The manse in Tyrosh was quiet, its gardens dappled with the last light of the day as the blue and violet pennants of House Blackfyre stirred in the breeze, faded by years of exile. Within the pillared chamber of marble and silk, Aenys Blackfyre, third of his name to bear the black dragon, stood alone by the arched window, a scroll in his hand and a somber expression on his face.
The message had come by ship, smuggled from the Narrow Sea by allies in Lys: Starpike had fallen, the Peakes slain or captured, and Maekar Targaryen dead beneath the rubble of his final campaign. The rebellion had failed, but not without consequence.
"So the Peakes are dust," Aenys said at length, eyes still on the Tyroshi harbor where painted ships drifted like lazy insects. "Another house broken on the altar of our cause… but their blood was not shed in vain."
Ser Aegor Rivers, Bittersteel, leaned against a carved pillar nearby, arms crossed over his breastplate. "You speak of victory, and yet the red dragon still sits the Iron Throne."
Aenys turned to him. "For now. But Maekar is dead, and the lords of Westeros are divided. They squabble now over who shall succeed. A girl-child touched by madness, a babe in Lys, and a fourth son who never thought to wear a crown. The realm is rudderless."
Bittersteel scoffed. "The realm is resilient. It bleeds and binds its wounds. And your great plan? To write letters while the blood of dragons cries out for war?"
Aenys did not rise to the bait. "Three times we raised swords, and three times we fell. My lord father Daemon died at the Redgrass with my twin eldes brothers. My third brother Aegon The Dreamer rot in Red Keep's dungeons. Haegon bled out on the Blackwater Bay. Steel and fire have failed us, uncle. Now it is ink and quill that must carry the day."
He stepped forward, his voice steady. "I will not raise a banner. Not now. I will submit my claim to the Great Council. I will stand as a lawful heir of Daemon Blackfyre, grandson to a king, and stake my birthright through words, not war."
The silence that followed was long and cold.
Then Bittersteel laughed.
A low, bitter chuckle that grew louder as he stepped away from the pillar, his dark cloak swirling behind him. "The boy who would conquer with parchment," he sneered. "Do you imagine Bloodraven will read your letter and weep with regret? That he'll lay down his pale hands and say 'Aenys, yes, of course! The throne is yours!'"
Aenys's silver-gold hair caught the last sunlight as he met Bittersteel's eyes. "No. But I do imagine there are lords who remember the strength of House Blackfyre. Who fear the instability of a girl-child, or the fire that burns too hot in Aerion's line. And if I appear before them not as a usurper, but a rightful claimant, I may win hearts where swords failed."
Bittersteel said nothing for a moment, his face unreadable. Then he turned, his voice low and dark.
"You were born in exile, Aenys. Raised in silk among coin-counters and merchant lords. But do not mistake a quiet court for a conquered kingdom. The Iron Throne is not given—it is taken. Always."
As Bittersteel's footsteps echoed away, Aenys turned back to the window, the last rays of sun reflecting off the harbor.
"Then let me take it with words first," he whispered to himself, "and fire only if I must."