Chapter 14: 'War Approaches'
| Author's Note: As previously known, I write when I want. So here y'all go: Enjoy, and check out my new One Piece fanfic!
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"Mother always told me love is a fire,— burning, consuming, and never easily tamed.
When I saw him at the feast, for the first time, I felt it, though not for myself. It was in the way she spoke of him afterward, her voice quieter, her words trailing like smoke.
Aenys Targaryen.
There was something about him, even from a distance, that made me wonder... why him? Was it his voice, carrying like a song in the hall? His presence, so fierce and yet so calm, like the eye of a storm? Or was it something I cannot name, something only she knows?
Perhaps that's what love is: something you see in another and never quite understand until it finds you too. But I wonder... if I knew what my mother saw in him, would I search for it in others? Or would I look for it in him?"
— A slightly older Laena Velaryon.
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The morning sun crept over the horizon, casting the world in hues of gold and red, as the faint cry of gulls echoed from the ocean, and the wind carried with it the tang of salt.
On one of the many windswept cliffsides of Dragonstone, two figures stood apart.
Aenys Targaryen, clad in black and red, the colors of his house bold against the pallor of his face, his cloak billowed behind him in the cool breeze, trimmed with golden thread, the proud dragon of House Targaryen emblazoned upon it.
His growing mismatched eyes,— one a deep violet, the other slowly growing as black as night,— fixed on his younger brother with a mixture of fondness and resignation.
Daemon Targaryen leaned against one of his legs, his silver-gold hair fell unkempt around his sharp features, and the rogue smile that so often graced his lips, absent.
He stood like a coiled spring, his restlessness betrayed by the tapping of his boot against the stone beneath him.
"So..." Daemon began, his voice rough but not unkind, "this is it?" And Aenys inclined his head. "For now, yes."
"And what would you have me do, brother? What path should I tread from here?" Aenys studied him for a moment, his expression unreadable.
Then, a faint smile curved his lips. "We are dragons, Daemon. Do what dragons do,— soar high, breathe fire, and shape the world to your will. But mind yourself, as long as you steer clear of treason against our brother, you'll have no cause to feel my hand against you." Daemon's mouth twitched, his eyes narrowing. "So, you're telling me to throw my lot in with the Sea Snake and wage war against the Triarchy?"
Aenys's smile deepened, and there was a glint of mischief in his mismatched eyes.
"That does seem to suit you, doesn't it? I'll work to sway our brother to lend his banners to the cause. And who knows? If we play our pieces well, perhaps I'll even see Dorne bent to our rule before long."
Daemon arched a brow at his brother's words, the shadow of a grin returning to his expression. "Dorne? Quite the lofty ambition, brother."
"What can I say? I've always been a dreamer." Aenys replied with a low chuckle, before continuing, "Besides, the bigger the dream, the greater the flame, don't you think?" For a moment, silence hung between them, filled with the roar of the sea and the distant cries of gulls.
Then Aenys stepped closer, his voice softening. "I'll ask you once more to forgive me for what I've done, Daemon. But you know as well as I that I had to send a message,— to you, to the realm, to everyone."
Daemon's jaw tightened, and his grip on Dark Sister shifted.
For a moment, his eyes burned with something unspoken, but it was gone as quickly as it came. "The lords of Westeros wouldn't stop haranguing our brother for my actions, so I know you were left with little choice." That made Aenys nod, the weight of the admission settling on his shoulders.
"Aenys..." Daemon began, worry present in his voice, but Aenys shook his head, cutting his younger brother off quickly. "This isn't a goodbye, Daemon. We'll see each other again before long,— just trust your older brother, will you?"
And Daemon snorted, a sound laced with reluctant amusement, his mood slowly improving. "I'm not five and ten anymore, brother."
"You'll always be that to me." Aenys said with finality, his smirk returning, though it carried a touch of sadness. "So, until next time, 'Rogue Prince'." He teased, and Daemon rolled his eyes, though a faint grin betrayed him. "Get lost already."
With a laugh, Aenys turned and approached Vhagar, the massive dragon waiting with an air of regal impatience. Her scales shimmered like liquid bronze, and her eyes, the color of molten gold, followed his every step.
With a fluid motion, Aenys mounted her, his cloak trailing like a banner behind him, and after a sharp command in High Valyrian split the air, Vhagar's wings unfurled, blotting out the sun as she rose.
The ground trembled beneath her might, the wind of her ascent whipping around Daemon as he shielded his eyes, watching as she climbed higher and higher, her shadow casting a fleeting darkness over him before she disappeared into the horizon, a speck of fire and fury against the endless blue.
Daemon stood there long after they were gone, his fingers brushing against the hilt of Dark Sister. "Dreamers." he muttered under his breath, a ghost of a smile on his lips.
Then he turned, his cloak snapping in the breeze as he strode back toward the path that would lead him to whatever chaos awaited.
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The morning sun bathed King's Landing in a pale, golden light, the city below teeming with life as merchants hawked their wares and commonfolk bustled through narrow streets.
From above, the sprawl of stone and smoke seemed almost peaceful, a distant hum rising to meet the skies where dragons soared.
Rhaenyra Targaryen guided Syrax lazily through the heavens, the golden sheen of the dragon's scales glinting like polished armor beneath the sun.
The wind tugged at her silver-blonde hair, setting it alight like a halo, yet, her heart was heavy, her thoughts adrift in a sea of longing.
"When will you come back, uncle?" the words slipped from her lips, barely a whisper, lost to the roar of the wind, though she hadn't meant to say them aloud.
By her hands on the dragon-whip, she led the she-dragon into a slow descent, Syrax wings outstretched to catch the warm currents as they glided over the city.
The Red Keep loomed in the distance, a crown of blackened red stone atop Aegon's Hill.
Yet even as her dragon neared the landing grounds of the Dragon-Pit, a whisper, faint but familiar, danced on the breeze.
"...nyra!" Her breath hitched, and she stiffened in her saddle, the voice impossibly clear and achingly familiar.
She then closed her eyes tightly, shaking her head as if to banish the sound. "A trick of the wind..." she muttered, her tone brittle, unconvincing even to herself.
And then, louder, "Rhaenyra!" And her head snapped upward, eyes wide with disbelief.
Before she could make sense of it, a monstrous shadow engulfed her, and the sky trembled, while Syrax let out a startled growl, her wings shuddering as Vhagar, ancient and immense, streaked past with the force of a thunderbolt.
Rhaenyra clung tightly to the saddle, her heart pounding as Vhagar's roar echoed through the air, a sound that could make mountains quake. Above her, a figure sat astride the older she-dragon, silver hair streaming like a banner in the wind.
Aenys Targaryen.
The sky seemed to crackle with his laughter, rich and full of mischief, as Vhagar executed a sharp turn and disappeared beyond the Dragonpit's spires, and by the time Syrax landed as well, Rhaenyra's blood was boiling.
Her dragon hissed as the stablehands approached, her golden eyes flashing with residual unease. Rhaenyra dismounted with a fury, her steps quick and purposeful as she stormed across the courtyard.
She spotted him instantly, as Aenys strode toward her, all easy confidence and wolfish grins, his silver-gold hair catching the sunlight as though the gods themselves sought to crown him.
"Rhae!" he called, his tone as warm as the morning sun, and yet, her response was anything but.
"What was that for, huh?!" she demanded, her voice sharp enough to cut steel, making Aenys tilt his head, a picture of feigned innocence. "Whatever do you mean, dear niece?"
She jabbed a finger toward the sky, her cheeks flushed with anger. "You nearly scared Syrax out of the skies with that,— stunt!"
Aenys chuckled, a sound that only stoked her fury further. "Syrax? Or was it you who got scared, hmm?"
Her hands clenched into fists. "You,—... You,—..."
"Ah, relax, niece." he interrupted, his grin widening. "You'll get wrinkles on that pretty face of yours if you keep frowning like that."
Rhaenyra's glare could have ignited wildfire, as she slowly narrowed her eyes. "You'd best run, Aenys." That made him blink, caught off guard. "Run? Whatever for?"
Her tone dropped, low and menacing. "If you don't, I'll be feeding you to Syrax as today's lunch."
For a moment, he stared at her, then threw his head back and laughed. It was a bold, unrestrained sound that echoed through the courtyard of the Dragon-pit, drawing the attention of guards and servants alike.
"That's the spirit, Rhae!" And with that, he turned on his heel and bolted. Rhaenyra didn't hesitate as well, hitching up her skirts, she gave chase, her golden hair flying behind her.
The sight of the Realm's Delight abandoning all decorum to pursue her uncle through the courtyard left more than a few witnesses gawking, and from the shadows of the carriage awaiting the princess, Ser Harrold Westerling and Ser Criston Cole observed the spectacle with varying degrees of disbelief.
Criston crossed his arms, his brow furrowed, eyes widening in exasperation and amusement. "What exactly am I looking at?"
Harrold sighed, his tone long-suffering. "The future of the realm, Ser Criston. Best get used to it." Criston shot him a sidelong glance. "Will I?"
And Harrold shook his head. "No. Not in the slightest."
The chase ended with a flurry of movement as Aenys and Rhaenyra tumbled into a waiting carriage, their laughter spilling into the air like the chiming of bells.
The doors slammed shut, making the driver crack his whip to set the horses in motion.
And as the carriage rumbled toward the Red Keep, Rhaenyra's voice rang out within, tone light and warm. "You're insufferable, you know that?"
Aenys smirked, leaning back against his cushioned seat. "And yet, you still adore me. Admit it, Rhae,— you'd miss me if I were gone." She huffed, turning to gaze out the window, though a faint smile tugged at her lips. "Maybe. But don't let it go to your head, uncle."
"Too late, I'm afraid." The two shared a grin, the weight of duty and expectation temporarily forgotten.
For a moment, they were not prince and princess, but simply family,— two dragons reveling in the fleeting joy of shared mischief before the burdens of the realm reclaimed them.
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The nearing afternoon sun poured through the high windows of the Small Council chamber, casting long shadows across the stone floor. Dust motes swirled in the golden light, a fleeting reminder of the peace that had settled upon the realm since Viserys had ascended the Iron Throne.
Yet within these walls, peace was as fragile as a glass ornament.
Prince Aenys Targaryen sat with the ease of a man born to power, his long legs stretched before him and a goblet of wine cradled in his hand. His silver hair shimmered in the sun's rays, a crown of light framing his sharp features. His violet eyes, so striking and so familiar, were fixed on the Hand of the King, Lord Otto Hightower, with a simmering intensity.
"My youngest brother will trouble the King no more, Lord Hand. I have made him see reason already." Aenys said, his tone deceptively calm. "And so, I grow weary of your endless efforts to drive him further from my family's side than he already stands,— so it would be best if you'd leave it be."
Otto Hightower, a man as unyielding as the granite of Oldtown's Hightower, did not flinch.
His green eyes betrayed only a flicker of irritation as he replied, "Daemon should be forcefully sent to the Vale, to his rightful place beside his lady wife, as our king ordered him so just recently. Not allowed to roam the realm unchecked, like some sword-for-hire with a dragon's wings, like you allowed him to." The words hung in the air, sharp as the blade of Dark Sister itself.
Aenys lowered his goblet, the sound of its base against the table deliberate and loud.
"And I will say it again, Lord Hand." he began, his voice hardening to steel. "I care not for what you think. Daemon is a Prince of the Blood, brother to your King and to me. It is not your place to lecture us on how we should manage his childish actions of needy attention."
Otto's composure faltered for the briefest of moments before his voice turned flinty. "You presume too much, my prince. You are neither King nor Hand. You should know your station, and,—..."
"Careful, Otto." King Viserys spoke at last, his voice low but carrying the weight of command. He did not raise his eyes from the parchment spread before him, but his words landed with the precision of a dagger.
The Hand hesitated, though his jaw tightened. "I only mean to suggest, Your Grace, that,—..."
The chamber doors burst open, the heavy wood crashing against the stone walls.
Corlys Velaryon strode in, his sea-dark eyes blazing with fury. He looked every inch the Sea Snake, his silver hair tied back tightly, his dark cloak billowing behind him like a storm.
"Four ships." he barked, his voice cutting through the tense silence. "Four, have been lost near the Stepstones, while the last flew my banner! While you sit here quibbling over courtly nonsense, the Stepstones grow into a bloody inferno!"
Ser Lyonel Strong, seated quietly near the end of the table, leaned forward. His voice was calm, measured. "If you have concerns to bring before the council, Lord Corlys, you may,—..."
"More than your courtesies, Lord Strong." Corlys snapped, cutting him off without a second glance. "What is to be done about my ships? My men?"
Otto Hightower, ever the picture of poise once again, folded his hands before him.
"The Crown will compensate you for your losses, Lord Corlys." he said smoothly. "Gold will be provided for the ships and crew, and an offering made to the families of the men."
"Gold?" Corlys's voice rose, his fury palpable. "I don't want your coin, Hightower! I want the Stepstones seized by fire and blood. I want to burn this Crabfeeder and his mongrels from their holes!"
Viserys leaned back in his chair, his expression weary, the years had softened his edges, but the burdens of kingship weighed heavily on him. "I am not prepared to bring war to the Free Cities, Corlys." he said, his tone firm but conciliatory. "The risk to the realm is too great."
From the shadows, Lord Beesbury spoke up, his voice creaking like an old door. "In all the histories of the Seven Kingdoms, my lord, never have we gone to open war with the Free Cities. Such a conflict would bring incalculable losses to the Crown and the realm alike."
"Losses?" Corlys's rage flared anew. "Losses are already upon us, Lord Beesbury! What reason does the Crabfeeder have to fear us when the King's own brother sat upon Dragonstone, building his strength with the City Watch and fortifying it as though it were his own? Ships flying banners of our own houses are destroyed, sunken, pillaged again and again, and still, this council dithers,—..."
"Enough." Aenys's voice cut through the din, sharp and commanding. He leaned forward, his gaze fixed on Corlys. "A seat at the King's table does not make you his equal. My brother Daemon is a matter for the King and his family, not for you or your house. Speak of what concerns you and refrain from trespassing where you do not belong."
Corlys's hands trembled with barely contained fury, but he held his tongue.
Viserys, sensing the mounting tension, spoke again. "I have acted, Corlys. Envoys have been dispatched to Pentos and Volantis, seeking common cause. Ships and men are readying themselves as we speak. The Stepstones will be settled, but it will take time,— let that be enough for now."
The Sea Snake glowered, his jaw clenched so tightly it seemed he might shatter his teeth, and ithout another word, he turned on his heel and stormed from the chamber, the sound of his boots echoing like cannon fire.
A tense silence fell over the room, broken only by the faint rustle of parchment as Viserys resumed his reading. Aenys sat back in his chair, his face impassive, though his fingers drummed a restless rhythm against the table.
Otto Hightower allowed himself a small, satisfied smile.
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The council chamber was deathly quiet now, the kind of stillness that followed a storm.
The lords had all gone, their heated arguments and thinly veiled insults leaving a miasma of discontent in the room.
Only Aenys and Viserys remained.
The king sat slouched upon the last chair of the table, the weight of the crown palpable in his weary expression, while Aenys stood near the table, his hands gripping the edge of his previous chair tightly, as if it could tether his fraying patience.
The room was dim, the daylight waning through the now closed narrow windows of colored glass.
The flickering torchlight cast shadows that danced like restless wraiths across the chamber's cold stone walls.
"You dismissed them too quickly." Aenys began, his voice low but edged with steel. "Corlys may be insufferable, and I may dislike the man, but his words hold truth,— the Stepstones begin to burn while we do nothing."
Viserys exhaled, long and slow, his hand brushing against the golden dragon clasp of his cloak. "Corlys is a like a tempest, brother. If I let him dictate any part of my rule, we'd already be at war with the Free Cities, the Triarchy, and half the world besides. I am king, Aenys,— I cannot and will not be rushed into folly."
"Folly is also doing nothing about our problems, Viserys." Aenys almost snapped, stepping closer to his brother. "Every ship he loses, every sailor's body that washes ashore with crabs feasting on their eyes, chips away at the realm's perceived strength. The lords will soon begin to murmur, Viserys. They will soon whisper that you,— that our family is weak."
Viserys's eyes flicked upward, tired but flaring with a spark of irritation. "And you would have me prove them wrong by plunging us into ruin? Do you think that I am blind to Corlys's ambitions? He cares not for the realm, he cares for his ships, his coin, his pride. If I march to war for him, I march to war on his leash. Surely you understand that?"
Aenys paced now, the measured strides of a man holding fury barely in check. "That makes no sense! We have dragons and an ever growing armada as well... besides, it is not just Corlys! Do you not see the game being played? The Triarchy tests you. The Free Cities watch to see how the dragon reacts, and even Dorne might be helping them. They will press harder, bolder, until they find your breaking point,— or decide you have none."
"And what would you have me do, brother?" Viserys's voice rose, his tone cutting through the chamber like a blade. "Rain dragonfire on the Stepstones and set every port from Lys to Pentos against us? The realm is fragile, Aenys. A war like this would shatter it."
"Or hold it together... But a king who fears war? It is a king who invites it." Aenys's words hung in the air, cold and unyielding.
He stopped pacing and turned to face his brother fully. "Daemon has always understood this. If you don't act, Corlys will seek him, since you sent him away, and he will gather strength on every place he could find, sharpen his sword while you sheathe yours, and grow his own name in war. Do you think the lords will not notice? They will see a prince ready to act, and a king too afraid to."
Viserys's hand clenched the arm of the throne, his knuckles white. "You speak of Daemon as if he is the answer, brother. You forget that his ambition has ever been a sword poised at my throat, he would as soon burn the Stepstones as King's Landing if it suited his whims."
Aenys's lips curled into a bitter smile. "Do you even know our brother, truly? Daemon is flawed, but he is family to us. Blood of our blood. If you cannot trust him, then bring him to heel, just like I did... Command him, but do not leave him to fester in isolation, for he will become exactly what you fear, or worse."
Viserys leaned back, his gaze distant, as if searching the darkened rafters for answers that would not come. "You sound like our father and uncle..." he murmured, almost to himself. "Always pushing, always pressing for fire and blood. Look where it brought them, look where it brought us."
"I am not our father, not our uncle." Aenys replied, his tone softening but losing none of its resolve. "But neither am I blind. You sit there, so concerned with what might go wrong, that you refuse to see what already is, Viserys. Inaction will not spare you from war, it will invite it to your doorstep."
The king closed his eyes, the weight of Aenys's words settling over him like a shroud. For a long moment, there was only the crackle of the torches and the faint murmur of the wind beyond the chamber walls.
Finally, Viserys spoke, his voice quiet but firm. "You ask me to act, but it is not you who bears the crown yet, not you who must answer for the blood spilled. It is easy to speak of war when you are not the one holding the sword, Aenys."
"And it is easier still to do nothing." Aenys shot back, his voice cutting. "But you will regret it, brother. When the realm breaks beneath the weight of your inaction, you will regret it deeply." Viserys said nothing.
His gaze remained fixed on the flickering torchlight, his thoughts a labyrinth of doubt and resolve.
Aenys waited a moment longer, then turned and strode from the chamber, his boots echoing against the cold stone.
The door closed behind him with a heavy thud, leaving Viserys alone in the silence of the throne room, the shadows of doubt looming large over him.
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