember what happens when you break guest right."
"You think you're righteous?" Walder's laughter had turned to something uglier, more bitter. "You think you're better than me? You're just another monster, boy. Just another Targaryen who burns people and calls it justice."
Aenar drew Dark Sister. The Valyrian steel cut through the old flesh of his throat.
The laughter stopped.
The old man's body crumpled to the ground, blood pooling in the trampled grass. Aenar wiped the blade clean on the corpse's clothing, sheathed it, and turned to face his soldiers.
"The women and children will be escorted to Riverrun," he commanded. "They'll be housed there until suitable marriages can be arranged for the girls. The boys will be educated and prepared for their journey to the Wall when they come of age."
"And House Frey's lands, my prince?" Ser Barristan asked quietly.
"Divided among the houses that stayed loyal. The Twins..." Aenar looked back at the smoking ruins. "Tear down what's left. Let the stones fall into the river. I want nothing left standing. Let grass grow over where it stood, and let history remember that this is what happens to oathbreakers."
He walked away then, leaving his soldiers to manage the survivors and dispose of the bodies. Behind him, the ruins of the Twins still smoldered, and would continue to smolder for days to come.