The hour was late in King's Landing, and the Tower of the Hand lay quiet but for the soft crackle of fire in the hearth. Within Brynden Rivers' private solar, moonlight slanted through the high windows, pooling silver across maps, letters, and a half-finished goblet of wine.
Shiera Seastar sat by the fire, her midnight hair unbound, eyes like starlight scanning the parchment in her hand. She read it aloud, voice cool and smooth as silk.
"To the Lords of Westeros and the esteemed members of His Late Grace's council... I, Aenys Blackfyre, grandson of King Aegon IV and son of the late King Daemon I Blackfyre, do humbly submit my claim to the Iron Throne through peaceful petition, seeking justice and rightful inheritance..."
She lowered the letter, brows arching. "Aenys of House Blackfyre, styling himself a petitioner. He certainly learned to dress treason in pretty ribbons."
Brynden, seated at his desk across the room, leaned back in his chair, one long pale finger tapping against his lips. He had read the letter thrice already. "He writes like a maester's son and thinks like a fox," he muttered. "Aenys... fourth son of my late half-brother, bastard born of treachery and dreams."
Shiera tilted her head, studying him. "And yet you don't laugh."
"I should," Brynden said softly. "But I cannot."
He rose, stepping toward her, eyes not on her but the parchment now laid on the table between them. "This… letter. This polite plea for peace. It stinks of victory."
Shiera narrowed her eyes. "You believe he wrote it with the blood of the Peakes still on his hands."
Brynden nodded once. "The timing is too fine, the tone too exact. Not a week after Maekar's death. Not long after the realm reels from smoke and ruin. And now this? Aenys was no idle observer in Tyrosh. The Peake Uprising was his work. His battle. He struck without lifting a sword."
"And what will you do?" Shiera's voice was low now, intimate and edged.
Brynden's eyes, red and sharp, glinted with something darker than rage—resolve. "I will give him what he asks."
That surprised her. "You'll allow him to come to King's Landing?"
"I will." Brynden's mouth curled into the faintest of smiles. "He will have safe conduct, and the lords will see the realm fair and just, that even a Blackfyre may be heard."
Shiera said nothing. She had known him long enough to recognize the calm before his storm.
"But when he comes…" Brynden's fingers closed over the seal of the letter, crumpling it slowly. "I will greet him. And I will have a surprise prepared."
She watched him in silence for a moment, then finally smiled, something cool and cruel playing at her lips. "It seems the game begins anew."
Brynden turned toward the window, looking out over the city of kings and traitors, flames flickering like distant stars.
"Aenys Blackfyre wants to take the Iron Throne with ink and quill," he murmured. "Let us see if he remembers the taste of steel."