CHAPTER 1

Aenar walked through the dim corridors of Harrenhal, his thoughts tangled in the mess his brother had left behind. The silence seemed to cling to the stone walls, broken only by the occasional shuffle of a distant guard or a faint murmur that quickly faded.

Normally, he'd welcome the quiet over the usual courtly prattle, but right now, he'd have traded anything to hear the nobles' empty gossip filling the halls. At least then, he'd know the entire day hadn't been upended.

As he passed a group of guards, they straightened, nodding curtly and making sure to give him a wide berth. Unlike his older brother, Aenar wore his impatience plainly, with none of Rhaegar's stoic calm. Perhaps that was why they'd all thought it better to keep to themselves.

Not that he cared. If he had to force a smile tonight, he'd sooner break his own jaw.

Rhaegar's chambers were at the far end of the hall, past heavy iron-banded doors where the prince would normally retreat for hours to brood over his beloved prophecies, drowning himself in whatever verses told him his actions were blessed. Aenar clenched his jaw as he neared the door, catching sight of a single guard posted outside.

"Prince Aenar," the guard greeted, lowering his head and stepping aside quickly. His voice held a hint of wariness, as if he sensed the storm within Aenar's gaze.

Aenar acknowledged him with a slight nod and a single word. "Move."

Without a moment's hesitation, the guard reached for the heavy door and swung it open, leaving Aenar staring into the dimly lit room beyond. He braced himself, allowing only a moment to calm his expression before stepping inside.

The chamber was surprisingly bare, without the usual luxuries the lords of Harrenhal might have offered their royal guests. Rhaegar stood near a window, his back turned, silhouetted against the faint moonlight spilling in. He looked lost in thought, his gaze fixed on something distant—no doubt some notion of grandeur, some vision only he could see. Aenar felt his irritation simmer hotter at the sight, at the utter calm Rhaegar seemed to embody.

"Did you need something, Aenar?" Rhaegar asked softly, as though unaware of the gathering storm.

As the guard closed the door behind him, Aenar forced himself to keep his voice steady. "Yes, I needed to ask if you've completely lost your mind."

Rhaegar's brow lifted slightly. "I see we're going straight to the point, then."

"Wasn't sure you could spare the time," Aenar said dryly. "You looked busy tonight—bestowing crowns, making alliances crumble. All in a day's work, I imagine."

Rhaegar sighed. "You think I don't understand the weight of what I did."

"No, I think you don't understand anything." Aenar took a step forward, voice hardening. "Do you know who was watching when you handed that crown to Lyanna Stark? Practically every Great House worth naming. You might as well have poured oil on dry wood and handed out torches."

Rhaegar's face tightened, but his voice remained calm. "I know what it looked like. But there's more at stake here, Aenar. More than politics and feuds."

"More than the survival of our family?" Aenar scoffed. "I don't know how many times I've heard that line from you lately. As if a word like 'prophecy' could keep us alive when they come for our heads."

Rhaegar held his gaze. "There are things that—"

"—that you believe only you understand. Yes, I'm familiar," Aenar interrupted, his voice sharp. "But let me paint a picture for you. Robert Baratheon, the man who's been promised Lyanna, is about as hot-tempered as they come. And the fact that he's Lord of Storm's End!"

Rhaegar didn't answer, but his jaw clenched, and Aenar saw the faint flicker of unease in his eyes.

"Now add the Martell's pride to the mix," Aenar continued, merciless. "You humiliated Elia in front of all of Westeros. Do you think Dorne will take that quietly? Do you think they'll swallow that insult for the sake of whatever prophecy you've spun for yourself?"

"Aenar," Rhaegar said, more sharply now, "you don't understand the full—"

"No," Aenar cut him off, voice low and cold. "You don't understand. You think the Starks as well will see this as romantic? The Martells as some benign little deviation?"

Rhaegar's expression softened, a hint of sadness in his eyes. "I know it seems reckless. But Lyanna is…important."

Aenar let out a bitter laugh. "Important? Rhaegar, Elia is important. She's the mother of your children, the wife you promised to protect. And you've humiliated her in front of every noble who matters. You think Dorne will forget this? You've insulted not just Elia, but the entirety of House Martell."

Rhaegar's gaze dropped to the floor, his fingers flexing as though he were holding back his own retort. But he didn't speak.

"Right," Aenar went on, pressing his advantage. "So now we've got Dorne and the North potentially lining up against us. And that's before we even consider Robert Baratheon. Tell me, what happens when that overgrown brute decides to bring his fury to our door?"

"Robert is impulsive, yes," Rhaegar admitted quietly. "But he's not fool enough to challenge the Targaryens."

Aenar's expression darkened. "Isn't he? The man's already blooded from battles in the Vale, and he's got House Stark's loyalty. He's got Jon Arryn for basically a second father, and he'll side with him as well. If Robert calls his banners, he'd have half the realm rising behind him. And the other half? The ones who've grown tired of Father's madness, the ones who watch your antics and wonder if you're any better? They'll flock to him."

Rhaegar's eyes flashed, and he took a step closer to Aenar. "And what would you have me do, then?" he demanded, his voice edged with frustration.

"I'd have you keep your head on your shoulders and not throw the realm into chaos on a whim," Aenar shot back. "You talk of destiny, of fulfilling some grand purpose. But tell me, Rhaegar, what good is any of that if we're dead?"

Rhaegar exhaled, looking away, his shoulders tense. "You think I haven't considered all of this?"

"Clearly not well enough." Aenar's voice dropped, the anger fading into something more resigned.

Silence fell between them, heavy and cold. Aenar studied his brother, the calm certainty on Rhaegar's face still intact, and felt a deep, painful frustration twist inside him. This was Rhaegar in his purest form—committed to some higher calling, convinced that his path was righteous. And for the first time, Aenar could see the sheer futility in trying to shake him.

"If you're determined to do this," Aenar said finally, voice low, "then at least be prepared for what it'll bring. Dorne will not forgive this. Elia may forgive you, though, if I were her, I wouldn't, but the rest of them? They'll call it betrayal. The Starks, too. Robert Baratheon—he'll take this as war. You think it's all whispers and court gossip now, but mark my words, those whispers are blades, and they'll be turned on us soon enough."

Rhaegar met his gaze, and for the briefest moment, Aenar thought he saw a glimmer of doubt. But it vanished, replaced with that familiar, maddening resolve.

"There are things I cannot explain, Aenar," Rhaegar murmured. "But if I don't take these steps now, then everything we are—all we stand for—could be lost."

Aenar shook his head, a wry, bitter smile tugging at his lips. "What we stand for? What, some dream you can't even explain, but somehow justifies throwing the realm into chaos? It's madness, Rhaegar."

He pushed off from the table, the tension in his body releasing in a tired sigh. "I'll tell you this: if you're dead set on burning our bridges, don't be surprised when you find yourself surrounded by enemies. You may see yourself as a savior, but to the rest of us, you just look like a fool."

Rhaegar's face was still, unmoved. "You don't have to understand," he said quietly. "But one day, you'll see."

Aenar laughed, a short, cold sound. "See what? That you've turned half the realm against us, that you've left Elia and your children to the mercy of everyone you've insulted? You're betting everything on a prophecy that won't save a single life if war comes."

Rhaegar's expression softened, but he didn't answer. He stood in silence, watching Aenar with that same enigmatic calm, as if he knew a truth beyond Aenar's reach.

Finally, Aenar stepped back, the frustration settling like a stone in his chest. "Fine, Rhaegar," he said, voice flat. "Keep your visions and your prophecy. Just know this: when you light a fire, you don't get to choose who burns."

He turned and walked out, not waiting for a reply, leaving Rhaegar alone in the darkened chamber. Behind him, he could almost feel his brother's unshakable gaze, burning with that quiet, fatal certainty.

The usual murmur of voices and shuffling footsteps filled the air, but now and then, Aenar caught whispers rising just a little too loudly, the words "Rhaegar" and "crown" slipping through like blades meant to cut.

Aenar clenched his jaw, feeling the exhaustion of last night settle like stones in his bones. This will be all anyone talks about for months, he thought, gritting his teeth as he made his way down the stone corridor. The aftermath of Rhaegar's impulsive act weighed heavily on his mind, and the strain of keeping his own anger in check wasn't helping.

Rounding a corner, he nearly collided with a figure standing just inside a shadowed alcove. He paused, recognizing Elia Martell immediately. She looked up at him with tired eyes, her usually warm expression strained, her mouth pulled into a careful line.

"Prince Aenar," she said softly, a slight nod acknowledging his rank even though formality felt almost ridiculous after last night's spectacle.

"Princess Elia." He gave her a slight bow, as custom required, but his tone held a note of reluctance. He hadn't expected this, not yet. Elia had been seated in full view of everyone during Rhaegar's grand moment, and he could only imagine the whispers that had reached her ears since then.

She didn't smile, only gestured for him to join her in the alcove, away from passing servants and lords. "Did you know?" she asked, her voice almost a whisper, but there was a raw edge to it, a faint tremor he could just make out.

Aenar exhaled, wondering if he could even begin to answer that question truthfully without causing her more pain. But Elia's gaze held him steady, her eyes soft but unyielding, demanding an answer even if she might regret hearing it.

"I didn't know," he replied after a moment. "I knew Rhaegar was... determined, but even I didn't think he'd go this far."

Her face softened, but only just. She took a step back, her fingers twisting together, betraying a tension that her calm expression tried to hide. "Why would he—" she started, then hesitated, as if even speaking the words might make them more real. "Did I do something to deserve this?"

The question caught him off guard, and he realized just how much this had shaken her.

Aenar shook his head, choosing his words carefully. "You didn't. Rhaegar's a fool in many ways, but I'd never say he thought you unworthy. This is... well, it's something else entirely."

She let out a soft, humorless laugh. "Ah, 'something else entirely,'" she repeated, the sarcasm not lost on him. "Then perhaps he might've told me, rather than everyone else in the realm."

He was silent for a moment, watching as her eyes dropped, her expression still composed but hurt lurking just beneath it. She was good at hiding it, but to Aenar's eyes, the signs were obvious.

"Elia," he said quietly, not entirely sure where he was going with the words but feeling compelled to say something, anything that might help. "This isn't on you. If it were, believe me, I'd have told him by now."

She managed a tight smile, but it faded as quickly as it came. "You'd think," she murmured, almost to herself, "that being his wife would entitle me to some explanation. That I'd be spared the humiliation of learning about his intentions in front of half the realm."

Aenar shifted, glancing around to ensure they were still alone. "If it's any consolation," he replied dryly, "I doubt Rhaegar planned on making a fool of himself, either. He just does it naturally these days."

Elia's lips twisted into a faint smile at that, but her gaze remained faraway, distant. "And here I thought my children were his legacy. That we were his priority." She sighed, a sound so quiet Aenar barely heard it. "What sort of legacy do we have now, Aenar? What does this make of us?"

He hesitated, feeling his own frustration bubble up. "A mess, if you ask me," he muttered, glancing down the hall where a few courtiers lingered, casting curious glances their way. "Rhaegar's choices are his own, Elia. He's the one playing with fire, and I don't know if even he fully understands the blaze he's started."

Her eyes searched his face, as if looking for reassurance, but he had none to give. She sighed, brushing a hand over her sleeve. "Rhaegar has always been distant, even in his devotion. But this… this is something else." Her voice softened, but the hurt remained. "I don't think I'll ever understand him."

"Neither will I," Aenar replied, with a touch of bitterness he couldn't suppress. "And I doubt he cares, as long as it all fits into whatever prophecy he's fashioned for himself."

Elia's gaze faltered. "Prophecies… sometimes, they seem like little more than illusions men hide behind." She looked away, her voice quiet but bitter. "Is he truly so willing to risk everything for some shadow of glory, for a single name written in history?"

Aenar's jaw tightened. "Apparently, yes." He bit back another retort, sensing the weight of her hurt. He couldn't bring himself to push more.

Elia looked up, eyes clear but weary, as if she'd carried too many burdens alone. "Thank you, Aenar," she murmured. "I've no right to ask anything more of you, but..."

He softened, nodding. "I'll do what I can." It was a vague promise, but it was all he could offer, and she seemed to take some comfort in it.

The quiet held for a moment, until footsteps echoed down the hall, breaking the silence between them. Aenar turned to see Ser Barristan Selmy approaching, his expression unreadable but the grim line of his mouth hinting at something far from pleasant.

"Prince Aenar," Barristan said, stopping just a few steps away. "The king has summoned you."

Aenar felt the familiar prickle of unease slide down his spine. Father calling for anyone was rarely a good sign, and him calling for Aenar, felt like a trap waiting to spring. He kept his face neutral, only glancing at Barristan before looking back to Elia.

A faint shadow passed over Elia's face, her hands clasping each other tightly as she caught his eye. She didn't speak, but the concern in her eyes was plain.

"Well," Aenar said, letting out a slow breath, a glint of sarcasm slipping through, "that's promising."

Elia tried to smile, but her worry showed through. "Be careful," she murmured, almost too quiet to hear.

He nodded, trying to give her a reassuring look. "Always." But as he turned to follow Barristan, a knot of tension settled in his stomach.

Outside the king's chamber, even Barristan Selmy's armor seemed to make less noise than usual, as if echoing his own caution. The heavy, scorched door ahead loomed, covered in the faint, sooty imprints of fires long extinguished. Barristan glanced at Aenar as if testing the waters before they entered.

Aenar, arms crossed, offered a shaky smile. "Well, Ser Barristan, would it be too much to ask that you step in first? Give His Grace a chance to direct his wrath at a safer target?"

Selmy's expression didn't change, but the slight quirk of his mouth hinted he understood. "A prince rarely has such luck, my lord," he said quietly, before gesturing to the guards on either side to open the heavy door.

"Prince Aenar Targaryen," Selmy announced, his voice projecting into the stifling silence of the room.

Aenar stepped in behind him, eyes sweeping the darkened chamber that smelled faintly of ash and stale incense. At the far end, seated upon a low, rickety dais, his father sat slouched. King Aerys's unkempt hair hung in twisted tangles around his hollowed cheeks, his mouth curling into a grin that was nothing short of unhinged. The look he fixed on Aenar felt like a gaze sharpened to a dangerous point, watching, waiting.

Aenar held his breath for a moment, settling his own unease before walking forward. Barristan took a respectful step back, keeping his hand on his sword, and the door shut with a grim finality.

"Aenar," Aerys's voice rang out, cracking but sharp enough to cut. "So, you've come to pay respects to your father, I assume?"

Aenar nodded slowly, keeping his tone neutral. "Naturally, Father. Though I wasn't certain you'd requested me for anything quite as simple as pleasantries."

Aerys's smile wavered, and his eyes flickered in a way that suggested he was either amused or about to turn furious. "A witty one," he murmured, fingers tapping idly on the armrest. "Unlike your brother—oh, he has little humor, does he?"

Aenar tilted his head, careful to keep his expression steady. He knew better than to defend Rhaegar openly; it only stoked Aerys's fury further. "Well, we can't all share the same temperament, can we?"

For a moment, Aerys's lips twisted into a half-smile, as if savoring the notion. But then his gaze darkened. "Yes... temperament. Rhaegar's temperament seems rather… sentimental. Strange how a prince who understands so little of his duties is adored, no?" He sneered, the words thick with sarcasm. "And yet, people whisper. They think he's—" Aerys made a vague, dismissive gesture, "charming."

Aenar remained silent, sensing Aerys's mind veering onto dangerous ground. His father was on a precipice—one wrong word could easily send him spiraling.

"Do you think it was charming, then?" Aerys asked, his eyes narrowing. "That spectacle he made of himself last night?"

Aenar met his father's gaze. "The gesture wasn't exactly subtle," he replied carefully, keeping his tone level.

Aerys's eyes gleamed. "Ah, 'gesture.' What a polite word for such a reckless insult to his wife. Your brother forgets where his loyalties lie," he hissed. "And if he dares think I'm blind to it…" His voice trailed off, the unspoken threat hovering between them, sharp as any blade.

"Perhaps it was meant as a symbolic… flourish," Aenar suggested weakly, though he knew Aerys wouldn't accept a glossed-over explanation.

"Symbolic flourish?" Aerys sneered, leaning forward. "And what would he hope to gain from such a 'symbol,' hmm?" His hand clenched on the armrest, the knuckles white. "Does he think the North will bow to us for a crown of flowers? Fool! If he wants loyalty, he should show strength, not waste his breath on courtly antics."

Aenar inhaled slowly, choosing his words with care. "He likely thought it would create unity, Father. That the gesture would inspire—"

"Inspire!" Aerys laughed, a sound that cracked and echoed around the room. "Yes, inspiring the North to whisper of his recklessness, and the Dornish to question his intentions. If I could throw him into the cells for such idiocy, I would."

The silence that followed was heavy. Aenar knew it was time to tread cautiously; his father's outbursts often spiraled without warning, and the King's resentment of Rhaegar was as old as it was dangerous.

"Aenar." Aerys's voice softened suddenly, and he tilted his head, almost as if appraising him. "You're the one with sense, aren't you? The one not swayed by prophecy or poems. No," he murmured, his voice slipping into something colder, more menacing. "Not like your brother."

Aenar's lips tightened, but he forced himself to nod. "I do my best to serve the family as best as I can."

The king's eyes narrowed. "Then answer me this, son—how is it that I, the king, seem to be the only one concerned with our family's honor? With its future?"

You think yourself concerned, Father? He thought sardonically.

Aenar paused, feeling the weight of Aerys's scrutiny bearing down on him. "Father, you aren't the only one who cares about the legacy of House Targaryen. We all want to see it strengthened, protected."

"Strengthened," Aerys repeated, as if savoring the word. "Protected. Yes. And yet I'm surrounded by fools." His gaze sharpened. "But you understand, don't you? You, the son who has not made a fool of himself."

Where is he going with this?

Aenar inclined his head, suppressing the bitter irony that threatened to surface. "I understand our family's position is… precarious. And I understand that actions that seem poetic to some might be… poorly received by others."

"Poorly received," Aerys repeated with a grim chuckle. "Yes, that's putting it delicately. Your brother's soft-headed fantasies will be my ruin." He looked away, muttering to himself. "Perhaps it is not him who should inherit."

The words hung in the air, a cold, unspoken threat that seemed to burrow into the silence. Aenar could almost hear his own heartbeat, a drum of wariness in his chest. He kept his voice steady, though he could feel the trap his father had set for him tightening. "Rhaegar remains your eldest son, Father. Your heir."

"Ah, but the eldest isn't always the strongest," Aerys murmured, his gaze flickering back to Aenar with a dangerous glint. "The history of our family started with a king who seized the throne not by birthright, but by strength."

Aenar's jaw clenched. "I serve the family, not ambition. Rhaegar is the prince; I am the soldier." He paused, his voice lower but steady. "But I am loyal to you, Father."

Aerys's smile returned, eerie and unsettling. His following laugh even more so. "Good. Very good." He let out a satisfied hum, leaning back into his chair. "There may yet be use for a son with true loyalty, Aenar."

The words felt like cold iron, and Aenar forced himself to nod. Any trace of sarcasm, any hint of dryness, had to be buried. Aerys's madness was volatile, and while Aenar had tempered his own ambitions, he was fully aware of the game his father played. The king was hinting at choices, dangerous paths that would pit brother against brother if he dared speak of them aloud. Aenar met his father's gaze, his expression unreadable, his voice calm as he said, "I'm here to serve House Targaryen."

The king's eyes narrowed, but he seemed satisfied. "We'll see if your loyalty is worth more than your brother's poetry."