House Of The Dragon: 'The Exiled Prince'

Author's Note: First off, apologies for the delay in releasing this chapter,— I didn't expect to get so swamped with work, and it ended up taking longer than I'd hoped.

Secondly, and most importantly, I wanted to give you a heads-up, since this chapter might leave you with questions about the story's direction. The events between Aenys' banishment, his arrival in Old Valyria, and the present (where this chapter begins) are fully planned but will only be released as side-story chapters once the main story-line is complete.

So, what does this mean? It means that Aenys' experiences in Old Valyria will be hinted at or referenced in character dialogue throughout the fanfic, but you'll only get to read the time between 89Ac and 105Ac once the main fanfic concludes. Why did I choose this approach? Well, honestly, I just found the idea intriguing, so that's what we're doing. I think you'll enjoy it,— I hope...

Finally, just a reminder: I'm not an experienced writer, nor am I a native english speaker,— I simply write as an hobby, so I'm really stepping out on a bit of a limb here.

Anyways, enjoy the chapter, because I am definetly not scared about your responses.

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"I did not expect to emerge from the depths of Old Valyria to find that sixteen years had already passed, while I seemed to have endured only five in that cursed otherwordly plane crafted by the Goddess Vhagar herself. Do I regret it? Perhaps not. But I would have welcomed knowing, before I returned to a world long moved on, that time itself would betray me so."

— An older Prince Aenar Targaryen, 'the Exiled Dragon'.

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| 105 AC (16 Years Later) - Night-time, Targaryen manse in Volantis, Essos - With Aenys Targaryen, 3rd Person Pov:

The wind struck Aenys like the lash of a whip as Cannibal soared over Essos, the sky stretching out like a bronze and green tapestry, endless and untamed. The dragon's massive wings beat with a rhythm that echoed in Aenys's chest, each thunderous stroke a reminder of the dragon's raw, untamed power,— strength bound only by Aenys's will.

He clung tightly to the battered, near-loose saddle,— one of the ancient relics he'd salvaged from the ruins of Old Valyria years ago. It had been no small feat to persuade Cannibal to tolerate the saddle, nor had it been easy to fit it to the dragon's immense frame. Yet, now, it served its purpose well as they soared over the blurred lands below, a patchwork of rivers and hills cast in the fading hues of twilight.

Ahead, Volantis rose like a smudge against the amber sky, the haze of distant fires and flickering lanterns casting the ancient city in a somber glow. Cannibal began to slow, his furious pace tempering into something more measured, each wingbeat growing more deliberate. Aenys leaned forward into the receding gale, the biting wind now softened to a breeze that brought with it the scents of salt and distant myrrh, mingling with the smoke of the city below.

As they descended, Volantis unfurled beneath him in all its aged splendor. The famed Long Bridge stretched like a dark spine over the Rhoyne, teeming with figures moving in a rush of carts, colors, and flickering lights. The western quarter rose beyond, its temples and towers jutting up against the sky, casting long shadows across crowded streets and winding canals.

But it was the Black Walls that seized his gaze,— formidable, unyielding.

They surrounded the heart of Volantis like an iron fist, every stone dark as night. Within their shadow lay the Targaryen manse, hidden among the estates of other noble families, yet unmistakable. Its walls were near-black in the dim light, polished stone catching hints of red as the sun faded. A dense garden flanked the building, an oasis of green amidst the black, with shadows from trees flickering against the manse like specters from an age lost to history.

Aenys' black and green dragon descended in a wide spiral, his wings casting vast shadows over the Black Walls, and all of the houses below, and as they neared the courtyard, Aenys braced himself, feeling the air grow cooler as they descended, the rush of wind quieting to a whisper. Cannibal's landing was smooth, the earth barely trembling as he settled, his wings folding with a final, regal sweep.

Aenys paused, taking a breath as he dismounted, his boots sinking into the dust.

The Cannibal's breathing slowed beside him, like a beast retreating into some ancient, watchful stillness. Aenys let his fingers brush against the dragon's scales, the brief touch grounding him, reminding him of all he had endured to return here.

Before him, the manse loomed, its tall doors bearing the sigil of House Targaryen,— a three-headed dragon with jaws parted, as if tasting the air. It was a place he did not recognized, yet it felt like a monument to all he had lost. He stood still, his gaze fixed on the carvings, and for a fleeting moment, a bitterness pierced him. He had left civilization as a young man filled with dreams, and returned… something else.

It was then that a voice shattered the quiet.

"Wh-who goes there?" That made Aenys turn, finding a knight watching him from the shadows, his torchlight revealing the worn face of a man aged by duty and time.

Recognition flickered across Aenys's face,— this was Arthur, the knight assigned to protect him during his banishment, a very long time ago, by his grandfather.

"Ser Arthur?" His voice held a note of surprise, mingled with a sadness he hadn't expected.

The knight's face paled, his eyes widening as he took a step back, his gaze darting to the dragon looming behind Aenys.

In turn, the Cannibal's eyes, bright as emerald fire, tracked the knight with silent menace.

"Prince Aenys?" Arthur's voice was hoarse, as if disbelief had stolen his breath. "By the gods, we thought you lost." His gaze flicked back to Cannibal, trembling.

Aenys gave a faint smile. "In the flesh." he replied, his hand now brushing the Cannibal's neck.

At the same time, with a swift motion, he moved to the dragon's side, unhooking several iron-bound chests from the saddle,— treasures he had gathered in his years adrift, relics of a life forged in exile, on a land desolate and unforgiving. As he did, he felt Arthur's gaze linger, the knight's face a mix of wonder and fear.

"How… how are you here, my prince? The storm…" Arthur's voice trembled. "All of us thought you lost,— gone for all these years."

"Much has happened since then, Arthur." Aenys replied, his tone low, unreadable. His violet eyes, cold as winter, meeting the knight's. "Anyway, this is Cannibal, my dragon. Do not fear,— for he will hunt beyond the city walls soon enough. But first, Arthur… would you grant me entry to mine own family manse?"

Arthur swallowed, his gaze flitting to Cannibal before he nodded, bowing low. "Of course, my prince. Follow me, this way." He then gestured to servants standing by, instructing them to carry Aenys's chests into the manse's vault, handling them with the reverence owed to a king's treasures.

Behind the departing duo, with a final, thunderous roar, Cannibal unfurled his wings and leapt into the sky, his shadow lingering over the courtyard like a ghost of Valyria's past.

Aenys followed Arthur through the darkened halls of the manse. The hour was late, and only a few weary servants and guards roamed. Yet as they passed, their eyes widened, their hands clapped to their mouths, as if beholding a specter risen from the grave.

Aenys felt their stares, a mix of awe and dread that gnawed at him. He turned to Arthur, his voice a whisper of command.

"Why do they look at me so? As if I were a ghost."

Arthur hesitated, his gaze dropping. "My prince… it is only natural, after all these years." His voice faltered. "May I… may I ask, my prince, how long you think you have been gone?"

Aenys stiffened slightly, his gaze sharp and unreadable. "Five years, perhaps a little more." His voice held a faint irritation. "I counted the days as best I could."

Arthur's eyes then clouded with pity. "Then… forgive me for pointing out, my prince, that you are mistaken. Sixteen years have passed since the storm, not five."

Aenys felt the words strike like a blade, each syllable driving deeper into his chest.

Sixteen years.

"Sixteen?" he whispered, his voice barely a breath. A storm of disbelief surged within him, twisting his insides. His fists clenched as he struggled to steady himself, his mind reeling. "What…?"

Arthur nodded, his face somber. "That is why they stare, my prince… as if the gods themselves returned you from the dead."

Aenys took a shuddering breath, commanding his voice to stillness. "Just lead me to the mance's solar, Arthur."

Arthur nodded, guiding him through the silent halls, past tapestries that whispered of the days before he was born.

Soon they reached the solar, grand and silent, its walls hung with woven depictions of dragons in flight, and Aenys allowed himself to sink into a carved wooden chair, his hands trembling as he took in the room, the weight of sixteen lost years settling upon him like heavy chains.

Arthur lingered by the door. "Do you… require anything of me, my prince?"

Aenys raised his gaze, his eyes cold, distant.

"Information, Arthur. Tell me what I have missed in these past sixteen years." And Athur took a deep breath, his shoulders tensing as he began his tale. Meanwhile, Aenys listened in silence, his face a mask, though his knuckles whitened as Arthur recounted the deaths of his various family members, and eventually his own younger brother's rise to the throne, the changes that had reshaped the world he once knew.

When Arthur finished, Aenys rose, his chest tight with a fury he could barely contain.

"So… they are all truly gone?" His voice was hollow, laced with bitterness, and that made Arthur lower his head in sadness. "Indeed, my prince."

It was then that Aenys' emotions began boilling, as his fists slammed down on the desk, his voice rising with a fury that echoed in the silence. "Damn it, Vhagar…" He cursed the Valyrian Goddess under his breath, caught between rage and despair. His father, his uncle, his grandmother… all stolen in his absence, a love taken away, and even a throne lost...

Arthur took a step back, watching him with wary eyes. "My prince… did you just say… Vhagar?"

Aenys shook his head, forcing the words down, not wanting to reveal the many important details and secrets that the name carried with it. "It matters not, Arthur."

Turning away, he let his gaze drift to the window,— as if he could will, and see the narrow sea that lay beyond, reaching the westerosii waters even,— his thoughts lost in shadows of what might have been.

"Bring me parchment and quill, I shall write to Viserys." he commanded, his voice sharp as steel.

Arthur hesitated only a moment, then bowed deeply. "As you command, my prince." He left quickly, his footsteps retreating down the corridor until silence reclaimed the room.

Alone now, Aenys felt the composure he had held so tightly begin to unravel. His breath quickened, his body tense as years of anger, grief, and bitterness clawed to the surface.

Sixteen years were apparently lost to him, stolen from him by exile and by the machinations of the gods, who deemed him fit to be a protagonist piece on their cyvasse.

With a sudden fury, he seized the edge of the near wooden desk and overturned it with a loud crash, sending papers and candles scattering across the floor.

He sank to his knees, fists clenched, his head bowed as he fought to contain the tempest within him. "Damn you, Grandfather." he hissed, his voice trembling with the weight of years. "Damn you, Jaehaerys… for every moment I could have spent with my father, uncle and grandmother... simply taken from me. For every day I should have had, and didn't. You fool!"

The words echoed back to him in the stillness, a bitter reminder of all he had endured. His memories sharpened painfully,— the warmth of his father's embrace, the laughter of Rhaenys, his dreams of a future that could never be. All lay shattered at his feet, fragments of a life he had been denied.

But as the rage subsided, another emotion stirred, fierce and unyielding. He had finally returned however, shaped by fires and divine trials that his family would never be able to understand, strengthened by nightmares and trainnings that would break lesser men.

He had come back to claim his legacy, to etch his name into history with 'Fire and Blood'.

And so, slowly, Aenys rose, drawing himself to his full height. His hand fell to the hilt of his sword 'Sunset', its Valyrian steel cold beneath his fingers, the ancient symbols carved into its blade a reminder of the power that ran through his veins. He unsheathed it, letting the light catch on the metal as he whispered a vow to himself and to the ancestors who watched.

"I am Aenys Targaryen, and I will not be forgotten." His words held a promise, a quiet threat that rang with finality. "Not now. Not ever."

The sword slid back into its sheath with a resolute click just as Arthur returned, bearing parchment and quill. The knight froze, his eyes taking in the wreckage of the room, the overturned desk, and the cold determination in Aenys's face. Swallowing, he stepped forward, setting the writing tools carefully on a corner of the table.

"My prince." he said cautiously, his voice almost a whisper. "Your parchment."

Aenys took it, his jaw set, his gaze distant. "Thank you, Arthur. Leave me now."

Arthur hesitated, as though wanting to offer some comfort, but he merely nodded, bowing deeply before retreating once more.

With the door closed, Aenys seated himself, the quill poised in his hand as he stared at the blank parchment. His mind whirled, words eluding him as he struggled to find a way to speak to a brother who was now a stranger, a king who had ascended in his own absence.

But after a long silence, he began to write, the ink flowing as his words took shape on the page, each stroke of the quill laden with years of anguish and determination.

| To King Viserys, my younger brother,

It may be that you believed me lost, or dead, a victim of the sea's fury, cast away and forgotten. Yet here I am, not as the boy who once dreamed of courtly honor, but as one who has endured the desolate ruins of Old Valyria, who has known the bitterness of exile and returned.

Sixteen years have passed, as I have come to learn, a chasm of time I had not reckoned.

And much has changed, just as much has been lost to both of us. I grieve for our family as I know you must've had, but I cannot accept a life in the shadows. I am a dragon of the blood, and I will not fade.

I will come to you soon. Prepare to receive me,— not as the prince you once knew, but as one who has survived the wrath of gods and men alike. We have, after all, much to discuss. |

Aenys then signed his name with a flourish, sealing it with the mark of House Targaryen.

He set the letter aside, his hand lingering on it as he stared into the dimness, the faintest glint of resolve in his eyes. For the first time, he felt the stirrings of something beyond rage and grief,— a flicker of purpose, a destiny to reclaim.

Rising, he cast one last look over the wreckage of the solar, the scattered papers and broken candles a testament to the life he had been denied. But he would not be denied again. Whatever fate awaited him in Westeros, he would meet it on his own terms.

And with that, Aenys Targaryen,— 'The Exiled Dragon' or even as many would come to call him, 'The Dragon Who Returned',— stepped 'forward', ready to claim his place in the world that had once cast him aside.

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| 105 AC (A few days later) - During the early morning, RedKeep's Council Chambers - With Viserys Targaryen, 3rd Person Pov:

The council chambers of the Red Keep were shrouded in a heavy, oppressive silence.

Only the dim crackle of the still barely lit torchlight along the stone walls disturbed the stillness, accompanied by the soft shuffling of maids as they swept the polished flagstones.

Outside, the early sunlight seeped through narrow, arched windows, casting weak, pale beams across the gleaming council table where Viserys Targaryen sat alone.

King Viserys's gaze was fixed on the empty chairs before him, though his mind was far from the darkened chamber. His thoughts drifted instead to the cold, bloodied bed where his wife, Aemma, had just recently lain, taken from him in a river of her own blood.

By his choice, he reminded himself bitterly, feeling the familiar ache twist deeper in his chest.

"Aemma." he breathed her name in silence, the syllables a whisper of grief. She had been his light,— the one true warmth in the dark halls of the Red Keep since their youth, since long before he had worn the weight of a crown. But now that light had been snuffed out, leaving only shadows and regrets in its wake. He felt unmoored, adrift, as if some essential piece of himself had been torn away, leaving him hollow and bereft.

A faint sound broke his reverie, and he looked up to see Grand Maester Runciter standing near the door, his expression grave.

In his hands, the maester held a sealed letter, its wax glinting darkly with the unmistakable sigil of House Targaryen,— a dragon with three heads, fierce and unyielding.

"Your Grace." Runciter murmured, bowing low before stepping forward, extending the letter with a steady hand. Viserys's gaze fell upon the seal, his brow furrowing.

He recognized it immediately, but the implications troubled him. It was a letter from his own kin, its weight promising more than routine council matters. But who could have sent it? Every member of his house, his family, had been present at Aemma's funeral.

Was this some ill-conceived jest? Or… could it be something else?

With trembling fingers, he took the letter, a strange flutter of apprehension mingling in his chest. He broke the seal, unfolded the parchment, and scanned the words swiftly,— then again, as though he scarcely believed what he read.

| To King Viserys, my younger brother…

The ink felt freshly drawn, each stroke dark and purposeful upon the page. For a moment, Viserys's vision blurred, his mind struggling to accept what his eyes had revealed. His brother,— Aenys, the one they had long mourned as lost to the depths of the Sea,— was alive. Alive, and reaching out across sixteen years of silence.

He clutched the letter tightly, his breath catching as he reread the words. Aenys spoke of survival, of years spent in exile, and of a journey that had brought him at last to the shores of civilization. He wrote of a return to Westeros, of his desire to come home, to stand by his brother and restore the bond that had once bound them so strongly. Every line, every word seemed laced with the echo of Aenys's old resolve, the fierce spirit that had defined him from youth.

Viserys closed his eyes, a wave of emotions crashing over him,— grief, longing, relief, and something close to joy. In this darkest hour, when he had lost his beloved Aemma and felt as though he himself might fade into the shadows, here was a spark of light, of hope. His brother had returned to him, the blood of his blood, a tether to memories of their youth, of days before sorrow and duty had marred them both.

Runciter's voice intruded gently, soft but curious. "Your Grace… is it news from Dragonstone? Or… something else?"

Viserys looked up, realizing he was clutching the letter in a white-knuckled grip. He forced himself to relax, his voice catching slightly as he replied, "It is… unexpected news, Maester. Aenys, my older brother… he lives."

Runciter's eyes widened, though he quickly composed himself, inclining his head respectfully. "After all these years…" he murmured, his tone guarded yet carrying a trace of wonder. Aenys's disappearance had stirred dark rumors and discord among the Targaryen kin for years, and the maester knew well that such tales of survival often bore shadows of their own.

"Yes." Viserys's voice wavered, and he felt the faint prick of tears at the corner of his eyes. "Aenys, who we thought lost to storms and darkness… he writes that he is returning home. To me. It must be him, none could replicate his words so well."

The words felt strange, almost foreign on his tongue, as though he dared not trust the hope they offered. Yet there it was, etched upon the page, undeniable as the ink that bore his brother's name.

Rising slowly from his seat, he held the letter to his chest as if it were a lifeline. For a brief, burning moment, the crushing sorrow over Aemma's death lifted, replaced by a fierce, rekindled sense of purpose. With Aenys at his side, he might find the strength to carry on, to bear the weight of a crown that now felt so terribly heavy. They had grown up together, two brothers bound by blood and fate, and he had longed for nothing more than to see Aenys again, to share a word, a memory, something beyond the emptiness left in the wake of his wife's death.

Runciter studied him in silence, his eyes thoughtful. "It is truly a gift, Your Grace, to have family returned in a time of sorrow,— if this letter bears the truth."

Viserys nodded, though his mind was already racing, wondering what Aenys's return might mean, what secrets and stories he carried back with him from years spent in foreign lands, so far from the throne and the ways of Westeros. What sort of man had he become in exile? The thought was thrilling and strange, a spark of the unknown amidst a life that had grown all too familiar, worn and frayed by loss.

Runciter cleared his throat once more, hesitant. "Shall I inform the soon-to-meet small council of Prince Aenys's return, Your Grace?"

Viserys paused, his gaze drifting back to the letter as if it might yield some hidden answer, some glimpse of the brother he had once known. No, he decided. He wanted this moment for himself, to savor it, to hold the promise of reunion close to his heart, undisturbed by politics and prying eyes.

"Not yet, Runciter." he said quietly, his voice steady but laced with a faint longing. "Let this remain between us for now. I will share the news when the time is right,— and do inform the council that our meeting will be postponed for a few hours. I wish to be alone."

Runciter inclined his head, understanding in his gaze. "As you wish, Your Grace. If there is aught else you need…"

But Viserys barely heard him, his mind already drifting to visions of what might come,— of Aenys stepping through the doors of the Red Keep, his silver hair gleaming, his eyes filled with the same fire he remembered from their youth. He thought of the laughter they had shared, of dreams spoken in the quiet hours, long before duty and fate had woven their harsh chains around them.

The maester slipped away quietly, leaving Viserys alone with his thoughts. He turned his gaze to the window, where the sun glinted off the rooftops of King's Landing. The world seemed brighter, sharper, as though the city itself sensed the shift within him.

Aenys, he thought, his heart swelling with a mixture of joy and trepidation. After so many years, after so much loss and silence… are you truly coming home?

The words echoed in his mind, and for the first time since Aemma's death, he allowed himself a faint, hopeful smile.

But the smile was short-lived, fading as swiftly as it had come, as Otto Hightower entered the chamber. A Kingsguard followed at his side, glancing carefully between the Hand and his king, alert to any sign of tension.

"Your Grace." Otto greeted him, bowing low before stepping forward, his face carefully composed. Viserys's brows furrowed, irritation flickering across his face.

"Otto? I believe I made myself clear that the council meeting was to be postponed." Viserys said, his tone edged with impatience.

Otto nodded slowly, a hint of unease in his posture. "I am aware, Your Grace." he replied, taking a cautious step forward.

"Then to what do I owe the 'pleasure' of this interruption?" Viserys asked, his gaze narrowing. The faint glow of hope still lingered in his heart, and he was loath to let anything spoil it.

Otto took a steadying breath. "It is with no small regret that I bring you… troubling news, Your Grace. Peculiar, and… grave."

Viserys's irritation deepened. "Speak plainly, Otto. About what or whom?"

Otto's expression tightened, a flicker of discomfort in his eyes as he met Viserys's gaze. "About your brother, Prince Daemon, Your Grace."

Viserys exhaled, feeling the first pricks of a headache forming. Of course, he thought, already bracing himself. Whenever it seemed Daemon might settle, another rumor surfaced, another scandal shadowed his name. "What of him, then?" he asked, his tone wary.

Otto shifted, his voice carefully measured. "I have received word,— trustworthy word,— that Prince Daemon has been found in the Street of Silk, Your Grace. Among the whores and Goldcloaks, making merry."

Viserys's brows drew together in exasperation. "And you bring this to me as if it were news? Daemon has often frequented the Street of Silk." He forced himself to remain calm, reminding himself that Daemon's antics were hardly new. "If this is all, then you,—"

"It is not all, Your Grace." Otto interrupted, his eyes flashing briefly with something unreadable. "They say he was in high spirits, drinking, laughing… cheering toasts."

"Toasts?" Viserys repeated, his irritation mounting. "To what? Speak clearly, Otto."

Otto hesitated, and for a fleeting moment, Viserys saw something in his eyes,— disgust, perhaps, or perhaps pity. "They say..." Otto continued slowly, his voice barely more than a murmur, "-... that Prince Daemon raised his cup and drank to the 'Heir for a Day.'"

The words hung heavy in the air, echoing through the council chamber like a curse. Viserys felt his heart skip, a sudden pang twisting in his chest. For a moment, he could scarcely breathe, the enormity of the insult settling over him like ice.

'The heir for a Day.'

The image struck him like a blow,— the thought of Daemon, his own flesh and blood, laughing and reveling while Aemma's body lay scarcely cold in the crypts below. His son, the tiny babe he had held so briefly, had been his hope for the future. Aemma had died trying to bring him into this world, and Daemon… Daemon had dared to mock it all, to mock their grief, to reduce the agony and loss to nothing more than a jest.

Viserys's fists clenched at his sides, his knuckles white with fury. "He said this?" His voice trembled with rage, each word clipped and seething. "He mocked my grief? Mocked his nephew? Mocked his king?"

Otto nodded solemnly. "It pains me to be the bearer of such tidings, Your Grace. But yes. He has shown no respect for her late grace's memory, or for the sorrow that weighs upon you." He paused, letting the words sink in.

"The city speaks of it, Your Grace. They whisper in taverns and alleyways. Already they have named him the Rogue Prince, a man who revels in mischief and scorn, and now this? Its simply too much to let it slide, your grace."

Viserys felt his hands tremble as he gripped the edge of the table. His vision blurred with the sting of unshed tears, anger mingling with sorrow until he felt as though he might burst from the weight of it all. Daemon, his younger brother, his blood,— how could he be so cruel, so callous? He had always tried to protect him, to shield him from the consequences of his actions, but this… this was beyond forgiveness.

The silence in the chamber was stifling, broken only by Viserys's shallow, furious breaths. Otto stood before him, silent, allowing the anger to fester and grow.

"Summon him." Viserys finally ground out, his voice raw with barely suppressed fury.

"Summon him to me at once. I would hear him say this to my face." Otto inclined his head, his expression grave, though if one tried to, they would be able to see a small smirk on his lips. "As you command, your grace."

Viserys forced himself to calm, to breathe, but the rage would not dissipate. It simmered beneath his skin, fed by the grief that had already hollowed him. He had thought that Aenys's letter, the promise of his older brother's return, might bring some measure of solace, of strength. But now Daemon had torn that hope to shreds, mocking everything that had once bound them.

And as Otto Hightower departed to fulfill his command, Viserys sat alone once more, staring into the empty chamber, the letter from Aenys still clutched tightly in his hand.

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| 105 AC (A few hours later) - Rhaenyra Targaryen's Chamber - With Rhaenyra Targaryen, 3rd Person Pov:

The air in Rhaenyra's chamber hung heavy, thick with the faint scent of myrrh and lavender, though the sweet notes did little to soothe her. She sat by the tall, arched window, gazing out over the vast sprawl of King's Landing below. The city buzzed with life, oblivious to the storms that raged within the Red Keep's stone walls, and in her heart.

Just hours ago, she had heard that her father's fury had shaken the Keep,— words exchanged, orders issued in tones sharp enough to cut, and in the end, Daemon had been sent away.

Banished to the Vale, cast out like some common troublemaker. Her uncle, who had once held her hand and spun tales of dragonriders and battles in her youth, would not return to the Red Keep anytime soon.

Perhaps, she thought, he might never return at all. But Rhaenyra had little time to reflect, for a knock sounded at her door, soft but insistent. She didn't turn, her gaze lingering on the rooftops below as if she might find some answer there in the distant skyline.

"Come in." she called, her voice a touch sharper than she intended. The door opened, and Ser Harrold Westerling entered, his white cloak trailing behind him, the gleam of his armor muted in the dim light of the chamber. His face was solemn, lined with the gravity that always seemed to mark his features, though today there was an edge of something else,— a faint tension in his brow.

"Princess." he began, bowing slightly. "His Grace, your father, has summoned you to meet him."

Rhaenyra did not move from the window, her gaze unfocused, yet her jaw tightened at his words. "Tell my father." she replied coolly, "that I would rather stay here."

Ser Harrold paused, his gaze steady, unyielding. "I am afraid it is not merely a request, princess. His Grace made it clear,— it is a matter of utmost importance."

Rhaenyra's fingers tightened on the stone ledge, her knuckles whitening as she fought the urge to tell him to leave.

Utmost importance, he says.

She wanted to scoff, to refuse outright, to make her father wait. It was Daemon's exile, not her own, yet she felt as though something precious had been torn away from her too. Her uncle's laughter, his tales, his fierce loyalty,— Viserys had sent them all away with the stroke of a hand.

"And if I refuse?" she asked, turning to look at the knight, her tone defiant.

Ser Harrold's expression softened, a faint flicker of sympathy in his eyes. "I would not presume to command you, princess." he said quietly. "But it is the king's command. And as such, I must ask you to come."

Rhaenyra sighed, drawing herself up, her shoulders set. "Very well, Ser Harrold. Tell my father I will be along shortly."

The knight inclined his head, his expression relieved. "Thank you, Princess. I shall await you outside."

Once he left, she lingered a moment longer, her fingers brushing the dragon-shaped pendant at her throat. The weight of it, cold and familiar, felt strangely heavy against her skin. With one last look out the window, she turned and swept from the room, her skirts rustling against the stone floor.

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The hall was dim, lit only by the narrow slits of light that filtered down from the high, arched windows. The skulls of past Targaryen dragons,— Meraxes and Balerion,— all loomed in silent rows, shadows cast across their bleached, cavernous jaws.

It was a place of memories, where dragons of old watched over the Red Keep in silent judgment.

Rhaenyra entered, her footsteps soft against the stone, her gaze flicking to the massive skulls inside. The sight was as awe-inspiring as ever, but today, a new tension underpinned her every step.

Her father waited at the end of the hall, his back to her, his shoulders hunched as he stared up at the colossal skull of Balerion the Black Dread, the last dragon to know Old Valyria.

She paused a few paces away, her hands clasped before her. "Father?"

Viserys turned slowly, and for a moment, Rhaenyra was taken aback by the look in his eyes. They were shadowed, weary,— a man weighed down by the burdens of grief, anger, and something more profound. In his hands, he held a letter, the parchment crinkling slightly beneath his fingers as though he had read it over and over until the words were branded in his memory.

"Rhaenyra." he said softly, and she noticed the strain in his voice, the faint quiver of emotion. "Thank you for coming."

She inclined her head, though her expression was guarded. "You sent for me, Father. How could I refuse?"

Viserys's mouth tightened, but he let the comment pass. He took a step closer, holding out the letter. "I wanted you to see this."

Rhaenyra took it, her gaze shifting to the Targaryen seal broken at the top. She opened it carefully, eyes scanning the inked words, her heart quickening as she took in the lines. She recognized the name at the end, it said Aenys, her father's long-lost elder brother,— her supposed uncle, whom she had been told was lost to the sea, even before she was welcomed to this world.

Her voice was barely a whisper when she finally spoke. "Aenys Targaryen, my uncle… he lives?"

Viserys nodded, his face a mix of wonder and sorrow. "Yes. After all these years, he has returned to us, it would seem."

Rhaenyra looked up, her eyes filled with questions. "But how is that even possible? And this letter says that he wishes to come here? To court?"

Viserys's gaze drifted past her, lingering on the shadowed forms of the dragon skulls.

"He writes that he seeks to return to his blood, his kin, to restore the bond that was lost."

She swallowed, the letter trembling in her hands. "I… I scarcely know what to say. I grew up thinking him lost to us. And now, after Daemon…" Her voice trailed off, but Viserys's expression grew darker, his mouth a tight line. "Daemon has proven himself unworthy." Viserys said, his tone laced with bitterness. "He mocked our grief, Rhaenyra. Mocked Aemma, and our child… my son."

His voice cracked slightly, and Rhaenyra felt a pang of her own sorrow, mingling with anger at Daemon's cruelty. She knew her uncle could be reckless, but this was beyond her understanding.

"So… is Uncle Aenys to be named your heir?" she asked, her voice soft but steady.

Viserys looked at her, his gaze somber. "Yes. I am naming Aenys as my heir. He is the eldest son of our father, Baelon, the rightful choice. Seven hells, he should have been king himself... But now, now he has returned to us from beyond the sea, and I will not turn him away. He will be welcomed as the heir to the Iron Throne, and I expect you to do the same." Rhaenyra's face tightened, though she lowered her gaze, hiding the flicker of disappointment that welled up within her.

She had dared to hope, foolishly perhaps, that her father might one day see her as his rightful heir. But that dream, it seemed, would remain a dream. She could see it in the conviction in his eyes, the resolve in his stance. Her father's heart had found some solace in Aenys's return, a purpose beyond his grief.

Viserys stepped forward, his hand resting lightly on her shoulder. "This does not change your place, Rhaenyra. You are my daughter, my blood. No crown or title could alter that."

She nodded, though his words felt hollow.

She had always known what her father's love meant, yet somehow, that love seemed now like a consolation prize, a shadow of the honor that had slipped beyond her reach.

"When will he arrive?" she asked, her voice carefully neutral.

"Soon, I believe." Viserys replied, his tone softening. "He has promised to come as soon as he is able. And when he does, I will introduce you to him. You will have an uncle once more, Rhaenyra."

She met his gaze, the weight of his words settling heavily upon her. "Yes, Father. I will be ready." Viserys's face softened, and he reached out, brushing a stray lock of hair from her cheek. "I know these days have been difficult, my dear one. But perhaps… perhaps Aenys's return will bring some healing to our house. After so many years of grief and loss, maybe the gods are granting our family another chance."

Rhaenyra offered him a faint smile, though her mind whirled with conflicting thoughts.

Another chance, he said, yet her heart told her that the arrival of her uncle would bring as many challenges as blessings. She looked up at Balerion's skull looming above them, the empty eye sockets watching over the hall, cold and eternal. There was something ominous in the way the shadows fell upon it.

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Thoughts on the chapter? I'm actually scared for the feedback..

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| Fire & Blood |

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