"After I dismissed Oberyn from court," Aenar said, his voice flat in the darkness of the Godswood, "the next months went... well. Or as well as they could, given everything."
Daemon didn't say anything.
"Rhaenys was heartbroken over her uncle leaving. I'd see her sometimes, standing at the windows overlooking the harbor, just staring out toward Dorne." Aenar's hands clenched. "But she convinced herself it would be fine. That once her child was born, Oberyn would return. That he'd hold his niece or nephew in his arms and all the anger would melt away. She thought we could be a family together—all of us. Me, Daenerys, her, Oberyn, the children. One big, happy Targaryen-Martell union."
"She was naive."
"She was hopeful."
"Hope is just naive dressed up in prettier clothes," Daemon said. "Sometimes love isn't enough. Sometimes wanting something desperately doesn't make it real. I understand her desire—of course she wanted her uncle nearby. But some people..." He paused for a moment, and he seemed like he remembered something. "Some people would rather drown in the past than live in the future. They cling to their grief like a lover, feeding it, nurturing it, until there's nothing left of who they were."
"Oberyn and Elia were close," Aenar said quietly. "Very close. When she died, when they told him how she died..." He swallowed hard. "The Mountain raped her while her son's blood was still on his hands. While Elia screamed and bled and begged. Oberyn wasn't there to save her. Wasn't there to stop it. That kind of guilt, that kind of rage—it becomes who you are."
"And you were the perfect target for all that poison," Daemon observed. "Rhaegar's son. Lyanna's son. The living reminder of everything that went wrong."
"Her death, the way she died, it was all because of choices made by other people." Aenar's voice rose slightly. "Rhaegar's choices. Lyanna's choices. Robert Baratheon's rage. Tywin Lannister's cruelty. Gregor Clegane's brutality. Elia had no choice in any of it. She was just... caught in the current and drowned."
Daemon was quiet for a long moment. "Do you regret what Rhaegar did? Running after Lyanna?"
Aenar looked up at the weirwood's weeping face, the red sap gleaming like blood in the moonlight.
"I regret how he did it," he said finally. "Rhaegar could have chosen a better way. They both could have. He could have protected Elia and her children, sent them somewhere safe before running off with Lyanna. He could have been honest instead of letting everyone think he'd kidnapped her."
He laughed bitterly. "But love blinds people. Love makes you stupid, makes you selfish, makes you think the world will simply bend around your happiness. And because of their love, because they thought their feelings mattered more than duty or honor or anyone else's safety—people suffered. Children died. A kingdom bled. And here I am still dealing with the consequences."
"You fell into the same trap," Daemon said. It wasn't a question.
"I did. I loved Rhaenys. I loved Daenerys. I thought love would be enough to protect us, to make everything work." Aenar's voice dropped to barely a whisper. "I was wrong."
The wind picked up, rustling the weirwood's leaves with a sound like whispered warnings.
"One night," Aenar continued, his voice becoming even more hollow, "about two weeks before Daenerys was due to give birth, Arianne came to visit her. It was late afternoon. Daenerys was resting in her chambers—her pregnancy was difficult toward the end, and she tired easily."
He could see it so clearly, as if he were watching it happen again.
"Arianne brought a gift. A bottle of wine. She told Daenerys it was the finest vintage in all of Dorne, aged for thirty years in the Water Gardens. The bottle itself was beautiful—Myrish glass etched with dragons in gold leaf. A piece of art." His voice hardened. "Arianne told her she could enjoy it after the baby was born. A celebration drink. A toast to the new heir."
Daemon's eyes narrowed. "The wine was poisoned."
"Yes." The word fell like a stone into dark water. "It was Arianne who gave it to Daenerys. Arianne, who smiled and laughed and acted like our friend. Who'd been at court for months, earning our trust. Who hugged Rhaenys and called her cousin and promised that Dorne stood with House Targaryen."
"How do you know Arianne was the one?" Daemon asked.
"Because I saw her." Aenar's jaw clenched. "I came to check on Daenerys, found Arianne there with her. Watched her hand over that beautiful bottle with such warmth in her eyes. Heard her say 'for after the birth, Your Grace. You deserve something special.' Daenerys thanked her. Embraced her. Called her a true friend."
He closed his eyes, but the memory played behind his eyelids anyway.
"I was fooled. I truly thought Arianne was our friend. She'd been nothing but supportive since the coronation. When Oberyn made his barbed comments, Arianne would smooth things over. When tensions rose at council meetings, she'd defuse them with humor or grace. She seemed genuinely happy for both pregnancies. She never showed a hint of malice."
"The best weapons are the ones you never see coming," Daemon said quietly.
"I should have seen it. Should have suspected. But I was focused on other things , rebuilding the realm, making peace with the people of King's Landing, holding meetings. I thought the danger would come from outside. Never from inside our own chambers, wrapped in silk and smiles."
"Do you know for certain that Arianne knew the wine was poisoned?"
"I..." He stopped. Started again. "After everything happened, after my daughter died, I had Arianne arrested. Thrown in the black cells. I questioned her myself." His voice sounded empty. "I asked her that exact question. Whether she knew."
"And what did she say?"
"She swore she didn't know. Swore Tyene gave her the wine as a gesture of goodwill. That she thought it was just an expensive gift from House Martell. She begged me to believe her. Said she would never hurt Daenerys, never hurt any of us." Aenar's voice cracked. "She cried. Gods, she cried so much. Said she loved Rhaenys like a sister. That if she'd known, she would have thrown the bottle into the sea herself."
"Did you believe her?" Daemon pressed.
"It doesn't matter anymore," Aenar said, his voice empty of all emotion. "It doesn't matter if she knew or if she was just a pawn. My daughter still died. Daenerys still drank that wine. Whether Arianne was guilty or innocent, whether she knowingly delivered poison or was used as an unwitting weapon—the result was the same."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only answer I have!" Aenar's control shattered. "After my daughter died, after I held her tiny body while she choked and bled and stopped breathing—I didn't care about truth anymore. I didn't care about justice or evidence or giving people the benefit of the doubt. I just wanted them to suffer. All of them. Everyone who had anything to do with Dorne, with Oberyn, with that gods-damned bottle of wine."
His breathing was ragged now, years of buried rage clawing its way up his throat.
"Tyene confessed to poisoning it—we caught her trying to flee King's Landing. She laughed when we arrested her. Laughed and said 'House Martell always pays its debts.' She died proud, Father. Proud of murdering an infant."
"And Arianne?"
"Arianne kept swearing she was innocent, but I knew she was lying. She was just another snake. Just like Tyene. Just like Oberyn."
He looked at his father with eyes that held nothing but ashes.
"What did you do to her?" Daemon asked quietly.
Aenar looked at his father dead in the eyes.
"I brought them justice."
.
.
'''The black cells beneath the Red Keep were older than the castle itself, carved from the bedrock when Aegon first raised his fortress. No light reached this deep save for the torches Aenar carried.
Oberyn Martell sat in the furthest cell, chained to the wall by wrists and ankles. They'd taken his daggers, his rings, even his boots—anything he might use to end himself before facing justice. He looked up as Aenar approached, his dark eyes glittering in the torchlight.
"The Dragon King graces me with his presence," Oberyn said. His voice was hoarse but still carried that mocking edge. "Come to gloat?"
Aenar stopped before the cell bars. He said nothing for a long moment, just stared at the man who had destroyed everything.
"She lived for two hours," Aenar finally said. His voice was eerily calm, dead. "My daughter. Rhaella. She was born premature because of the poison in Daenerys's body. Too early, too small. Her lungs couldn't handle it. She coughed and coughed, turned blue, and then she stopped breathing."
Oberyn's face remained impassive.
"I held her while she died," Aenar continued. "This tiny, perfect thing. She had silver-gold hair. Purple eyes. She looked at me once, just once, before the end. Do you know what I promised her in those two hours? I promised her the world. Promised her she'd grow up strong and loved. Promised her dragons and stories and everything a father could give."
He gripped the bars.
"And then I had to watch her die because you couldn't let go of the past. Because your grief mattered more than an innocent child's life."
"I didn't—" Oberyn started.
"You didn't what?" Aenar's voice cracked like a whip. "You didn't plan it? You didn't orchestrate it? Tyene confessed everything before she died. How you sent her that wine. How you told her exactly what poison to use—something that wouldn't kill Daenerys outright, but would trigger early labor. Something that would make the child too weak to survive."
Oberyn's jaw clenched. "Tyene didn't do anything."
"Liar!" Aenar slammed his hand against the bars. "Your daughter is dead because of you! Tyene laughed when we arrested her. Laughed and said she was proud to serve House Martell's vengeance. She died with your name on her lips, thanking you for giving her purpose."
"I never asked her to—"
"And Arianne?" Aenar's voice dropped to something worse than rage. "Arianne is dead too. Who swore she didn't know the wine was poisoned. Who begged me to believe her innocence."
Oberyn went very still. "Arianne didn't know. She couldn't have—"
"It doesn't matter what she knew!" Aenar roared. "She's dead! I had her executed. Rhaenys pleaded for her life, begged me to show mercy, but I didn't listen. I couldn't listen. Because every time I looked at Arianne, I saw her handing that bottle to Daenerys. I saw my daughter dying. So I gave her to the dragon flames."
The color drained from Oberyn's face. "You... you killed Arianne?"
"I brought her justice." Aenar's voice was merciless. "The same justice you claimed to want for Elia. An eye for an eye. A child for a child. Your niece burned for mine."
"She didn't know," Oberyn whispered, and for the first time, there was real horror in his voice. "Arianne was innocent. She would never—"
"Neither was my daughter!" Aenar's control shattered completely. "Rhaella never hurt anyone! She never made choices that destroyed kingdoms! She was two hours old, and you killed her because you couldn't stop living in Elia's grave!"
Oberyn sagged against his chains, his face ashen. "I didn't want Arianne to die. She wasn't supposed to—"
"What did you think would happen?" Aenar demanded. "You poison the Queen's wine, kill the heir to the throne, and I'd just let everyone involved walk free? You're not that stupid, Oberyn. You knew there would be consequences. You just didn't care."
The Prince of Dorne looked up, and there were tears in his eyes now. Real tears, not the calculated manipulation of a player in the game. "I wanted you to hurt. The way I hurt. The way Elia hurt. I wanted you to know what it felt like to lose everything."
"Congratulations," Aenar said bitterly. "You succeeded. But you didn't just hurt me. You destroyed Rhaenys."
Oberyn flinched as if struck.
"Your niece," Aenar continued, his voice shaking. "The girl you claimed to love more than anything. The little viper you swore to protect. Do you know what state she's in?"
"Is she—" Oberyn's voice broke. "Is she all right?"
"No." The word was brutal. "She's not all right. She hasn't eaten in three days. Won't sleep. Just sits in her chambers, staring at nothing, crying. The Maesters are saying her grief might kill the child she's carrying. Your grandniece or grandnephew. They say the stress on her body, the trauma—it could cause her to lose the baby."
Oberyn made a sound like a wounded animal. "No. No, that can't—"
"She keeps asking why," Aenar said, and now his own voice was thick with unshed tears. "Why you would do this to her. Why you would kill her sister's child. Why you would put her in a position where she had to choose between you and us. She loved you, Oberyn. She loved you so much she convinced herself you'd change. That you'd accept us. That love would be enough."
"I never meant to hurt her," Oberyn whispered. "Everything I did, I did for her. For Elia. For our family."
"You did this for yourself!" Aenar's voice rang off the stone walls. "You did this because you couldn't let go of your rage. Because revenge tasted sweeter than your niece's happiness. Because being right mattered more than her being whole."
He leaned closer to the bars, his purple eyes boring into Oberyn's dark ones.
"You became exactly what you hated," Aenar said softly. "The Mountain killed Elia and my brother. You killed Daenerys's child. Tell me, Prince Oberyn—what's the difference? How are you any better than Gregor Clegane?"
"I'm nothing like that monster!" Oberyn surged against his chains. "He killed for pleasure! He raped and murdered because he enjoyed it! I did this for justice!"
"Justice?" Aenar laughed, and it was the most terrible sound. "You call murdering an infant justice? Destroying your own niece's life justice? Breaking Rhaenys's heart justice?" He shook his head. "You're worse than the Mountain. At least he was honest about what he was. You wrapped your cruelty in righteousness and called it honor."
Oberyn slumped back against the wall, the fight draining out of him. His chains rattled softly.
"It was supposed to be different," he said quietly. "I thought... I thought if Daenerys lost the child, you'd understand. You'd feel what Elia felt. What I felt."
"So you admit it." Aenar's voice was hollow. "It was your plan. Not just Tyene acting alone. You."
Oberyn looked up, and there was no more fight in his eyes. Just exhaustion and grief and the terrible weight of what he'd done.
"Yes," he whispered. "I sent the wine to Tyene. Told her which poison to use. Told her to give it to Arianne with a story about goodwill and bridges between houses. I knew Arianne would give it to Daenerys. She was always too trusting, too eager to make peace." His voice cracked.
Aenar did not believe him; he knew he was lying. Arianne knew the truth about the wine; she must have known the truth. She was a snake after all. She deserved to die.
"You'll die tomorrow," he said, turning to walk away. "At dawn. The whole city will watch. But before you die, I want you to think about something."
"What?" Oberyn's voice was barely audible.
Aenar looked over his shoulder, his face cast in shadow by the torchlight.
"When you go to whatever hell is waiting for you, when you see Elia again—you're going to have to explain to your sister why you destroyed Rhaenys's life. Why you killed an innocent child in her name. Why you turned her memory into a weapon that hurt everyone she would have loved. Elia was kind, wasn't she? Gentle? She loved her children more than anything in the world. Do you really think she'd be proud of what you've done? Do you think she'd thank you for using her death to justify murdering another mother's baby?"
Oberyn's face crumpled completely. He buried his face in his chained hands, his shoulders shaking with sobs.
"You couldn't let go," Aenar said, each word a hammer blow. "You couldn't move past her death. You couldn't choose the living over the dead. And because of that, because you loved your grief more than your niece's happiness—Rhaenys will spend the rest of her life broken. Wondering if her uncle ever really loved her at all. Or if she was just another piece on the board."
He walked away then, his footsteps echoing in the darkness. Behind him, Oberyn Martell wept in his chains, calling out Elia's name and Rhaenys's name and begging forgiveness from the shadows that couldn't answer.
Aenar climbed the stairs back to the light, leaving the Red Viper to drown in the consequences of his choices.
Tomorrow, he would watch the man die. And he would feel nothing.
Because the part of him that could feel mercy, that could forgive, that could be anything other than rage and grief—that part had died with his daughter.
All that remained was the Dragon King.
And dragons do not forgive.
.
.
The Sept of Baelor's plaza was packed with thousands. Smallfolk, nobles, merchants—all come to witness the execution of the Red Viper of Dorne. The crowd was eerily silent, save for the occasional sob or whispered prayer.
Aenar stood on the raised platform in his armor, Dark Sister hanging at his hip. Beside him, the executioner waited, a massive man with a greatsword nearly as tall as he was.
They brought Oberyn Martell up the steps. He walked without struggle, his chains rattling with each step. His face was blank. Looking at him now, it felt like looking at a living corpse.
"Prince Oberyn Martell," Aenar's voice carried across the plaza. "You have been found guilty of high treason. Of murdering the heir to the Iron Throne. Of poisoning Queen Daenerys. For these crimes, you are sentenced to death."
Oberyn knelt without being told. He looked up at Aenar one last time.
"Tell Rhaenys I'm sorry," he whispered. "Tell her I loved her."
"She's not here," Aenar said coldly. "She couldn't bear to watch."
Oberyn seemed relieved to hear that.
Aenar drew Dark Sister himself. The Valyrian steel sang as it left the scabbard, catching the morning light.
"For Rhaella Targaryen," Aenar said. "For the innocent."
The sword fell.
Oberyn Martell's head rolled across the platform. His body slumped forward, blood pooling on the stone.
The crowd erupted—some cheering, some crying, chaos spreading through the plaza. But Aenar just stared at the corpse, feeling nothing. No satisfaction. No relief. Just emptiness.
One death would never be enough to fill the hole in his chest. '''
In the Godswood, Daemon shifted against the weirwood tree.
"What happened next?" he asked quietly. "Did you make war with Dorne? With Prince Doran?"
Aenar shook his head slowly. "There was no time for war."
"What do you mean?"
"Rhaenys lost her child a few weeks after Oberyn's execution." Aenar's voice was hollow. "She woke up screaming one night. I ran to her chambers and found her in bed, blood everywhere. All over her thighs, her stomach, the sheets. So much blood."
He closed his eyes against the memory.
"The Maesters tried everything, but it was too late. The baby was gone. A boy. We would have named him Aegon, after my brother. After Rhaenys's brother. But instead we buried him in the sept, next to Rhaella. Two children, both dead before they could live."
Daemon was silent, letting his son speak.
"The gods took two of my children," Aenar said. "But they weren't done taking. We didn't have time to mourn properly. Didn't have time to grieve or heal or try to rebuild. Because three days after Rhaenys lost the baby, the dead attacked."
Daemon straightened, his eyes narrowing. "What?"
"The White Walkers are real, Father." Aenar looked at him directly. "The Others are real. The Long Night, the legends, all of it. And the Great Other—the King of the Others—he came south with an army of the dead numbering in the millions."
Daemon stared at his son like he'd lost his mind. "Aenar, you're telling me that ice demons from children's stories—"
"They're not stories!" Aenar's voice cracked. "I fought them. I killed them. I watched them slaughter entire armies, raise the dead to fight again. I watched them kill dragons, Father. DRAGONS. Rhaegal fell to their magic, and they raised him as one of their own. An ice dragon, breathing cold instead of fire."
Daemon opened his mouth, closed it. For once, the Prince of the Narrow Sea had no words.
"Tell me what happened," he finally said. "All of it."
Three days after Rhaenys lost the baby
'''Aenar made his way through the Red Keep toward Rhaenys's chambers. She'd barely left her bed since the miscarriage, and the Maesters were worried. Not about her body—that would heal. But about her mind, her spirit. She'd lost her uncle, her cousin Arianne, and her child all within a month. That kind of grief could break even the strongest person.
He pushed open the door to her chambers quietly.
Daenerys and Rhaenys were huddled together on the bed, wrapped in furs despite the summer warmth. Dany held Rhaenys while she cried, rocking her gently, whispering comfort that Aenar couldn't hear from the doorway.
Rhaenys looked up at the sound of the door. Her eyes were bright red, swollen from days of weeping. Her face was gaunt, pale as milk. She looked like a ghost of herself.
"Aenar," she whispered.
He crossed to the bed, kneeling beside it so he was at eye level with her. "I'm here."
"Tell me it gets better." Her voice broke. "Please. I need to hear you say it. Tell me we'll be happy again someday."
Aenar took her hand, squeezed it. The lie came easily because he needed it as much as she did.
"I swear to you," he said. "It will take time. A long time. But we'll be happy again. We'll heal. We'll rebuild. I promise you."
Daenerys's hand joined theirs, the three of them linked together. "We have each other," she said softly. "That's enough. It has to be enough."
Rhaenys nodded, tears streaming down her face. She opened her mouth to speak—
The sound that shattered the moment was like nothing Aenar had ever heard.
A horn. It echoed through the stone of the Red Keep, through the very air itself, vibrating in Aenar's bones. The sound seemed to come from everywhere at once—from the north, from the sky, from the earth beneath them.
The windows rattled. Dust fell from the ceiling. All three of them clapped their hands over their ears, but it didn't help.
The horn blew for what felt like an eternity.
When it finally stopped, the silence that followed was somehow worse.'''
"What was that sound?" Daemon demanded. "What horn could possibly be heard across the entire realm?"
"The Horn of Winter," Aenar said. "They say Joramun, the King-Beyond-the-Wall, once blew it to wake giants from the earth. Others say it has the power to bring down the Wall itself."
"The Wall," Daemon repeated. "The massive ice structure in the North?"
"Seven hundred feet tall, three hundred miles long, infused with ancient magic. It was built to keep the Others out, to protect the realm of men from the dead. For eight thousand years, it stood." Aenar's voice grew quieter. "Until the Others found the Horn. And blew it."
"They brought down the Wall?"
"The sound echoed throughout the entire world. From Castle Black to Asshai by the Shadow. Every living thing heard it. And I have never—in either of my lives—seen such fear in dragons."
'''Jon staggered to his feet, his ears still ringing from the horn's blast. Beside him, Daenerys and Rhaenys were doing the same, their faces pale with confusion and terror.
"What was that?" Daenerys gasped.
"I don't know." But Aenar felt ice forming in his gut. Something was wrong. Very wrong.
From the direction of the King's Wood, the sound of dragons roaring split the air. These were sounds of fear. Of terror.
"The dragons," Rhaenys whispered. "They've never—"
Aenar was already moving, rushing to the balcony. He threw open the doors and stepped out into the afternoon sun.
His breath misted in the air. Frost was forming on the stone balustrade, spreading like white fingers across the surface.
Daenerys and Rhaenys joined him, both wrapping their arms around themselves against the sudden cold. A wind had picked up—not the warm southern breeze that usually graced King's Landing, but a bitter northern wind that bit at exposed skin and carried the smell of snow.
In the King's Wood, Drogon, Rhaegal, and Meraxes were visible above the trees, circling and roaring.
Aenar'd never heard Rhaegal sound terrified before.
"Something's wrong," Aenar said. "Something's very wrong."
The sky to the north was darkening, though sunset was still hours away.
Rhaenys grabbed his arm. "Aenar, what's happening?"
Aenar wanted to say something, but then he saw it...snowflakes...snowflakes falling from the sky. Aenar reached out with his hand, and a snowflake fell on his palm...it did not melt.