The Dornish Marches – Starpike, Seat of House Peake
The chamber was dimly lit, its thick stone walls drinking the torchlight and muffling the storm that brewed outside. A fire crackled low in the hearth, its glow casting long, dancing shadows against the old banners of House Peake that hung behind the high-backed chairs.
Lord Emmon Peake leaned forward, goblet of Dornish red in hand, the wine staining his lips like blood. Across from him sat Aenys Blackfyre, clad in midnight silk, his silver-gold hair falling about his face like a lion's mane. He looked every inch the prince he claimed to be—refined, calculating, and very dangerous.
"They march," Lord Peake said with satisfaction, setting down his goblet. "King Maekar, Prince Aegon, and the one-eyed wraith they call Hand. All riding straight from King's Landing to meet my vanguard." He let out a rich, mocking laugh. "The old warhammer fell for it."
Aenys smirked, sipping delicately. "He always was a soldier first, your Grace. Ever eager to swing before he thinks. Like father, like sons."
Lord Peake's eyes gleamed. "They think they come to crush a rebellion. But all they'll find is a tomb. I've fortified Starpike better than it's ever been. The high road will be closed behind them. When they arrive, we tighten the noose and let the hills drink royal blood."
Their laughter echoed like an omen.
Aenys raised his goblet again. "To the end of the dragon's line."
"To the rise of the Blackfyres," Peake replied, and their cups clinked.
Then, Aenys leaned in, his voice dropping into a conspirator's hush. "We can go further. I have another feint in mind."
Peake arched an eyebrow. "I'm listening."
"Bloodraven must be removed," Aenys said. "So long as he walks beside Maekar, the Stranger will wait. The man sees things before they happen—he is no ordinary spymaster, no ordinary sorcerer. If the Blackfyres have a nemesis, it is him."
Peake nodded slowly. "Aye… one-eyed devil."
Aenys's eyes glinted with amusement. "I've arranged for a Tyroshi fleet to make havoc near the Stepstones. Harass the royal fleets. Perhaps even take a few ships. They'll cry for aid—and who better to answer than the Master of Whisperers himself? Let him think the Crown's lifeline is being severed."
Peake chuckled darkly. "And while he scurries back to save his birds and whispers…"
"We bury Maekar," Aenys finished, "and Aegon beside him. No dragons. No sons. No heirs."
Peake stood, raising his goblet once more. "Aenys Blackfyre, you've your father's ambition… and your mother's patience. May this realm tremble beneath your banners soon."
Aenys offered a shallow bow and turned for the door, his cloak trailing behind him like a serpent's tail. "I must return to Tyrosh. My presence should remain unknown… for now. Let them believe I am still licking wounds from Bittersteel's last folly."
Peake nodded. "Go. When the fires rise at Starpike, let the Free Cities know it was a dragon's pyre."
Without another word, Aenys slipped from the chamber, leaving only wine, war, and wickedness behind.