Prologue: The Price of Grace (Aenar POV)
The Great Hall of the Red Keep still hummed with the aftershock of judgment and the raw exercise of power. The metallic scent of blood from Robert Baratheon's severed hand mingled with the sweat of fear and the bitterness of defeat. One by one, the rebel lords had been brought before the Iron Throne, and one by one, Emperor Aenar Targaryen had broken their political spines with the cold precision of a master craftsman. The Riverlands were now annexed into the Crownlands, the Tullys stripped of their paramountcy. Jon Arryn saw the title of Lord of the Vale pass to his unborn son, with House Royce as regent. And Tywin Lannister, the Old Lion, had been publicly shorn of his authority in favor of his son, with young Joanna as regent—a calculated insult that wounded him deeper than any blade.
And Robert Baratheon. The Fury's End. The man who had dared challenge the dragon in single combat. Now he leaned on two of his men, pale as a ghost, the stump of his right arm bandaged and soaked in red. He had challenged, fought with the rage of a forgotten god, and lost. The hand that once wielded the warhammer now rested, useless, somewhere in the courtyard. Aenar's sentence had been clear: House Baratheon would continue through his younger brother, Stannis. Robert was a felled oak, roaring in pain but unable to ever rise again.
Now, however, the phase of punishment was over. It was time for restoration. His purple eyes, glowing with the inner fire of the dragon he was, settled on the next figure in line. The only rebel who still held a spark of his dignity intact.
"Lord Eddard Stark," Aenar's voice echoed, mastering the residual whispers in the hall. "Step forward."
Ned Stark obeyed. His steps were firm, but the weight of the world seemed to press upon his shoulders. His face was a mask of granite, carved by the pain of loss and the burden of honor. Aenar could see beyond the wall. He knew every ghost that haunted this man: the burned father, the strangled brother, the promise made to a dying sister.
"Lord Eddard," Aenar began, his voice softer, yet no less authoritative. "The madman Aerys dealt a terrible blow to your House. An injustice that echoes in these halls to this day. However…" He paused, allowing the memory of Ned's own rebellion to weigh heavily on all present. "You raised your banners against your rightful Emperor. In any other context, your life and blood would be the currency to pay for such an affront. Considering the provocation, sparing your army and allowing you to return to Winterfell as Warden of the North is, in itself, a clemency that many here would consider excessive."
The silence that followed was absolute. Ned bowed his head in acquiescence, his shoulders seeming to carry the burden of that hard truth. He accepted the judgment.
Then, Aenar shifted his tone. The voice lost some of its imperial chill and took on an almost conversational nuance. "But an Emperor must look beyond simple punishment. He must see the roots of discord and prune them. And one such root was planted the day you were forced to leave a heart at Starfall and chain your honor to a foreign bed, all for the need of swords."
Ned's eyes met Aenar's, and for the first time, the granite mask cracked, revealing a flash of raw surprise.
"I know of the love you cherished for Lady Ashara Dayne of Starfall," Aenar continued, and an immediate wave of murmurs swept through the court. Some lords could not suppress smiles and knowing glances directed at Ned's stoic figure. The face of the Lord of Winterfell flushed a deep crimson, a rare spectacle that alleviated the murderous tension in the hall. "And I know, through sources that do not err, that the feeling never faded in either of you."
Aenar allowed the revelation to settle. He let the shame and hope dance in Ned's eyes.
"Under the laws of men and the gods you hold so dear," he went on, "this would be an impossibility. A sealed, consummated contract. But I am no common king, subject to the gods I worship. I am the Empire incarnate. And the Empire decrees that your happiness is a valuable asset. Therefore, Lord Eddard, I grant you leave to annul your marriage to Catelyn Tully and wed the woman of your heart."
The shock that gripped Ned was almost physical. He staggered, his gaze flying uncontrollably to the gallery where Ashara Dayne stood. The maiden of Starfall, still breathtaking, had her face streaked with silent tears, her hands pressed to her lips. She was the very picture of hope rekindled after a long winter.
Aenar watched the internal conflict consume Ned. He saw the war between the man and the lord, between the heart and duty. He knew what was coming next. He knew the cornerstone of Eddard Stark's honor.
And Ned, like a cliff resisting the sea, found his strength. He straightened his shoulders and spoke, his voice hoarse but firm, cutting through the whispers. "Your Imperial Grace… I… am deeply grateful for such mercy. But I will not bring such dishonor upon Lady Catelyn. She has been a loyal wife and is guilty of no crime. I will fulfill my duty, as I always have."
Behold the man, Aenar thought. Inflexible to the brink of his own ruin. The hall fell silent again, now out of respect for that stubborn, incomprehensible honor.
Until Aenar's laughter cut through the air.
It was a deep, genuine laugh, from one who saw a key piece slot perfectly into the board. "I knew you would say that, Lord Eddard. I know the fiber you are made of. That is why I am not here to annul your marriage." He made a subtle gesture to Viserys, his Hand. The young man, with the serenity immortality had granted him, handed him a vellum scroll sealed with the black wax of the three-headed dragon.
"I am here to expand your duties," Aenar finished, extending the document to Ned. "By the imperial power that hails from Old Valyria and the precedent of my own reign, I, Aenar Targaryen, Emperor of Westeros, authorize Lord Eddard Stark of House Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North, to take a second wife. And I officially betroth you to Lady Ashara Dayne, should she accept."
Almost before the words finished echoing, a clear, melodious "I accept!" full of a life long absent, resonated in the chamber. Ashara cared not for conventions. She stood, her tears now of pure joy, a radiant smile that illuminated the shadowy corner of the hall.
Ned Stark stood paralyzed. He looked at the imperial scroll in his hands, then at Ashara's face, then at Catelyn, who watched from a distance with an impenetrable expression of shock and resignation. His mind, trained for the linear logic of Northern honor, could not process this new, multidimensional reality.
The sound that jerked him from his stupor was a rough laugh, laden with pain and a hint of madness. Robert Baratheon, clutching his stump, laughed with tears streaming down his face. "By the Mother's milk, Ned! The man of unshakable honor and two wives! The gods have a wicked sense of humor!" That laugh, though bitter, shattered the last spell of tension.
Ned, finally, knelt, his voice a stunned whisper. "Your Imperial Grace… I… do not know what to say. Thank you."
"Rise, Lord Eddard of Winterfell," said Aenar, his voice returning to its imperial placidity. "House Stark shall be rewarded. Keep that decree. It is yours." His purple eyes then shifted, looking past Ned, seeking the next piece in this great game. The true prize. The secret reason for this entire spectacle.
"Now," the Emperor's voice thundered, filling every inch of the hall and silencing any residual noise. "Bring forth Lyanna Stark."
The moment the great oak doors of the hall began to creak open with a solemn groan. All eyes turned, forgetting Ned, Ashara, Robert. All turned to the pale figure clad in black emerging at the entrance, escorted by guards. The public judgment was over. Aenar's personal judgment was about to begin.
Part 1: The Weight of the Crown and the Shadow of the Dragon
The silence in the Great Hall was so heavy that the crackling of the torches could be heard. The air, already saturated with the smell of fear and power, seemed to freeze completely when the immense oak doors opened with a creak that echoed like a lament of stone.
All eyes turned to the figure that appeared in the entrance.
It was Lyanna Stark. But not the wild maiden of Winterfell that many remembered, the She-Wolf with fiery eyes and a play sword in her hand. This Lyanna was a pale shadow of that legend. Her face, once lively and expressive, was marked by fatigue and pain, pale as the moon under her fringe of dark, tangled brown hair. Her body, wrapped in a simple black dress, was visibly thin and fragile, but the unmistakable curve of her belly, round and prominent, dominated her silhouette, a silent testimony to the price she had paid. Every step seemed to require a superhuman effort. Her arm was firmly linked with that of Ser Barristan Selmy, the old champion, whose impassive face was a stark contrast to the visible agony of the young woman he guided. His honor was the crutch that kept her from falling.
The journey to the base of the Iron Throne seemed an eternity. Lyanna's gaze was fixed on the floor, feeling the weight of a thousand accusations from all sides. When she finally stopped before the serrated steps of the throne, her legs buckled. With an almost inaudible sigh, she knelt, head bowed, trembling hands resting on her womb in an instinctive gesture of protection.
Aenar watched from above, his purple eyes unreadable. He was not a man; he was a force of nature shaped into the form of an emperor. He allowed the silence to stretch, letting the image of the daughter of the North, humiliated and pregnant, burn into the memory of all present.
"Rise, Lady Lyanna," he said, his voice calm but cutting the air like a blade.
She tried, staggering. Barristan moved to help her, but a slight gesture from Aenar made him retreat. It was a test. Lyanna, with an effort that made her muscles tremble, pushed herself up, erect, facing the Emperor. Her chin was firm, but her eyes, those grey wolf eyes, were filled with a whirlwind of fear and wounded pride.
"Lyanna Stark," Aenar began, his voice echoing in the silent chamber. "Your actions, and those of Prince Rhaegar, unleashed a storm of fire and blood upon this empire. In pursuit of a fairy tale, you trampled on the honor of a great house, broke sacred vows, and lit the fuse of a rebellion that claimed thousands of lives. Many of those deaths fell upon your own family, House Stark. Lord Rickard and Lord Brandon paid the ultimate price for the daughter's flight."
Each word was a blow. Lyanna closed her eyes for a moment, the pain of raw guilt naked on her face.
"However," Aenar continued, and the word sounded like a lifeline, "an Emperor must see not only the crime but also the context. And the context here is that you were a young maiden, impressionable, deceived by the silver tongue of a poet prince and consumed by the desperation to escape an unwanted marriage that seemed like a cage to you. You were more victim than architect of the tragedy that followed."
He paused, allowing this nuance to settle. It was not forgiveness, but recognition.
"Rhaegar Targaryen wed you on the Isle of Faces," he declared, and a murmur ran through the hall. "And, as all can see, the marriage was... consummated." His gaze rested for a moment on her belly. "But this marriage, celebrated under the old gods, did not have the authorization of the Imperial Crown. It was an act of personal rebellion, not a state contract. Therefore, before the law of the empire I govern, it is void."
Lyanna's heart seemed to stop. The fear she so dreaded – of giving birth to a bastard, a son without a name, without inheritance, stained by the stigma of sin – tightened her throat. She almost gave way, but then Aenar's purple eyes fixed on her again.
"But justice must be tempered with mercy. And mercy, today, takes the form of legitimacy. I will not erase the past, but I will write a new future. Therefore, using my imperial power, I declare your marriage to Rhaegar Targaryen valid, post facto. From this moment, you, Lyanna Stark, are recognized as the second wife of Rhaegar Targaryen. And the son you carry in your womb... is the third in the line of succession of the late prince."
The relief that flooded Lyanna was so intense it was a new form of pain. A solitary tear escaped her eye and rolled down her pale face, cleaning away some of the road dust. She had not been afraid for herself for a long time. All her fear, every ounce of her remaining strength, was for the child, for the little wolf or dragon growing inside her. She did not know if she could bear to hear him called a bastard, to see the shadow of dishonor hang over his cradle. Now, that weight had been lifted from her shoulders.
"Thank you, Your Grace," she whispered, her voice weak but filled with a genuine emotion that touched even the most hardened hearts in the room.
Aenar inclined his head in acknowledgment. "There is more, Lady Lyanna. I grant you, as a gesture of good faith, a breach of protocol. You may choose which surname your son will bear. He can be a Targaryen, to claim the place the law now grants him beside his half-brothers. Or he can be a Stark, to honor the house that will raise him, the house that is his blood. Your choice will not alter in any way the rights of succession I have just granted him."
It was an immeasurable offer. An act of personal sovereignty rarely granted to anyone, let alone a woman in her position. The hall held its breath, waiting.
Lyanna did not need much time. She looked at Ned, her brother, the anchor that kept her sane. She looked at her belly, imagining the son she would have. She thought of Winterfell, the snowy fields, the sound of the wind howling through the weirwood trees. She was not made for the court, for the golden spiderwebs of King's Landing. Her son deserved the freedom of the North, the simple and true honor of the Starks.
She raised her head, and for the first time since entering the hall, her eyes met Aenar's with a spark of her old firmness.
"Stark," she said, her voice clear and firm, echoing in the quiet. "My son will be a Stark."
A rare, brief smile touched Aenar's lips. He nodded. "So be it. He shall be recorded as the son of Lyanna Stark, of royal blood, a legitimate heir, but a wolf of the North in name and heart." He made a dismissive gesture. "You may return to your family, Lady Lyanna."
The walk back was different. Despite the physical weakness, she carried her head higher. When she reached the group of Northern lords, Ned did not hesitate. He enveloped her in a strong, protective embrace, an embrace that said everything words could not: that she was home, that she was safe, that she was forgiven. Ashara Dayne, with tears in her own violet eyes, moved quickly to Lyanna's other side, offering her shoulder for support, a gesture of feminine solidarity and a preview of her new role in the family.
The Northern lords, rough men like the steel of Winter, growled their approval. They chuckled low, happy for the return of their she-wolf, and even more, with a more earthy humor, for the expression of complete and total bewilderment still plastered on Ned Stark's face – a man who, in a single day, had regained his sister, seen his honor spared, his youthful love restored, and been condemned to have two wives. It was a situation so absurd it could only be met with a good dose of Northern laughter.
Aenar watched the scene for a moment, a corner of his mind satisfied. He had stitched a wound, stabilized the North, and secured the loyalty of the Starks in a way no amount of terror could have achieved.
Then, he slowly sat back on his throne of blades. The judgment, by all appearances, should have ended. The rebels had been punished, the wronged had been rewarded. But he had not dismissed the court. The silence, which had been broken by the murmurs and muffled laughter from the Northern corner, returned, tenser than ever. Everyone realized: there was more.
Aenar, seated on the monstrosity of steel, seemed lost in his own thoughts. His purple eyes seemed to look at a point far away, beyond the walls of the hall, beyond the present time.
"When I succeeded my father, the Conciliator, as King of the Seven Kingdoms," his voice broke the silence, low at first but laden with an authority that forced everyone to lean in to listen, "I believed, with the arrogance of youth and power, that the peace he had forged would last forever. I believed that my strength, the power of the dragon that runs in my veins, would be enough to keep all the realms under the protective wing of the dragon. I believed that men, seeing what I was capable of, would choose to live in peace."
He paused, and his gaze swept the room, passing over every face, from Robert Baratheon, one-handed and embittered, to Tywin Lannister, with his contained hatred, to the Starks, united yet still vulnerable.
"But I was wrong. Somehow, ambition, stupidity, fairy tales, and silver tongues still manage to sow discord. They still convince good men to take up arms against their sovereign. They still force me, year after year, generation after generation, to draw the sword and reap the life of my own people. To bleed the lands I swore to protect."
His voice was not one of anger, but of a deep and weary disappointment, which was infinitely more frightening.
"That era ends today," he declared, and the words fell like death sentences for the old order. "It was after unifying Westeros from North to South under a single scepter that I crowned myself Emperor. And the true first act of this empire is this: as of this day, I revoke the power to raise armies from the Great Lords. The right to levy hosts, to wage private wars, to decide when and for whom the blood of the people will be spilled... ceases now."
A silent shock swept the hall. It was a tectonic shift, the greatest since Aegon's Conquest. He was pulling the teeth of the great houses, turning wolves into guard dogs. Tywin Lannister's eyes narrowed to golden slits. Jon Arryn seemed to have aged ten years in that instant. Even Ned Stark looked troubled, understanding the implications.
"The number of troops each lord may maintain for the defense of their castles and territories will be strictly limited and discussed individually with the Crown," Aenar continued, his voice impersonal, as if dictating a document. "And for each of the realms of my empire, a Great Headquarters will be established. There, a person – not by birth, but by merit and loyalty – will be chosen to serve as General of the Realm. This General will be bound to the Crown by magical contracts, oaths of blood and fire that will ensure he performs his duty with the utmost seriousness and loyalty, answering only to the Iron Throne."
He finally rose from his throne, his imposing figure looming over all. The torchlight made his purple eyes glow like living amethysts.
"War, from today onward, will be a matter solely for House Targaryen. The defense of the empire, the suppression of rebellions, the expansion of borders... all this will be done by the imperial armies, commanded by imperial generals. To you, lords, remains governing your lands with justice, collecting your taxes, and keeping the peace. Forget the warlike glory of the past. The era of wolves dictating their own wars is over."
He gave no chance for questions or protests. With a final icy look over the paralyzed assembly, he turned. Viserys, his Hand, stepped forward.
"The judgment is concluded!" declared the prince, his clear voice cutting through the mute stupor that had seized everyone.
Aenar took a few more steps to leave the hall but stopped. Without turning, he spoke, his words aimed at two specific points in the crowd.
"Lady Lyanna. Princess Elia. We will have a private conversation. As will you, Lord Jon Arryn."
And then, he extended his hand to his Empress, Gael, who rose with the silent grace of a purple shadow. Together, the Dragon and his Sword, they left the Great Hall, leaving behind a world that had been shattered and patched into a new and strange shape, under the omnipotent and weary gaze of the Emperor.
Final Part: The Price of Youth and the Shadow of Prophecy
The Emperor's study was a sanctuary of silent shadows and ancient knowledge. The walls were lined with ebony shelves overflowing with tomes bound in the skin of unknown creatures and Valyrian scrolls that exuded a faint scent of sulfur and time. The only light came from a monumental fireplace where flames danced in strange colors, green and blue, fed not just by wood but by subtle magic. Aenar Targaryen stood before it, his back to the door, his hands clasped behind his back. The motionless silhouette of Ser Aemon Targaryen, the Dragon Knight, stood out near the window, watching the lights of King's Landing. Aemon's night-black armor seemed to absorb the firelight, and his eyes, as purple as his cousin's, held the weight of centuries of loyal service, his immortality earned on the battlefield and sealed by Aenar's power.
A soft but firm knock echoed on the oak door.
"Enter," said Aenar, without turning.
The door opened and Jon Arryn entered the room. The Lord of the Vale seemed to have aged a decade since the morning. His noble robes could not hide his stooped posture, his face marked by worry and recent humiliation. The air in the study was heavy, laden with the smell of book dust, magical fire, and absolute power.
Aenar finally turned. His purple eyes seemed to pierce Jon's soul, analyzing every fear, every hesitation.
"Sit, Lord Jon," his voice was calm, a stark contrast to the thunder he had used in the Great Hall.
Jon obeyed, settling heavily into a leather chair before the Emperor's large desk. The silence stretched, broken only by the strange crackling of the fireplace. Aemon remained like a statue, a silent and eternal observer.
Jon Arryn, a patient man by nature, was the one who finally broke the silence. "Your Imperial Grace," he began, his voice somewhat hoarse. "Why have I been summoned? The judgment is over. I accept your sentence."
Aenar walked slowly to his chair on the other side of the desk and sat down. He was not a man who rushed.
"The public judgment is over, yes," Aenar agreed. "But private agreements are often the ones that matter most. You are a middle-aged man, Lord Jon. A good, just man, but tired. The Rebellion cost everyone dearly, but you, it cost the immediate future of your blood."
He paused, his fingers drumming lightly on the desk.
"You married a young wife, Lysa Tully. Hoster Tully's ambition is clear. An Arryn heir to consolidate his influence. However, the years are no longer your allies. I imagine the prospect of fathering a child is no longer as easy as it once was. And a Vale without a clear heir, with only a babe in the womb as guarantee, is a Vale on the brink of chaos. And chaos, Lord Jon, is something I cannot permit."
Jon Arryn tensed. The truth of the Emperor's words was an icy blade. He and Lysa had tried, without success. The pressure was immense.
"To avoid this discord," Aenar continued, opening a desk drawer and pulling out a delicate crystal vial containing a liquid that looked like liquid fire, dancing with an inner golden amber light, "I offer you my help."
He placed the vial on the desk, sliding it toward Jon.
"This potion is not a cure for old age, Jon. Death will still come for you, one day. But it will restore some of your youth. It will reinvigorate your body, rekindle the vitality needed to secure your lineage. Drink, and you will have the strength to give the Vale the heir it needs, and me, the stability I demand."
Jon Arryn looked at the vial as if it contained a viper. His eyes jumped from the shimmering liquid to Aenar's impassive face, then to the shadowy figure of Ser Aemon. It was an offer too tempting, too dangerous. Accepting such a gift from the dragon was to bind oneself to him forever. But the alternative was the slow erosion of his House, the prospect of seeing the Vale plunge into a succession war after his death.
Hesitation was a silent battle on his face. Duty, pride, weariness, and the final spark of hope fought within him. Finally, with a slightly trembling hand, he reached out and took the vial. Without allowing doubt to conquer him, he uncorked it and drank the contents in one gulp.
The effect was not immediate, but it was visible. A warmth spread through Jon's body. He did not cry out, but his breath caught. The deep wrinkles on his face did not disappear, but softened. His pallor gave way to a healthier tone. His stooped posture straightened, as if a weight had been lifted from his shoulders. He was no longer an old, tired man, but someone just entering middle age, with the vigor of his forty years restored. He looked at his hands, expecting to see changes, and though the skin was still wrinkled, the weakness was gone.
"An heir, Lord Jon," Aenar's voice brought him back to reality. "Ensure an heir for the Vale. That is our condition."
Jon Arryn stood up, feeling his body in a way he hadn't for years. Gratitude and terror mingled in his chest. He bowed his head deeply. "Your Grace... I do not know how to thank you."
"Do not thank me. Just rule the Vale with the wisdom always attributed to you. You may withdraw."
Jon left the study, a transformed man, carrying the golden burden of recovered youth.
When the door closed, Ser Aemon's deep voice filled the silence. "Why, Aenar? Why give a man like him such a precious gift? The potion of youth is not something to be wasted."
Aenar smiled, a rare and calculated gesture. "Wasted, Aemon? Not at all. Youth, long life... is the thing all powerful men desire most, no matter how much they deny it. Jon Arryn now has a glimpse of it. And he will know, as all will eventually know, that this gift came from me. He will be eternally in debt. Loyalty bought with gold can break. Loyalty bought with time... that is the most enduring of all. This potion will be the strongest chain to bind the lords to the Iron Throne. They will behave, not out of fear of death, but out of hope for more life."
Before Aemon could respond, another knock at the door interrupted. This time, it was the women.
Lyanna Stark entered first, her frame still fragile, but her gaze clearer after Aenar's intervention in the hall. Behind her, Elia Martell walked with a cold, broken dignity, her dark eyes glittering with resigned pain and wounded pride.
"Ladies," Aenar greeted, remaining seated. His gaze rested on Lyanna. "You have suffered much, Lady Lyanna. The birth, when it comes, will not be easy. But it does not have to be a death sentence."
He extended his hand toward her, without touching. A soft, golden light, warm as spring sun, emanated from his palm and enveloped Lyanna. She sighed, and her posture changed instantly. The deathly pallor gave way to a healthy flush. The weakness that made her tremble vanished, replaced by a sensation of strength and fullness she hadn't felt since before fleeing with Rhaegar. The marks of stress and malnutrition on her face softened, not erasing her ordeal completely, but restoring her wild, youthful beauty. It was the power that had earned him the epithet "The Healer" in his campaigns in the Crownlands.
"It is the least I can do for the mother of my future nephew," he said, lowering his hand.
He then turned to Elia. "Princess Elia. Your daughter, Rhaenys, as Rhaegar's heir, has her place secured within the empire's structure. When she comes of age and receives the proper instruction, she will be appointed Interim Lady of Summerhall, governing the domain and representing the Crown's authority in those lands, just as others of her lineage have done before her."
Elia bowed her head in silence. It was a position of significant prestige and real power, even if interim. A future of influence and responsibility for her daughter, a safe haven far from the deadly intrigues of King's Landing. A flash of genuine relief and gratitude shone in her dark eyes. At least one of her children would have a position of honor and security.
"As for you," Aenar continued, his voice growing firmer, laden with a steely warning. "You are free to return to Dorne, if you so wish. You will be treated with all the dignity your position demands. However, I have a warning for you. Your brothers... the formidable Princes of Dorne... are already scheming."
Elia stiffened, the gratitude instantly replaced by a familiar tension. "Scheming?"
"Against Lady Lyanna. And against the son she carries," Aenar said, bluntly. "They see the child as a threat, a stain on Dorne's honor that must be cleansed. They whisper of 'blood vengeance' and 'justice for the wronged sister.' Let me be perfectly clear, Elia. The moment Oberyn or Prince Doran initiate any action, however subtle, against Lyanna or her son, will be the moment of their deaths. The dragon's patience has limits. I will reduce them to ashes and save Dorne from the ruin their vengeance would bring. So, you, as their sister, must control them. Your loyalty to your birth family will be tested against your loyalty to the peace of my empire and the very lives of your own brothers."
Fury flashed across Elia's face, a black, silent fury. It was not directed at Aenar, but at Oberyn and Doran, for their reckless stupidity, for endangering Dorne and forcing her into this position. She knew the Emperor was not bluffing.
"I understand, Your Grace," she replied, her voice icy.
"Then that is all I had to say. You may withdraw."
The two women left, Lyanna visibly relieved by the healing but now carrying a new weight of fear, and Elia, a storm of contained rage and conflicting duty roaring in her chest.
When the door closed once more, Ser Aemon moved away from the window. "A public warning to Elia about her brothers. That was... direct. Do you expect her to control them?"
Aenar looked into the flames. "I expect more than that. I expect it to alienate Elia from them. She is intelligent. She knows I did not lie. She will return to Dorne not as their ally, but as an enforcer of my empire, desperately trying to curb her brother's tongue and ambitions. And Lyanna, now healed and grateful, will see in Elia not a rival, but an unwilling ally, another woman trying to protect her children from the foolish men around them. This will unite them, out of necessity."
"Unite them? Why this concern for Lyanna Stark?" asked Aemon, his millennia of experience sensing a deeper layer. "She is just a girl, after all."
Aenar turned, and for the first time that night, his purple eyes shone with a different light, not of imperial power, but of prophetic anticipation.
"She is not 'just a girl,' Aemon. And the babe in her womb... is special."
The Dragon Knight was silent for a moment, processing. "Special? So... Rhaegar was right? His readings, his obsessions... he was right about the prophecy?"
Aenar let out a low laugh, a dry sound. "Rhaegar Targaryen was a man who read much and understood little. He was right about the need for an heir of dragon and ice blood. He simply got the wrong child. He thought it was himself, then thought it would be Aegon. He never imagined it would be the fruit of his own tragic fairy tale."
Aemon stepped closer, his voice low and full of reverential awe. "The boy... is he the Prince That Was Promised? Is he Azor Ahai reborn?"
Aenar stared at the old knight, an enigmatic smile on his lips. "Who said they are the same person, Aemon?"
The question hung in the air, laden with implications. Aemon, who had lived so long and witnessed the birth of the new syncretic faith of the Seven Kingdoms, was speechless. The idea that there might be not one, but two champions, two opposing or complementary forces, was terrifying.
"They... are not?" Aemon finally whispered.
"The Lord of Light has his champion," Aenar said, his voice now distant, as if listening to music from far away. "And he is not far. The pieces are moving on the board, Aemon. The darkness that my father, the Conciliator, kept at bay, is gathering again. The Long Night is not a myth. It is a tide, slow and inevitable."
He stood up and went to the window, looking north, beyond the Wall, to the lands of eternal ice.
"Finally," Aenar whispered, more to himself than to Aemon, and in his purple eyes there was no fear, but a gleam of voracious anticipation, "an amusement worthy of the challenge. Governing men is a tedious game. But fighting the very night itself... that, that will be a challenge worthy of a dragon."
And Ser Aemon, the immortal, felt a chill run down his spine, realizing that everything that had happened that day – the judgments, the sentences, the potions, the healings – was nothing more than an opening move in a much, much larger game.