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The morning sun glinted off the azure-tinted domes of Tyrosh, casting rippling reflections across the harbor where Velaryon ships bobbed at anchor. Inside the former Archon's palace—now serving as headquarters for the conquerors—Aenar Targaryen stood at the head of a carved table inlaid with a detailed map of the Narrow Sea. His dark hair was pulled back in a simple knot, emphasizing the sharp angles of his face and the dark intensity of his eyes.
"Repairs to the eastern harbor wall are underway," he was saying, one finger tracing the coastline. "Another fortnight and we'll have restored the primary shipping lanes."
Across from him, Lord Corlys Velaryon nodded approvingly. "Good. The longer trade is disrupted, the more we lose in potential revenue."
Princess Rhaenys sat beside her husband, her right arm bound in a sling of midnight blue silk. Despite her injury from the battle, her posture remained regal, her eyes alert. "And what of the Tyroshi who fled during the assault? How many have returned to swear fealty?"
"Just over half the merchant families," Aenar replied. "The rest remain in Lys or Myr, watching to see if our rule will hold."
Rhaenyra Targaryen, seated to Aenar's right, reached for a goblet of wine. "Let them wait. Each day that passes with our dragons patrolling the skies is another day they realize the old Tyrosh is gone for good."
The door to the council chamber swung open, admitting Prince Daemon Targaryen. Unlike the others, he wasn't dressed for war council but for travel, his riding leathers bearing the dust of the road.
"Father," Aenar acknowledged, straightening. "We expected you yesterday."
"A storm delayed me near Bloodstone," Daemon replied, helping himself to wine without invitation. "Though it seems I've arrived at an opportune moment." He produced a scroll bearing the royal seal of House Targaryen. "A letter from my brother Viserys."
A tense silence fell over the chamber. Aenar's face hardened almost imperceptibly.
"What does my father want?" Rhaenyra asked, her voice carefully neutral despite the flicker of emotion in her eyes.
Daemon broke the seal and unfurled the parchment. "An invitation," he announced after scanning its contents. "To a tourney celebrating the birth of Prince Aegon Targaryen. Apparently, our presence would 'honor both the occasion and House Targaryen.'" His lip curled slightly at the flowery phrasing.
Corlys barked a laugh. "We are at war here, Prince Daemon. We still need to deal with Dorne and the other free cities."
"Absolutely not," Aenar stated flatly. "This city belongs to us now. We fought for it, bled for it." His gaze flickered to Rhaenys's injured arm. "Nearly died for it. I am King of the Stepstones and Tyrosh. I cannot simply abandon my realm at the whim of another monarch."
Laena Velaryon, who had been quiet until now, nodded in fierce agreement. "Let King Viserys celebrate with his Hightower bride. We have our own victories to savor."
Daemon took a casual sip of wine, his expression unreadable. "There's more," he said, setting his goblet down deliberately. "Viserys mentions affairs in Dorne. It seems Princess Aliandra Martell wishes to discuss terms."
"Terms?" Aenar's voice was dangerous, like the low rumble before an avalanche.
"Dorne seeks peace?" Rhaenyra asked, leaning forward.
Corlys's laughter echoed hollowly through the chamber. "After what they did to my son? After Lykard Martell murdered Laenor with wildfire?" His face darkened with rage barely contained. "They will all burn in the Seven Hells before I entertain 'terms' from House Martell."
"Agreed," Laena said, her hand unconsciously moving to the hilt of her dagger. "Laenor deserves justice, not diplomacy."
Aenar nodded solemnly. "The only terms I'll accept from Dorne would be unconditional surrender—followed by fire and blood."
Daemon watched the exchanges with calculating eyes. "I understand your fury," he said, his tone surprisingly reasonable. "But consider the larger picture. It's been over a year since Rhaenyra set foot in King's Landing. The longer the heir to the throne remains absent, the more the people will look to young Aegon as the face of House Targaryen's future."
Rhaenyra stiffened. "I am my father's named heir."
"Names are wind," Daemon replied. "Presence is power. If you remain here while Alicent parades her son before the lords of Westeros..." He let the implication hang.
A heavy silence fell as Rhaenyra considered her uncle's words. Aenar watched her closely, his expression softening slightly when she met his gaze.
"We've already accomplished much," Rhaenyra said slowly. "We've stopped the piracy in the Stepstones. We've shown the Free Cities the price of challenging Westeros." She turned to Aenar. "Perhaps it's time to turn our attention back to the Seven Kingdoms. To Dorne."
Aenar's jaw tightened, but after a moment, he nodded. "Very well. If you wish to return to King's Landing, I won't oppose you." He looked to Corlys. "We'll need to appoint a regent for Tyrosh in our absence. Someone we trust implicitly."
"My brother, Vaemond, would be a fine choice," Corlys suggested immediately. "He knows ships, trade, and has the Velaryon name to command respect."
Aenar nodded noncommittally. "I'll consider it. We should discuss the matter further before making a final decision."
As the council disbanded, Aenar's gaze lingered on the map—particularly on Dorne, that sun-baked peninsula that had remained independent for so long. His eyes traced the coastline from Sunspear to the Tor, as if memorizing targets for future dragonfire.
.
.
The afternoon found Aenar standing at the window of the regent's chamber, watching as shipwrights worked to repair a Tyroshi trading galley in the harbor below.
Behind him, Lord Corlys and Daemon were engaged in a polite but pointed debate over trade policies for the newly conquered city.
"The dye markets are key," Corlys insisted. "If we maintain their monopoly on certain colors, we control a luxury commodity that every noble house in Westeros covets."
"A valid point," Daemon conceded. "But equally important is who oversees those markets in our absence."
"As I said earlier, my brother Vaemond—"
"Would be one possibility," Daemon interjected smoothly. "Though perhaps not the only one worth considering."
Aenar turned from the window. "I agree we need someone with experience in maritime trade. But we must also consider political implications."
Corlys raised a silver eyebrow. "Political implications?"
"Tyrosh is a jewel," Aenar explained. "Whoever holds it gains both wealth and strategic advantage. If we place it solely under House Velaryon's stewardship..."
"You suggest my family cannot be trusted?" Corlys asked, his voice dangerously quiet.
"Not at all," Aenar replied quickly. "House Velaryon has proven its loyalty beyond question. But perception matters in rulership. We must consider how our choice will be viewed by other houses."
Daemon nodded in apparent approval of his son's diplomatic handling. "Perhaps we should continue this discussion later. I'd like a private word with my son about certain matters from King's Landing."
Corlys hesitated, then nodded stiffly. "As you wish. We'll revisit this topic tomorrow." He departed with the measured stride of a man accustomed to having the final word, closing the door with deliberate care.
Once alone, Daemon moved to pour two goblets of Tyroshi pear brandy, passing one to Aenar. "You handled that well. The Sea Snake is not a man accustomed to being denied."
"I didn't deny him anything," Aenar pointed out, accepting the drink. "Merely delayed the decision."
"A decision that needs careful consideration," Daemon said, settling into a cushioned chair. "Giving Tyrosh to Vaemond would place an enormous amount of power in House Velaryon's hands."
Aenar sipped the sweet liquor. "House Velaryon is our ally and I will marry Laena Velaryon."
"Corlys Velaryon is an ally to his own house, first and always," Daemon corrected. "He's a good strategist, and good with ships and a valuable ally, but never forget his ambitions. He named you King of the Stepstones and Tyrosh not merely out of affection."
"Who would you suggest instead?" Aenar asked, genuinely curious. "We can't appoint just anyone. Tyrosh is a trading city requiring specific knowledge."
Daemon swirled his brandy thoughtfully. "What about the son of Lord Manderly? He's a northman from White Harbor, so he understands maritime trade. And House Manderly is famously loyal to House Stark."
At the mention of House Stark, something flickered across Aenar's face—a brief shadow quickly suppressed.
"Your mother's house," Daemon added softly, watching his son closely.
Aenar turned away, looking back toward the window. "I haven't thought of Mother in... some time."
"I know," Daemon said, his voice gentler than usual. "You used to speak of her often."
Guilt crept through Aenar's chest, heavy and cold. When had he last remembered her face, her laughter? It had been months—perhaps longer. The silver necklace she'd given him, the one bearing a direwolf pendant he'd once never removed...
His hand rose to his throat, finding nothing.
"Where is it?" he murmured. "My necklace—Mother's gift."
"You haven't worn it in nearly a year," Daemon replied, something like concern in his eyes. "Not since before we sailed for the Stepstones."
The revelation struck Aenar harder than he expected. What else had he forgotten?
Daemon leaned forward, brandy forgotten. "Something is happening to you, son. I've watched it progress since we left King's Landing. You're... changing."
"We all change," Aenar deflected. "War does that to a man."
"This is different." Daemon's eyes narrowed. "Your hatred for House Martell, for instance. It consumes you beyond reason."
"Lykard Martell killed Laenor," Aenar countered.
"You despised House Martell long before Laenor's death," Daemon said flatly. "And you and Laenor were never particularly close—certainly not enough to warrant such hatred."
"Why do you suddenly care?" Aenar snapped, anger flaring unexpectedly. "The 'Rogue Prince,' concerned about justice? Yet now you lecture me on mercy toward our enemies?"
Instead of anger, Daemon's face showed only sadness. "I care because your mother saved me from what I was," he said quietly. "Lyanna Stark will forever be the woman I loved most in this world. She gave me you—a son with her northern honor and sense of justice."
Aenar turned away, but Daemon continued relentlessly.
"You've forgotten your northern side. Even Ghost knows it—why else would your direwolf avoid you now? When was the last time he slept beside you? He spends more time with Caraxes than with you."
The words struck like physical blows. Aenar's mind flashed unexpectedly to a memory—not from this life, but from before. A small body in his arms, silver hair matted with blood. A girl who never had the chance to live. Rhaella—his daughter with Daenerys—dead because of Oberyn Martell's posion.
A phantom pain lanced through his chest, grief for a child who didn't exist in this world—who would never exist.
"Aenar?" Daemon's voice seemed to come from far away. "Will you at least try to listen to Princess Aliandra Martell's terms."
At the name Martell, something stirred in Aenar. The voice that emerged from his throat was almost a dragon's growl.
"I will kill every Martell I get my hands on."
"Why?" Daemon demanded, rising to face his son. "This goes beyond Laenor."
"They—" Aenar began, but Daemon cut him off.
"You and Laenor were never close enough to justify such rage. This is something else entirely."
"Why do you care?" Aenar challenged again. "You were the Rogue Prince. Now suddenly you worry about a nest of Dornish snakes?"
"I care about you," Daemon said, his voice gaining intensity. "Your mother saved me from myself. She wouldn't recognize what you're becoming."
The words landed like a slap. Aenar fell silent, memories washing over him—not just of Lyanna Stark, but of another life. Of Jon Snow and the daughter he never got to raise. The girl who never lived long enough to hear her father say he loved her.
"They took my daughter," he whispered, the words emerging unbidden.
Daemon's brow furrowed in confusion. "What daughter?"
Aenar blinked, as if suddenly remembering himself. His expression closed off once more, the momentary vulnerability sealed away.
"It doesn't matter," he said flatly. "Nothing from the past matters anymore." He met his father's concerned gaze with eyes that had gone cold. "Honor will never bring justice."
.
.
Aenar's boots made little sound on the polished marble floor as he entered his chambers, shutting the door firmly behind him. The Tyroshi palace's eastern wing afforded him a sweeping view of the harbor, now littered with the charred remnants of ships.
He crossed to an ornate chest inlaid with lapis lazuli and mother-of-pearl, a treasure claimed from the Archon's personal quarters. His fingers traced the intricate design before lifting the lid. Inside lay his personal effects, things he'd brought from Westeros but hadn't touched since arriving in the Dragonstone thirteen months ago.
Where is it? he wondered, methodically sorting through the contents. A silver hand mirror that had been his mother's. A dagger with a dragonbone hilt. Several leather-bound journals filled with his precise handwriting.
And there, beneath a folded tunic of Stark gray, a gleam of silver caught his eye. Aenar lifted the necklace, holding it to the light streaming through the tall windows. The direwolf pendant spun slowly at the end of its chain, catching sunbeams that danced across its finely wrought features.
Mother's gift. Lyanna Stark had placed it around his neck. "When you find someone you love," she'd said, her gray eyes—crinkling at the corners, "you will gave this necklace to them."
Aenar stared at the pendant, feeling an unexpected tightness in his throat. When had he last thought of her smile? The way she'd sing Northern ballads while brushing his hair? The fierce pride in her eyes when he'd first mounted a horse without assistance?
"I'm forgetting," he whispered to the empty room.
He moved to the polished bronze mirror hanging on the wall, studying his reflection as he fastened the necklace around his throat. The man who stared back was undeniably Targaryen—deep purple eyes staring back at him.
But once, those eyes had been Stark gray.
In another life.
The thought came, a whisper from that other self—Jon Snow, the Bastard of Winterfell. The man who had loved a Dragon Queen and lost everything.
Aenar's fingers clenched around the direwolf pendant. "I'm not him anymore," he said aloud, voice harder than intended. "Jon Snow died at the Trident like his father. I am Aenar Targaryen."
But even as he spoke the words, memories flooded back—memories that belonged to a different life, a different world. Snow falling on a godswood. The weight of Black Sister in his hand. The warmth of Ghost pressed against him. The warmth of Daenerys and Rhaenys.
Ghost. As if summoned by his thoughts, a soft scratching came at the door, followed by a familiar whine.
"Enter," Aenar called, half-smiling despite his troubled mind.
The door swung open just enough to admit a massive white direwolf, his silent paws carrying him into the chamber. Ghost had grown even larger in recent months, standing taller than a small horse, his red eyes gleaming with an intelligence that sometimes unsettled even Aenar.
"There you are, old friend," Aenar murmured, reaching out to scratch behind the wolf's ears. "I was just thinking about you."
Ghost accepted the affection for a moment before pulling away, regarding Aenar with something that looked almost like wariness.
"Father says you've been avoiding me," Aenar continued. "Have I changed so much?"
The direwolf made no sound—he never did—but his crimson gaze seemed to hold an answer nonetheless.
Yes. You have.
"Do you remember Daenerys?" he asked softly. "I suppose you wouldn't. She wasn't part of this life."
His mind drifted to silver-blonde hair, to fierce violet eyes and a determination that had both awed and frightened him. And then to their daughter, tiny Rhaella with her mother's eyes.
"I can still hear her screams," Aenar whispered, lost in the memory. "When she realized what had happened. When she asked where our daughter was, and I couldn't... I couldn't tell her..."
The goblet shook in his hand. He set it down before he could spill the wine, turning to face Ghost, who watched him with unblinking eyes.
"It was a Martell who arranged it, Ghost. Oberyn Martell, in that life. Never trust a snake, no matter how beautiful its colors." His voice took on a harder edge. "And in this life, it's Lykard Martell who slaughtered Laenor with wildfire. History repeating itself."
Ghost padded closer, nudging Aenar's hand with his muzzle. For a moment, something of Jon Snow surfaced in Aenar's expression—a gentleness, a vulnerability that had grown increasingly rare.
"Everything will be different this time," Aenar promised, running his fingers through Ghost's thick white fur. "I won't fail again. Once House Martell is dealt with, everything will be as it should be. You'll see."
The direwolf held his gaze for a long moment before turning away, padding silently toward the door.
"Ghost?" Aenar called, something like hurt flickering across his features.
But the direwolf did not look back, slipping through the doorway and disappearing into the shadows of the corridor beyond.
Alone again, Aenar's hand rose to touch the silver direwolf at his throat. It felt cold against his skin, a small piece of the North that suddenly seemed as distant and unreachable as the life he'd once lived as Jon Snow.
"I am blood of the dragon now," he whispered to the empty room. "And dragons do not forgive."
Two Weeks Later
The ship crested a wave, giving Aenar Targaryen a clear view of King's Landing appearing on the horizon. The city sprawled across its hills like a massive beast sunning itself, its stone buildings catching the morning light. Atop Aegon's High Hill, the Red Keep stood sentinel, its red stone walls a stark contrast against the clear blue sky.
Aenar's gloved hands gripped the ship's railing as he felt a strange mix of emotions stirring within him. It had been over a year since he'd departed this city, and now he was returning not just as a prince, but as a king in his own right—King of the Stepstones and Tyrosh.
"Magnificent, isn't it?" Rhaenyra's voice came from behind him. She joined him at the railing, her silver-gold hair whipping in the sea breeze. "Sometimes I forget how imposing it looks from the water."
"It seems smaller than I remember," Aenar replied, his expression unreadable. "After seeing what Cannibal did to Tyrosh, even the Red Keep seems... fragile."
Rhaenyra studied his face for a moment. "You're still troubled about leaving Tyrosh to Vaemond Velaryon."
"My father certainly is." Aenar's jaw tightened slightly. "He made his feelings quite clear."
"Daemon worries about giving the Velaryons too much power," Rhaenyra observed. "Yet you chose Vaemond anyway."
Aenar turned to face her. "House Velaryon lost Laenor to Martell treachery. They bled for Tyrosh more than any other house. They've earned the right to rule it in our absence." He paused, searching her face. "But that's not what's truly bothering you, is it?"
Rhaenyra hesitated, her violet eyes meeting his. "What you did in Tyrosh..." she began carefully. "After Aunt Rhaenys fell. The eastern quarter—"
"Burned," Aenar finished for her, his voice flat. "Yes. I saw an opportunity to end the battle quickly and took it."
"There were civilians in those buildings, Aenar. Families."
"There are always civilians in war," he said. "It was either burn a quarter of the city or fight street by street for weeks, losing more of our own men."
"Laena approves of your methods," Rhaenyra said, watching him closely. "She told me you did exactly what needed to be done."
A faint smile touched Aenar's lips. "Laena understands what it means to ride a dragon in war. She doesn't flinch from the necessary."
"And I do?" There was a dangerous edge to Rhaenyra's question.
Aenar turned back to the approaching city. "You have a softer heart than you pretend, Rhaenyra. It's not a criticism."
They stood in silence for a moment, the sound of waves crashing against the hull filling the space between them.
"I don't understand why Uncle Viserys is even entertaining terms from Aliandra Martell," Aenar finally said, changing the subject. "After Laenor's murder, he promised to support our conquest of Dorne. Now he invites us to celebrate his Hightower son while playing diplomat with the snakes who killed Laenor."
"Perhaps he sees an opportunity for peace," Rhaenyra suggested, though her tone indicated she found it equally unlikely.
Aenar's laugh was cold. "Peace? With Dorne? The only peace they deserve is the peace of the grave." His hand unconsciously went to the direwolf pendant now visible at his throat. "Your father has always been soft when hardness was required."
Rhaenyra's eyebrows rose slightly at the sight of the necklace. "You're wearing it again," she observed quietly. "Your mother's gift."
Aenar's fingers stilled on the silver pendant. "I'd forgotten it," he admitted. "Left it in a chest for over a year."
"It suits you," she said simply, touching his arm before moving back toward the stern where Daemon stood watching their approach to the harbor.
Aenar remained at the bow, his thoughts churning like the waters below. Two weeks had passed since they'd received Viserys's letter, and in that time, his dreams had grown increasingly violent—dreams of fire consuming Sunspear, of Dornish princes and princesses screaming as Cannibal's wildfire breath melted the flesh from their bones.
He welcomed these dreams. Savored them.
Justice comes with fire and blood, he thought, watching as the details of King's Landing grew clearer. Not with words or terms or treaties.
The ship docked at midday, sliding into its berth with practiced precision. As the gangplank lowered, Aenar could hear the cheers from the gathered crowd—smallfolk who had come to witness the return of their princess and the heroes who had conquered Tyrosh.
"Do you hear that?" Laena Velaryon murmured, appearing at his side as they prepared to disembark. Unlike Rhaenyra's earlier disapproval, Laena's eyes shone with fierce pride. "They cheer for you, their dragon king."
"They cheer for all of us," Aenar replied, though he felt a surge of satisfaction at the adulation. "For the victors of Tyrosh."
"Don't be modest," Laena said with a knowing smile. "The common people still speak of your fountains, you know. Nine crystal waters for the smallfolk while the lords drink Arbor gold." She leaned closer, her voice dropping to a whisper. "You were right in Tyrosh. When Rhaenys fell, when they shot Meleys with those scorpions... you did what needed to be done. Never doubt it."
Before Aenar could respond, Daemon called for them to join the procession down to the docks. From the ship's deck, Aenar could see the royal welcoming party waiting—King Viserys in cloth-of-gold, and beside him, Queen Alysanne Targaryen.
Even from a distance, Aenar could see how time had marked the old queen. At seventy-seven, Alysanne stood straight-backed but noticeably frailer than when he'd last seen her. Her hair, once silver-gold like Rhaenyra's, had faded to pure white, and her hands gripped a cane of dragonbone for support. Yet her eyes remained sharp, missing nothing as they swept over the approaching ships.
"Great Grandmother looks well," Rhaenyra observed to Daemon as they prepared to disembark, her tone light but unable to completely mask her concern.
"She looks as though a strong wind might carry her to the Narrow Sea," Daemon replied bluntly. "But don't be fooled. Her mind is as sharp as Blackfyre's edge, and twice as dangerous."
They descended the gangplank in careful order—Rhaenyra first, as heir to the Iron Throne, followed by Daemon, then Lord Corlys and Princess Rhaenys (the latter walking carefully due to her injury), Laena, and finally Aenar, who had insisted on taking the position of honor at the rear as the newly crowned king.
The cheers from the smallfolk grew louder as they processed down the dock. Aenar heard his name called by several voices, along with shouts of "Dragon King!"
King Viserys stepped forward as they approached, his expression a complex mixture of joy and trepidation. He had grown stouter in the year since Aenar had seen him, his face flushed and his breathing labored even from this small exertion.
"My daughter," Viserys said, his voice thick with emotion as Rhaenyra stopped before him. He opened his arms, clearly hoping for an embrace.
Rhaenyra gave a perfect curtsy instead, her face a mask of courtly politeness. "Your Grace. We thank you for your invitation."
Viserys's arms lowered slowly, the hurt plain in his eyes. "I've missed you, Rhaenyra," he said quietly.
"Where is my half-brother?" Rhaenyra asked, her voice cool and measured. "I was hoping to meet the prince whose birth we've come to celebrate."
Viserys flinched slightly at her tone. "Alicent thought it best he remain in the Red Keep. He's still quite young for such excitement."
"How considerate of the queen," Rhaenyra replied with the barest hint of sarcasm.
Turning from her father, Rhaenyra's demeanor transformed as she approached Queen Alysanne. Her smile became genuine, her posture softening as she embraced the elderly woman.
"Great-grandmother," she said warmly. "It brings me joy to see you well."
"As well as these old bones allow," Alysanne replied, her voice still strong despite her years. Her keen eyes moved past Rhaenyra to Daemon. "Nephew. Still finding trouble wherever you go, I see."
Daemon grinned, bowing with exaggerated formality. "Only the most interesting kinds of trouble, Grandmother."
Viserys greeted the Velaryons next, his expression sobering as he faced Corlys. "Lord Velaryon, Princess Rhaenys, Lady Laena. House Targaryen welcomes you and offers its continued condolences for your loss. Lord Laenor was a fine young man."
"A fine young man murdered by Dornish," Corlys replied pointedly. "But we thank Your Grace for the welcome."
Finally, Viserys turned to Aenar. There was a moment of awkwardness as neither seemed certain how to greet the other—as nephew to uncle, as subject to king, or as one king to another.
Aenar resolved the question by offering a respectful bow. "Uncle. King's Landing appears to have prospered in our absence."
"Nephew," Viserys acknowledged, relief evident in his voice. "Or should I say 'Your Grace'? News of your coronation in Tyrosh reached us some weeks ago."
"That title is for Tyrosh and the Stepstones only," Aenar replied smoothly. "Here, I remain Prince Aenar, loyal to the Iron Throne."
The subtle emphasis on "here" was not lost on Viserys, whose smile tightened almost imperceptibly. Before he could respond, Aenar had moved past him to Queen Alysanne.
Here, Aenar's demeanor changed completely. Gone was the cool formality he'd shown Viserys, replaced by genuine warmth as he took the old queen's hands in his own and kissed both her papery cheeks.
"Great Grandmother," he said softly. "The years have not dimmed your beauty."
Alysanne's laugh was like dry leaves rustling. "Nor have they improved your talent for flattery, Aenar Targaryen." She reached up to touch the direwolf pendant at his throat. "I see you've remembered your mother's gift."
"I'd forgotten it for too long," Aenar admitted. "But some treasures should never be set aside."
Alysanne's shrewd eyes studied him. "Much has changed since you left us," she said, her voice dropping so only he could hear. "We have much to discuss about the future. About Dorne."
Aenar's expression hardened at the mention of Dorne. "Yes," he agreed, his voice equally low. "About Dorne and Princess Aliandra's... proposal."
"All in good time," Alysanne promised, patting his hand before turning to address the entire party. "Come. The Red Keep awaits, and you must all be weary from your journey. Tonight we feast to celebrate your return and your triumph at Tyrosh. Tomorrow..." Her gaze swept over them all, lingering on Aenar. "Tomorrow we discuss the future of the Seven Kingdoms."
As they processed toward the waiting horses and litters, the cheers of the smallfolk followed them like a wave. Aenar glanced back at the harbor, at the ships that had carried them from Tyrosh, and felt an odd sense of displacement—as if he were straddling two worlds, two lives.
King of Tyrosh. Prince of Dragonstone. Jon Snow. Aenar Targaryen.
Who am I truly? he wondered, before the answer came to him with cold certainty. I am the sword of justice. And House Martell will feel its edge.
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