I just couldn't wait for the next chapter so here it is.
The wind howled like a ghost around Aenar as Zekrom cut through the low, heavy clouds over Blackwater Bay. The salty air carried the smell of rain and lament. Ahead, the austere and threatening silhouette of Dragonstone rose from the sea like a fist of black stone against a leaden sky that seemed to weep for the tragedy that had befallen House Targaryen. This was a place of ancestral memories, of mourning, the dark lair to which his family retreated to lick its deepest wounds and bury its most illustrious dead. And on that day, under that gray sky, they prepared to commit a Brave man to the flames.
In Aenar's mind, the irony of fate was a sharp and twisted knife, turning slowly. Everything had aligned with a diabolical precision that bordered on the absurd. The Shivers epidemic that had hit White Harbor, on the opposite end of Westeros – the same illness that, in a timeline only he knew, had claimed his sister Daenerys before his birth – and which now threatened the mother of the powerful Lord Manderly. His newly discovered fame as "The Healer," forged in Oldtown, had made his journey not just a possibility, but an unquestionable political necessity, a personal and anguished request from his mother, Queen Alysanne. He had been sent away, to the other side of the continent, to save the children of others, while his own brother, the heir to the Iron Throne, was meticulously and cruelly assassinated under the deceptive cloak of normality. It had been a masterstroke. Someone, or some group, had astutely used the world's expectations against him, turning his greatest strength – his divine power of healing – into a subtle weapon to render him impotent, distant, and incapable of intervening.
He did not order Zekrom to land. When the black, imposing shadow of the castle passed beneath them, Aenar simply rose in the leather saddle, gave a last look to the muscular, scaly mass of his mount, a being of pure destruction that was now an extension of his will, and threw himself into the void. The fall was dizzying, the icy air tearing at his clothes and face. But, unlike a common stone, he did not plummet. He extended his will, a silent command that echoed in the very fabric of reality. The wind, which moments before had been howling chaotically in his ears, suddenly became an invisible, powerful hand, a controlled whirlwind that opposed his fall, slowing him just enough so that his landing in the outer courtyard of the castle was a controlled, sovereign, and theatrical impact, not a destructive and desperate collision. His feet, shod in simple boots, touched the rough, damp stone with a dull, solemn thud that echoed in the courtyard's somber quiet, without cracking it. Every detail was calculated. It was more than an entrance; it was a declaration of silent power.
Almost immediately, as if awaiting an announced spectacle, two figures emerged from the deep darkness of the main portal. Viserys, his nephew, now a grown man, but with his face marked by a pain that went beyond the simple loss of his father. His eyes, even clouded by contained tears and exhaustion, held a glint of something that cut Aenar more deeply than any Valyrian steel blade: a silent and disturbing guilt. The mute guilt of one who has lost a father and, deep in his soul, questions why the powerful uncle, the miracle healer capable of expelling plagues, had not been there to prevent the simplest, most mundane tragedy.
Beside him, Daemon was a living study in contrasts. Grief was there, yes, ingrained in every line of his tense body, but it was a hot, vibrant grief, fed by a black fury that seemed ready to explode at any moment. His Valyrian features were as sharp and perfect as the Valyrian steel blade he carried at his waist, and in his clear, penetrating eyes burned the reflective flames of Caraxes, his own dragon. Among all the family members, Daemon was the one who came closest to Aenar in spirit and indomitable nature, second only to Gael in terms of affinity. The genuine appreciation the Rogue Prince held for his uncle had a simple origin, but one deeply rooted in an act of rare understanding: years earlier, when Queen Alysanne, in her quest for stability, had tried to force him to marry a noble but notably boring lady from the Vale, arguing only cold political necessity, it was Aenar who had intervened. "Even if the marriage is necessary, Mother," the younger prince had said with a calm that brooked no discussion, "let it be, by the gods, with someone of his genuine preference. A dragon chained by an unhappy marriage is a dragon halved, and a danger to himself and all around him." And it was Aenar himself who, clearly perceiving that there were no available women from the other remaining Valyrian-blooded houses in Westeros, suggested and personally orchestrated the alliance with the prestigious House Rogare of Lys, an incredibly influential banking family with Valyrian roots as deep and pure as their own. The result was a union that, to the surprise of many at court, pleased the temperamental Daemon immensely. He genuinely appreciated the inner fire, Lysene cunning, and sharp tongue of his wife, a woman who not only understood his complex nature but celebrated it, never trying to tame or extinguish it. That single act of understanding and support, at a crucial moment, had won the nephew's unwavering and fierce loyalty. Therefore, Daemon did not fear his uncle's raw power; he respected him deeply, seeing him not as a threat, but as the purest, most potent extension of Targaryen will and sovereignty itself.
"Uncle," greeted Viserys, his voice weak, almost a whisper laden with pain.
Daemon, on the other hand, dispensed with verbal formalities. He merely nodded, his piercing, intense gaze fixed on Aenar. He studied his uncle for a long moment that seemed an eternity, completely ignoring protocol. When he finally spoke, his voice was a low, guttural growl, meant only for the prince's ears, creating an intimate space of conspiracy amid the grief.
"He sought you out.Whenever my father returned from one of his visits to you, he was... different. Better. Stronger, more vital. It was impossible. A burst belly?" The disdain in Daemon's voice was as sharp and cold as the Valyrian steel he so admired. "They killed him, Aenar. They poisoned him like you poison a rat. Will you seek vengeance? Will you burn them?"
Aenar looked at his nephew, feeling the raw, youthful fury of the young man echoing his own, but hotter, more immediate, less patient and calculating. He did not need many words. The truth he carried was simple and absolute.
"Fire,"Aenar whispered, his voice so cold and flat it seemed to instantly freeze the damp air around him. "And Death."
It was all that needed to be said. It had become not just a plan, but his fundamental truth, his personal motto. Fire to purify the betrayal, Death to reap the traitors.
The funeral was conducted with all the somber solemnity of Targaryen traditions. The body of Baelon the Brave was placed upon a high pyre of resinous wood that scented the heavy air of the castle's main courtyard. King Jaehaerys, the Old King, now visibly more stooped, frail, and diminished than Aenar had ever seen him – even in his worst illness – was present, sustained more by dignity than physical strength. The pain etched on his wrinkled face was an almost physical thing, an open, bleeding wound for all to see. When the culminating moment arrived, it was Jaehaerys himself who, with a voice trembling with emotion but strangely clear in its final determination, ordered his old companion, the great and fearsome Vermithor, to light his son's funeral pyre.
The jet of flame that burst from the king's dragon's throat was not a blast of destructive fury, but a wide, solemn river of orange and yellow fire, a powerful, respectful tribute. The wood crackled loudly, and the flames enveloped the king's son's body with a kind of burning reverence. Aenar, immobile as a statue, observed the reactions around him with sharpened perception. Gael, at his side, held his arm with surprising strength, her pale, ethereal face marked by silent trails of tears that glittered like diamonds in the firelight. A little further away, Queen Alysanne remained motionless, her posture erect, but her face was a perfect mask of resigned and infinite pain. Aenar realized, with a tightness in his chest, that even in this world where he had prevented the deaths of her younger sisters, the death of Baelon, her beloved son, had functioned as the final, definitive dagger thrust that fate had delivered to his mother's heart. He could see in her eyes, in the depth of that sadness, that she knew – one could cure the queen's body of any disease, but his heart, his will to live, was slowly, irremediably withering away.
Before the flames completely consumed the body, King Jaehaerys, with a superhuman effort, rose and made a brief but heart-wrenching speech. His voice, once capable of commanding armies and calming kingdoms, now faltered, laden with visceral anguish. "My son... my Brave Baelon... you were supposed to burn my body. Not I, yours. Take with you my strength, my love... and tell your sister that a father's longing is a burden I too will soon lay down." The queen, upon hearing this, brought her hand to her chest, as if the pain were physical. Aenar then moved. He approached the two most important women in his life, his mother and his sister, and enveloped them in a silent, protective embrace. There were no words that could comfort that loss, only physical presence, union in grief. He felt Gael's trembling body against his and his mother's contained rigidity. It was a small gesture amid the tragedy, but a necessary one.
---
Back in King's Landing a few days later, the atmosphere in the Small Council chamber was heavy, intoxicating, charged with a grief stifled by the cold urgency of politics. Baelon's death had left a dangerous vacuum that threatened to swallow the realm's stability. Grand Maester Runciter, the personal maester of the Red Keep and the king's chief advisor on matters of knowledge, was already whispering in grave tones with other council members about the "pressing need for stability" and the "urgent and uncontested appointment of a new heir." Prince Vaegon, standing in a corner of the room like a distant observer, watched the morbid spectacle with his habitual air of intellectual disdain, as if analyzing a disturbed ant colony. In the center, shrunk in his carved wooden throne that seemed too large for his dwindling figure, King Jaehaerys seemed on the verge of complete collapse, his glazed eyes fixed on a distant point.
Before the infamous discussion could heat up and force a premature decision, the double doors of the council chamber burst open with a violent crash that made all present, except the king, rise from their seats, alarmed.
Aenar Targaryen entered with the force of a storm. In his right hand, he dragged by the foot, with absolute contempt, the young, unconscious body of the Citadel acolyte, Maester Eon. The boy was bloodied, his face marked by bruises, his dark maester's robes torn and dirty, being pulled in a brutal and disrespectful manner across the cold stone floor. The silence that followed his entrance was absolute, heavy, broken only by the sound of the body being dragged.
"Get out," ordered Aenar, his voice not a shout, but an icy blade that cut through the charged air of the room, allowing no contestation. "Everyone. Now. Except the the Grand Maester, and my brother, Vaegon. Now."
The authority in his tone was so relentless and supernatural that the lords and councilors, pale and faces contorted with fear, did not wait for a second order or even for royal consent. They hurried out, like cockroaches startled by light, closing the massive doors behind them with a dull thud. The room was suddenly empty, leaving only the four men and the inert body of the acolyte in the center, before the gleaming wooden table.
Aenar then released the acolyte's foot, and the body fell with a mute thud. He turned first to Grand Maester Runciter, his gaze fixed and merciless.
"Grand Maester,"he said, his voice icy. "Look at me."
The Grand Maester, trying to maintain a shred of professional dignity, obeyed, his eyes flashing with a mixture of visceral fear and presumptuous indignation. Aenar held eye contact for a moment that seemed an eternity, his face an impenetrable mask of stone. Then, slowly, he turned to his brother.
"Vaegon," he said, and for the first time since entering the room, his voice held a subtly different tone. It was no longer an order, but a silent plea, a crucial test. "Look at me."
It was the moment of truth. Vaegon's loyalty had always been an enigma, a complex puzzle; his mind was a labyrinth of impersonal logic and deep disdain for the common world and its chaotic emotions. Aenar plunged into it without ceremony, prepared for the worst, prepared to find the threads of treason intertwined with the pursuit of knowledge.
What he found, however, was not treason. It was a cold, inflexible, but absolutely dedicated logic to the perpetuation and supremacy of House Targaryen. Vaegon viewed the Citadel and its maesters with near-physical contempt, considering it a sect of mediocre men playing with knowledge they did not fully understand. His own suspicions about a systematic poisoning of the family had existed for some time, fed by his analytical mind, but he had always lacked tangible, irrefutable proof. Now, seeing Aenar enter in that dramatic manner with the acolyte, his quick, calculating mind was already piecing the puzzle together with frightening clarity: "Finally. Concrete proof. The serpent has infiltrated not just the garden, but the heart of the fortress. It must be crushed, not by emotion, but by necessity of survival. Aenar is the perfect tool, the will incarnate. The House must survive at any cost."
A profound and almost palpable relief washed over Aenar, so intense it was like lifting a weight from his shoulders he hadn't even known he was carrying so heavily. His shoulders, which had been tense for an unimaginable and painful confrontation, relaxed by an almost imperceptible degree. He would not have to kill his own brother. Vaegon's loyalty was not to warm blood or family affection, but to survival, logic, and the supremacy of his House. In that world, that was what truly mattered.
This relief was the key that unlocked the next action. Feeling secure and justified to proceed with all his fury, Aenar turned his full attention back to Grand Maester Runciter, and his face transformed once more into the mask of relentless ice.
"Now, Grand Maester," said Aenar, and a terrible smile, devoid of any spark of humor, appeared on his lips. It was the smile of a predator that had found its prey. "Let's read your mind. Let's expose the rot you call service."
Runciter's eyes widened with pure animal terror. He had not uttered a single word in his defense.
Aenar continued, reading aloud, with cutting clarity, the man's most intimate and terrified thoughts as if reading from an open book before everyone, addressing the king nominally, but making sure Vaegon also heard every syllable.
"He thinks, right now: 'How can he know? The codes were secret, known only to the Conclave...'" Aenar said, his voice adopting a slightly higher pitch, perfectly and frighteningly imitating the panic boiling in Runciter's mind. "He recalls, in vivid detail, the specific ciphered instructions for the 'Brave's Protocol.' He wonders, desperately, if the acolyte Eon failed, if he confessed under torture. But what he truly thinks, Your Grace?" Aenar turned slowly to face Jaehaerys, his eyes flashing, "is: 'The harvest was successful. The strongest heir, the most dangerous to our long-term plans, has fallen. The seed planted in the queen mother, years ago, after the difficult birth, has finally borne its rottenest and most satisfactory fruit.' He rejoices, in his heart, at the effectiveness of the slow poison."
Each word was a meticulous stab, a precisely applied blow. Grand Maester Runciter stammered, muttered incoherent denials, completely powerless before this total and supernatural exposure of his darkest secrets. It was undeniable. It was the living proof of a power that transcended common human understanding. The prince could read minds.
Vaegon watched the scene with clinical intensity, and a slight, almost imperceptible nod directed at Aenar confirmed that his reading was correct, that his brother's cold logic approved the action and validated the discovery.
The fury that seized King Jaehaerys was not a loud explosion, but a deep, silent, and terrible thing, born of a betrayal that stained decades of his reign. He rose from his throne, seeming, for a moment, the Conciliator of old. With terrifying calm, he walked to the wall where the house sword, Blackfyre, was mounted, and drew it from its scabbard. Without uttering a single word, without a cry of rage, he executed Grand Maester Runciter with a single, precise blow that separated his head from his neck. The action was quick, clean, and laden with the crushing weight of a horrible truth finally revealed. The traitor's body fell heavily to the floor.
"Father," said Aenar, his voice still icy, but now with a tone of urgency. "The Citadel is the cancer. Let me go to Oldtown. Let me reduce it to ashes, until not one stone remains upon another. Let me purge this plague from the realm."
"No!" the king bellowed, panting, leaning on the table. "Aenar, hear me! The Citadel... is a pillar. The knowledge it guards... is necessary. Not all there are guilty, most are just blind scholars! Burning it all is the simplistic solution of a barbarian, not a king!" He saw the imminent fury, the will for total destruction in Aenar's eyes and on Vaegon's impassive but agreeing face. He drew himself up, recovering a fragment of his former authority. "Vaegon. Aenar. Hear my final verdict. You, Aenar, will not go to burn them. You will go to discover. To discover and unearth every single one responsible for this tragedy that has plagued our family for generations. And when you find the true architects... the Archmaesters who ordered this... do not give them the quick, clean death of fire. No. Make them suffer. Make their agony a mirror of my son's agony. An eternal warning to anyone who dares to touch a dragon." His voice broke visibly at the end, the memories of Baelon's last words of agony haunting him.
---
Aenar's arrival in Oldtown had none of the contained nuances of his arrival at Dragonstone. This time, there was no softness, no containment, no respect. Zekrom dove from the clouds like a mortal hawk, straight for the imposing marble terraces and pointed roofs of the Citadel. Hundreds of feet above the ground, over the vast central courtyard, Aenar rose in the saddle and threw himself into the void. This time, he did not use the wind to brake or for a graceful landing. He fell like a meteor sent by the gods, a projectile of pure will and concentrated hatred. The impact was a cataclysmic explosion that shattered the academic and contemplative silence of the place, opening a deep crater in the courtyard, sending tiles, stones, and a thick cloud of dust into the sky.
When the dust settled enough, he was standing, unharmed, at the epicenter of the destruction, his dark clothes immaculate. Without hesitating, without looking at the terrified faces of the acolytes and maesters watching the scene paralyzed, he began his march. He crossed the Citadel, his firm, heavy steps echoing like thunderous condemnation through the once-silent corridors. Men in gray robes and chains of various metals fled from his path, terrified, pushing themselves against the walls. He moved in a straight line, a hurricane of inescapable destiny, straight to the great, ornate oak door leading to the Conclave chamber, the sanctuary of the Archmaesters' power. With a single tremendous kick, he shattered the doors, sending them flying into the circular room.
The Conclave of Archmaesters, assembled in session, was in total panic. Archmaester Vaellyn, trying to maintain a composure that was already fading, rose, his hands trembling. "Prince Aenar! This violence is... is inadmissible! Our deepest condolences for your loss, but this—"
"Is the end of your impunity," Aenar interrupted, his voice cutting the air like a whip. He walked through the center of the room, his gaze burning every face that dared to look at him, reading the layers of fear, guilt, and arrogance. "You hide behind rings of metal and chains of supposed wisdom, thinking knowledge makes you untouchable, superior to the laws of men and kings. Your condolences are as false and hollow as the poisoned remedies you prescribed for my brother." He stopped before Vaellyn. "In your mind, you are already drafting a secret message to the rest of the Conclave, calling me an irrational animal, a scourge to be contained. But I ask you: who is the true animal? Who is the creature that poisons children in their cradles, that murders heirs under the cowardly cloak of common illness?"
He turned to another Archmaester, a man with a pale face and bulging eyes. "And you. Your mind is a labyrinth of guilt. You wonder, frantically, if the acolyte Eon failed, if he confessed something. You cling to the justification of the 'Great Work,' the need to balance the power of dragons for the good of the realm. A work that begins with the murder of innocents." Aenar waited for no answers or defenses. His voice was the judgment itself, exposing the darkest secrets he read in their minds as if reading aloud from a profane and forbidden scroll. "You see yourselves as the hidden architects of Westeros' destiny, the silent conductors of history. You believe the Targaryens are merely temporary beasts, beautiful but dangerous, that need to be tamed or, when necessary, eliminated. Know this, today: you are not architects. You are just ants. And I... I am the fire that consumes the anthill."
Before the general panic could turn into any kind of coordinated reaction or escape, Aenar released the fullness of his will. The curse was not a shouted spell or an elaborate gesture, but a silent imposition, a wave of pure agony that radiated from him. The same cyclic, lancinating, incapacitating abdominal pain that had consumed Baelon, now meticulously reproduced and amplified by the small, cruel healing factor that prevented a quick death, struck not only the men in that room but echoed throughout Westeros. Aenar, while scouring the minds of the Archmaesters, had not only found the guilty within the Citadel. He had discovered the threads of the web extending far beyond: ambitious minor lords who had agreed to the plan, personal maesters who had administered subtle poisons, and even members of great houses, primarily from the Reach, like some Hightowers of Oldtown, who saw the Targaryens as an obstacle to their own power. In castles all across the realm, men suddenly fell, gripped by a terrible and familiar pain, with no apparent explanation.
"You will feel every second of my brother's agony," Aenar declared, his voice hovering over the groans beginning to echo in the room and, psychically, in distant places. "But for you, death will be a belated mercy. A warning that will be heard in every corner of Westeros."
He walked out of the Conclave chamber without looking back, leaving behind a scene of horror. The title of Knight of the Plague was not born only in the Citadel that day; it was forged simultaneously in the screams of agony that arose in Dorne, the Vale, the Riverlands, and the Westerlands, where the conspirators fell one by one.
---
The final summons came from the king's private chambers a few days after his return to King's Landing. Jaehaerys, looking as if he had aged a full decade in a few days, was sitting in an armchair, with Vaegon standing by his side like a scholarly shadow.
"It is time," the king said, his voice so weak it was almost a whisper. "The realm cannot remain a day longer without a clear heir. Instability is a poison worse than that of the maesters. Vaegon has already refused the crown, as was to be expected."
Vaegon confirmed with a dry nod. "My loyalty and interest lie with knowledge and logic, father. The throne is an apparatus of emotions and politicking for which I have no vocation."
Jaehaerys looked at Aenar, his tired eyes reflecting a painful acceptance. He knew there was no real choice, no viable alternative. Rhaenys, his granddaughter, was undeniably capable and strong – the fact that she was a woman mattered little to him personally – but her marriage to Corlys Velaryon, the powerful Sea Snake, was an insurmountable problem. Corlys had too much ambition and power to be a mere king consort; his influence would practically mean the end of House Targaryen as the dominant force, replaced by the Velaryons. And Viserys... Viserys was too soft, too easily influenced, too anxious to please. Frankly, he would be swallowed alive and raw by the game of thrones in less than a year.
"Aenar Targaryen," the king declared, each word an effort. "The Iron Throne needs an heir who can carry the weight of the kingdom and its people on his shoulders. Do you accept this burden?"
Aenar held his father's gaze, understanding the weight behind that question. He knew what it meant: the crushing burden of governance, the hypocrisy of the court, the gilded cage of power. But it also meant final authority, the power to finish what he had started, to protect what was his once and for all.
"I accept,"he said, his voice firm. "But on one condition. The only condition."
The king sighed deeply, a sound of pure resignation. He already knew what was coming. "What is this condition?"
"The request that was denied me years ago,when I was younger and you feared my raw power. The request that has now become a necessity for the realm's security. When this crisis has passed, when the traitors are punished, I will have full authority to deal with the threat of the Free Cities. Starting with the one that has already demonstrated its hostility. I will not ask for permission again."
Jaehaerys closed his eyes for a long moment, his face contorted in an expression of deep frustration and understanding. He knew he could not contain him forever. "So be it," he finally said, his voice a breath. "But be surgical. A king is not a plunderer."
Aenar knelt. "Then I, Aenar Targaryen, formally accept the title of Prince of Dragonstone and Heir to the Iron Throne."
The formal ceremony that followed was brief and somber, without festivities. As soon as it ended, Aenar did not waste a moment. He did not go to Daemon's chambers first. He sought out Rhaenys. He found her in the outer gardens, looking out at the waters of Blackwater Bay her face a mask of contained pain and rage.
"finally it's time for them to pay, Rhaenys," said Aenar, stopping beside her. "Not just the ones who pulled the strings here, but all who contributed. The city that provided safe harbor, resources... that city will pay with its own name."
Rhaenys did not look at him, her eyes fixed on the horizon where the sun was beginning to set. "I heard you, in the throne room. 'Fire and Death'. They are good words. But fire needs to be fed. And death needs a target." She finally turned to him, and her expression was that of an offended dragon queen. "You do not need to ask me to burn something, uncle. You only need to tell me when."
Aenar nodded, a complete understanding passing between them. Only then did he head to Daemon's chambers.
The scene he found was one of pure post-feast dissipation: empty wine cups rolling on the floor, food remnants, and the Rogue Prince, fully dressed, collapsed on the bed in a heavy, drunken sleep, trying to drown the pain and fury.
Aenar was not gentle. He took a full pitcher of water and threw the icy contents directly into Daemon's face.
The young prince woke with a start, gasping, confused, his hand instinctively going for the hilt of a dagger that wasn't there. His blurred eyes focused on Aenar, standing imposingly and icily at the foot of the bed. And then he saw Rhaenys standing in the doorway, already clad in her complete dragon-scale armor, her face a mask of impersonal fury, not directed at them, but at the whole world that had allowed this betrayal.
Aenar stared at Daemon, his eyes burning with an inner light that was not entirely human, a spark of the power that now officially ruled the Seven Kingdoms.
"Wake the fuck up, 'Rogue Prince'," snarled Aenar, his voice charged with an energy that echoed the carefree anarchy of Johnny Silverhand. "The time for mourning and courtly games is over. We have a city to burn."
It was a metaphor, of course. But it also wasn't. The specific city, the target of their vengeance, didn't need to be named. It was already etched in fire in their minds. The fury in Rhaenys's eyes confirmed it. Vengeance for Aemon the Prince of Dragonstone and Baelon the Brave demanded a holocaust that would echo across the Narrow Sea.