Aenys Blackfyre arrived at the gates of the Red Keep beneath a peace banner, clad in black silk trimmed with silver, the crowned dragon of his house stitched across his chest. The royal guards did not mock him, nor jeer, nor spit — they received him with courtesy, if not warmth. Silent, stony-faced men in crimson cloaks fell in step beside him as he dismounted.
He walked the halls with measured step, his dark eyes lingering on each stone and pillar. This is the place where my grandsire, Aegon the Unworthy, ruled in his gluttony and madness. Where my father Daemon, the King Who Bore the Sword, once trained in these very yards. They call us traitors, usurpers… yet it is our blood that flows most true.
But the path they led him upon veered not toward the throne room, nor the great halls where lords and smallfolk had gathered in uneasy peace. Instead, the guards turned toward an older, forgotten wing of the keep — the stone stairwells cold, the torches scarce, the air damp with dust.
Aenys paused. "Where are you taking me?" he demanded. "This is not the way to the council."
One of the guards turned his head slightly. "To the place where Lord Brynden waits for you, my prince."
He did not like the tone. Still, Aenys said nothing more. He was no fool — he had known the risks. But he had come in peace, beneath the king's promise of safe conduct.
They reached a thick oaken door bound in iron. It opened with a groan.
Within stood Brynden Rivers, the Lord Bloodraven, Hand of the King — pale as bone, his long white hair cascading like a ghost's veil down his shoulders. He stood beneath a vaulted arch of ancient stone, flanked by two captains of the Raven's Teeth, their black bows slung on their backs, hands resting on hilts.
"Welcome to King's Landing, Prince Aenys," Brynden said, his voice calm as a frozen lake. "You've come a long way to press your claim… such as it is."
Aenys stepped inside. "What is this place? What game do you play now, kinslayer?"
"A place for truths," Brynden said. "And for justice. You came, yes, under peace banner. But justice flies no banner, and bows to no lies."
The prince narrowed his eyes. "You gave your word. A safe conduct. I came unarmed. If you break that word—"
"—then I do so for the realm," Brynden cut in coldly. "You are a Blackfyre. A son of Daemon, the traitor who plunged the realm into war. The grandson of Aegon the Unworthy, whose lust birthed half a dozen bastards to poison House Targaryen. You may wear silks and speak of peace… but your hand is red. You slew King Maekar with your cunning. You are a kingslayer, and bastards have no place upon the Iron Throne."
Aenys's voice rose. "This is murder, not justice! The lords of the realm will know this. Essos will burn for this. You'll not go unpunished, Lord Brynden."
The guards grabbed his arms. Aenys struggled, but he was not strong enough. They forced him to his knees before the Hand.
Brynden drew Dark Sister, the Valyrian blade gleaming like liquid shadow. He stepped forward with solemn purpose.
"You played your game well," Brynden said. "But you came to the wrong castle. And the wrong man."
He raised the blade.
"Let this be the price for slaying a king."
With one clean stroke, the sword sang through air and bone. Aenys Blackfyre, pretender and prince, died on his knees beneath the Red Keep, where once his father had laughed as a boy.
No bells tolled for him. No songs were sung. His head rolled to rest at the feet of the Hand of the King.
And Dark Sister drank deep.