Five moons had passed since the royal betrothal.
In that time, the suffocating tension that had gripped the realm finally shattered, replaced by the deafening, rhythmic march of the Westerosi war machine. The illusion of a bloodless resolution had long evaporated. The Iron Throne was going to war, and the scale of its mobilization was a terrifying testament to the legacy of the Conqueror.
The Iron Throne had decreed it would strike first, and the sheer logistics of moving half a continent to battle took hold of the realm.
The reality of war was measured in grain, iron, and the endless marching of men. From the fertile plains of the Reach to the storm-battered coasts of the Narrow Sea, the tapestry of war unfurled. Thousands of levies were marshalled, leaving their fields to follow knights in polished steel. Endless lines of supply wagons clogged the southern roads, while the shipyards of Driftmark and King's Landing burned through their timber reserves to outfit the fleets.
House Targaryen commanded seven adult dragons, a sheer concentration of apocalyptic power that should have made any enemy tremble, but reality was bound by limits.
Only two of those dragons were flying to war.
King Jaehaerys and Queen Alysanne were bound to the capital by their age. Vermithor and Silverwing could not be risked on a prolonged, gruelling campaign with riders who might not survive the physical toll. The younger generation was simply too young and too inexperienced for the brutal chaos of war. Rhaegar, Viserys and especially Rhaenys could not be risked in a war. Which meant Balerion, Dreamfyre and Meleys were anchored in King's Landing.
It was perfect for the bleeding trap Rhaegar had laid for the realm.
And so, the burden of the dynasty's wrath fell entirely upon the two sons of the Conciliator.
On the southern borders of the Reach, where the plains broke against the red mountains of the Dornish Marches, Prince Baelon Targaryen commanded a sprawling encampment. Thousands of pavilions stretched across the landscape, flying the banners of the Reach and the Crownland Houses. Baelon stood amidst his commanders, coordinating the massive host. Behind the camp, resting like a bronze-scaled hill, was Vhagar. Baelon was stationed there as a deterrent, prepared to crush any Dornish incursions through the mountain passes or intercept a flanking Triarchy naval invasion on the western shores.
Across the continent, in the Narrow Sea, surrounded by the jagged rocks and churning waters of the Stepstones, Prince Aemon Targaryen prepared to land the first strike in the war for the Iron Throne.
He was camped on a large, nameless rock, surrounded by the sprawling might of the Crownlander and Velaryon fleets. Hundreds of warships bobbed violently in the shifting waters, their decks swarming with men sharpening steel and loading scorpions. Caraxes, the Blood Wyrm, coiled tightly over a stone hill overlooking the encampment, letting out a high, piercing shriek that echoed over the waves.
Aemon watched the fog rolling in from the east. The posturing was over. Tomorrow, at first light, the fleet would sail into the choke points. In mere hours, the first blood of a grand, terrible war would finally be spilled.
While the realm held its breath for the dawn of war, Rhaegar Targaryen was running.
His boots slammed against the muddy streets of King's Landing, stepping in the filth of the lower city. He wore a rough, dirt-smudged woolen cloak, the hood pulled low over his silver hair to hide his Valyrian features. He was entirely stripped of his regal composure, his chest heaving, his lungs burning with every frantic breath.
Ryon kept pace just a step behind him, similarly cloaked, his hand gripping the hilt of a concealed sword. Rhaegar had practically sprinted half the city from the Red Keep, ignoring the startled smallfolk who scrambled out of their path in the winding alleys.
They rushed around the alley and approached a non-descript brothel tucked away in a corner.
It was one of the many establishments entirely owned and operated by his network.
Rhaegar did not slow down. He opened the heavy wooden door in a rush, barging into the dimly lit front room.
The brothel keeper, startled, stood up quickly. She raised a hand, opening her mouth to demand the intricate, pre-arranged password they had designed for these covert meetings.
Rhaegar did not grace her with it. He shoved past the woman without a word, sweat dripping down his face. Ryon followed silently, shutting the heavy iron bolt behind them.
Rhaegar barged into the secured back chamber, coming to a dead, sudden halt.
He stood there, panting heavily, sweat dripping down his neck and soaking the collar of his simple tunic. Ryon stepped in beside him, his breath hitching audibly in his throat. Both men stood rooted to the floorboards, frozen like statues, staring at the figure resting in the room.
The air in the chamber was thick with the smell of blood and bitter medicinal concoctions.
Slumped carefully against a reclined wooden chair was Aeryna. She was the young, fiercely devoted Acolyte who had accompanied the Red Priestess into the East.
She was barely recognizable. Thick, blood-soaked cloth bandages were wrapped tightly around her torso and neck. Her face was a swollen, horrific mess of dark purple bruises and jagged cuts. But it was her right arm that drew the eye. It ended abruptly halfway down the forearm, the stump bound in seeping, charred bandages where the flesh had been crudely cauterized.
Hearing them enter, Aeryna slowly, agonizingly raised her head.
With her remaining left hand trembling violently, she reached into the torn folds of her robes. She pulled her hand out and held it over the small wooden table beside her chair.
She opened her fingers.
With a clatter, a handful of shattered, fractured red glass spilled onto the wood. It was the remnants of a large ruby pendant.
Rhaegar stared at the broken shards.
His mind, the brilliant, calculating intellect that had yet to fail him, suddenly went entirely blank.
And at that moment, perhaps for the first time in this life, Prince Rhaegar Targaryen felt true fear.
Melisandre of Asshai was dead.