In the bright sunlit garden of a merchant prince's villa in Tyrosh, far from the bloodied sands of Blackwater Bay, Aenys Blackfyre walked among lemon trees with his young nephew, Daemon. The boy, no more than four, clutched a carved wooden dragon in his small hand, his silver-gold curls catching the light like burnished flame. Though young, the boy bore the proud features of House Blackfyre—eyes the color of old amethysts, hair spun from gold and snow. He was a prince in exile, but too small to know it.
"Do dragons sleep, Uncle?" Daemon asked, peering into the sunlight with a squint.
"They do," Aenys replied softly, kneeling beside him. "But only when they must. And they always wake. Always."
Of all King Daemon I Blackfyre's sons, Aenys had ever been the quietest. While Daemon the Younger had inherited their father's charms, and Haegon his pride and strength, Aenys had preferred tomes over swords. He had little patience for brooding or bravado. Where his brothers bled their ambition across battlefields, Aenys had long whispered that the game was better played with patience—and pieces carefully moved across the board.
Later that afternoon, Calla Blackfyre, the wife of Aegor Rivers, found him within the shaded loggia of the villa, reading a treatise on Westerosi heraldry. Her violet eyes were rimmed red.
"It is done," she said. "The news came on a Tyroshi carrack from Lys. Haegon… he is dead. Killed during his surrender. Bittersteel… taken. Sent to the Wall, they say."
Aenys did not speak at once. He turned a page slowly, then folded the parchment closed.
"Did the boy see you weep?"
Calla shook her head. "No. He was chasing moths in the rose garden."
"Good. He does not need to know—not yet."
She studied his calm face. "You seem unshaken."
"I am shaken," Aenys said, "but tears are a poor tribute. We have lost Haegon, yes. But we have not lost everything. Bittersteel will return. You know him. The Wall cannot hold him."
"And if he doesn't?" she asked, her voice a hush. "If he dies there? What then?"
"Then I will lead," Aenys said, rising to his feet. "For Daemon. For our house. But not with swords. Not yet. The next fire must be kindled carefully… or it will burn out before it lights the world."
He turned to the garden again, where the boy played among the lemon trees, laughing, innocent. Aenys watched him for a moment and added, "We will tell him in time. When he is ready to carry the burden of his name."
Far away, in the shadow of the Iron Throne, Westeros moved on. In King's Landing, as snow threatened the capital with an early frost, Aegor Rivers—Bittersteel—was led from the black cells of the Red Keep to the docks of the Blackwater. Bound in chains, he gave no word, no farewell. Only a glare at Brynden Rivers as he passed, silent and seething.
As the ship's sails unfurled and Aegor departed for the Wall, the realm exhaled a breath it had held for far too long. But some whispered that it was not the end. Only an ember, waiting.