Starpike, Seat of House Peake — Late 225 AC
The winds blew harsh through the passes of the Dornish Marches, carrying the cold breath of the Red Mountains down to the grey walls of Starpike. The ancient castle, perched high upon its jagged cliff, loomed like a shadow of an age long past, a sentinel of rebellion that had never quite died.
Within its high towers and narrow halls, Lord Emmon Peake read by candlelight, hunched over a heavy oaken table strewn with old scrolls and new letters. Though he bore the same sharp-featured face as his forefathers, his beard was flecked with grey, and the fire in his chest burned colder now, dulled by years of watching and waiting.
In his hand, he held a letter. The ink was still fresh, the seal a red dragon on a black field—broken open and read a dozen times before. And yet he read it once more.
Aenys Blackfyre's words were precise, layered in courtesy, yet cold as steel. Not a breath wasted on romance, not a flourish in sight. No songs of glory or brotherhood, only the sober mathematics of dynastic decay.
"The line of Maekar grows weaker with each passing moon. The eldest is a drunkard who stumbles after whores. The second, a madman who sees dragons in fire and drinks wildfire as if it were summerwine. The third has cloistered himself in Oldtown behind vows and chains. The fourth is no more than a hedge knight in the guise of a prince. When their sire falls—as fall he must—who will remain to carry the flame?"
Peake's mouth curled into a smirk. He had once spoken of Aenys as a soft-bellied scholar, a pale imitation of his warlike father and brothers. The kind of man who would lose a kingdom in a parley before ever lifting a sword.
But now…
"Let Maekar rule, for now. Let the lords of Westeros see what fruit his line bears. The time will come when even his own bannermen will question the worth of his seed. And when the realm turns its eyes to the ashes, they will see me standing there, cloaked in black and red."
Perhaps he is not his father's son, Peake thought. But the gods know the realm may not need another Daemon. Perhaps it needs an Aenys.
He leaned back in his chair, eyes drawn to the moonlight on the dark stone wall across the chamber. Memories stirred—of his grandsire who fell at Redgrass Field, of dreams crushed under the hooves of loyalist cavalry, of the shame Starpike bore when peace returned and the Blackfyre cause was declared dead.
But the dragon was not dead. Only sleeping.
Rising from his chair, Lord Emmon moved to the hearth, where the fire crackled low. He tossed Aenys's letter into the flames—not out of contempt, but out of custom. Such words were not meant to be read twice by two different men.
He turned to the shadows of the room and spoke into them, knowing they held ears.
"Summon the old banners. Quietly. Reinforce the armory. Offer generous coin to hedge knights and hungry second sons. Begin repairs on the east curtain wall. And send a raven to Bitterbridge. I would speak with Lord Costayne."
The shadows moved in silence, and Lord Peake stood long at the window after they had gone, watching the stars.
"Let the Targaryens rot in their own excess," he murmured. "We will be ready when the pyre collapses."