The red keep was quiet—too quiet. A deathly silence had settled over the halls of King's Landing, broken only by the distant clatter of armored feet or the flutter of raven wings. It was a silence born not of peace, but of fear. The city's heart throbbed with dread, for everyone knew that the final battle loomed like a shadow on the horizon.
King Aerys II sat slumped upon the Iron Throne, his robes stained, his hair matted and tangled, his eyes wide with madness. The room reeked of smoke and something more pungent—paranoia and rage made flesh.
He had just received the raven.
The words within burned brighter than wildfire in his mind: Edward Grafton has wed Alys Arryn, niece of Jon Arryn. The Vale is united under a new loyalist... but not loyal to the Crown.
His scream pierced the throne room.
"Treason! They dare mock the Crown with this farce! This...this bastard dreams of kingship!" Aerys shrieked. "He will burn! Gulltown will burn! Jon Arryn will burn!"
The pyromancers standing in the shadows did not flinch. They had heard such things before. They now whispered among themselves, exchanging glances of caution. Their King had become unpredictable even to them.
Lord Rossart stepped forward, gently.
"Your Grace," he said in a voice calm as ash, "we are still preparing the reserves of wildfire beneath the city. It would be unwise to strike too soon."
Aerys blinked, then laughed.
"Yes! Burn them all! But not yet, not yet. I must make them watch first. Watch while the sky turns green!"
Rhaegar stood behind the throne, composed in his silence. His silver-gold hair was tied back, his violet eyes heavy. He had aged ten years in the last twelve months.
He stepped forward slowly. "Father, Gulltown's loyalty is only partial. The Baratheons have yet to march with full strength. The time to act is not now."
Aerys spat. "You defend the traitors. Is this because you failed to hold Lyanna? You let your son disappear into the wind?"
Rhaegar said nothing.
Aerys snarled. "You are weak, boy. All you see is ghosts. I see fire."
The room fell into silence again. Rhaegar turned and left the throne room.
In the Tower of the Hand, Rhaegar removed his ceremonial cloak and laid it across a wooden chair. The chamber was sparse, save for a single harp on the windowsill. He walked toward it, touched its strings, and winced at the memory it stirred.
Lyanna's face. Her cry. The moment he placed his son in the arms of a man he trusted more than most: Eddard Stark.
He had not seen them since.
How could he fight this war while his heart remained shattered? Yet, fight he must.
Arthur Dayne stood by the doorway, arms crossed.
"He will never listen to reason," Rhaegar muttered.
"He's too far gone," Arthur replied. "But there is no stopping the storm now."
"Then we must control it."
In her chambers, Elia Martell sat quietly with her daughter Rhaenys nestled beside her. The baby Aegon lay asleep in the cradle. Outside the window, the bells of King's Landing were quiet, as if the city itself held its breath.
Elia traced her daughter's dark hair. Her thoughts drifted to Dorne, to her brother Oberyn. She had not heard from him in months. He was last seen riding with the Vale host. Some whispered he had become close to Edward Grafton.
That name again.
She had heard stories of the man—too many to dismiss. Some called him a merchant prince, others a pirate king. But she knew better. He was a tide that had risen beneath everyone's feet.
Elia closed her eyes. "Will we survive this?"
Her nursemaid remained silent.
In the war council chamber, lords gathered in hushed tones. News had come from the Crownlands and the Stormlands—Robert Baratheon had crushed two loyalist forces but was now stalled near the Blackwater.
Lord Connington, flushed with desperation, slammed his fist onto the map.
"We must strike now. Before he regroups!"
"With what forces?" asked Lord Mooton. "The Reach holds but is weary. The Lannisters bicker with the Tyrells. Gulltown will not yield more ships. And our own men are stretched thin."
"Then we fall back to the walls and make the city impenetrable," said Grand Maester Pycelle. "Let Robert bleed on the stones."
"That's not war. That's cowardice," Arthur Dayne growled.
All eyes turned to Rhaegar as he entered.
"There will be no retreat. We will meet them beyond the walls. But only when the moment is right. We do not waste men."
He placed his hands on the table.
"If we fall here, the realm falls. We are the line."
Meanwhile, far from the Red Keep, ravens soared. One found its way to Gulltown. Another to the Eyrie. A third to Dragonstone.
The marriage of Edward Grafton and Alys Arryn had disrupted everything.
The Vale was now fragmented. Officially, Lord Jon Arryn remained the Lord Paramount, but everyone knew the eastern coast obeyed Edward. With trade routes restructured, and coin flowing from Essos into Gulltown's new navy and harbor, Grafton's power was no longer theoretical. It was real. And threatening.
Back in King's Landing, Aerys paced through the Black Cells, dragging his crimson robes through the filth.
"They will pay," he muttered. "I will build a pyre so high, even the gods will burn."
He turned to a captive chained to the wall. A former noble of a minor house, suspected of sympathizing with the rebels.
"You will be first," he said with a grin.
As dusk fell over the capital, flames flickered along the rooftops. The city awaited war.
Children huddled in doorways. Women whispered prayers to the Seven. Men sharpened blades that would not matter when the fires came.
And Rhaegar Targaryen, Prince of Dragonstone, heir to the Iron Throne, climbed the steps to the highest tower of Maegor's Holdfast. He looked westward toward the hills and forests where Robert would come.
He thought of Lyanna.
Of the boy.
Of a future he could not see.
Behind him, Arthur Dayne approached with quiet steps.
"Will you kill him?" Arthur asked.
Rhaegar did not answer immediately.
"If I must," he said at last. "But I hope it will not come to that."
Below them, the bells of King's Landing remained silent.
But the drums of war were deafening.