280 AC
Ashara Dayne Pov
The air buzzed with excitement, the cheers of lords and ladies filling the vast tourney grounds as the final joust of the tournament was set to commence. I sat within the pavilion, overlooking the grounds, the sunlight filtering through the silken drapes, casting a warm glow over the assembled nobility. It was the last day of the jousts, and after days of exhilarating matches, two men remained—the esteemed Ser Barristan Selmy of the Kingsguard and the ever-reckless Prince Oberyn Martell of Dorne.
The melee had already concluded with a decisive victory for Robert Baratheon. He had fought like a man possessed, each swing of his warhammer a testament to his strength and ferocity. His victory had come as no surprise to those who knew him well. Now, as the joust drew to its final moments, all eyes were on the field.
The tourney itself had been nothing short of eventful. The realm was still reeling from the revelation that House Targaryen had reclaimed their dragons. King Aerys II, once a brooding and paranoid ruler, now strutted about with renewed arrogance, utterly oblivious to the unease among his gathered lords. Whispers traveled like wildfire through the noble circles—concerns about what this resurgence of power might mean for the realm.
"Lady Ashara," a voice called out, pulling me from my thoughts. I turned to see Eddard Stark standing near the entrance of the pavilion, his expression hesitant yet earnest.
Eddard Stark—the quiet and unassuming second son of House Stark. I had danced with him during the feast, much to my own surprise. Robert Baratheon, his brother in all but blood, had been the first to ask me to dance, his charm and confidence impossible to ignore. But after Robert had twirled me around the dance floor, he had insisted that I dance with Eddard next. The Northern lord had seemed rather shy about it, but there had been a quiet strength in the way he moved, a steadiness that was rare among the boastful men who surrounded us.
"Lord Eddard, please sit," I said with a gracious smile, motioning to the seat beside me. He hesitated only for a moment before complying, his posture stiff but composed.
"How are your siblings, Lord Eddard?" I inquired, hoping to ease his nerves.
He let out a short, amused laugh. "Lyanna and Benjen are driving my father mad. He may well come to regret bringing them south."
I chuckled at that. "You must be a good older brother."
"Well, I try, my lady," he said, his voice tinged with humility.
I thought of my own brother then—Arthur. I missed him dearly. He should have been here, but the ongoing tensions between Prince Daemon and Prince Rhaegar had prevented his recall to King's Landing, despite being a sworn member of the Kingsguard. The court was divided, and it seemed that every noble house was carefully weighing where their allegiances should lie.
A loud blast of the horn interrupted my thoughts, signaling the arrival of Prince Daemon Targaryen, the man who had captured the attention of every noble present. The cheers erupted as he made his way to the royal box, his presence commanding as ever. His silver-gold hair gleamed in the sunlight, his dark violet eyes filled with mischief and arrogance. I tensed involuntarily as his gaze swept over the crowd before settling on me. He grinned, and my fingers instinctively curled around the edge of my gown.
"To all the men and women who have gathered here to celebrate this tourney, I extend my deepest gratitude," Daemon declared, his voice carrying easily over the crowd. "As I complete my first year as Hand of the King, I wish to thank you all for your presence and your support."
Murmurs rippled through the gathered lords and ladies. Some looked upon Daemon with admiration, while others watched him with wary eyes. He was a man who thrived on unpredictability, a Targaryen dragon through and through.
"And now, I call forth our two finalists—the mighty Ser Barristan the Bold and the ever-formidable Prince Oberyn Martell!" Daemon's voice rang out, his goblet of wine raised high in the air.
The two knights rode onto the field, each a striking figure in their own right. Ser Barristan Selmy, clad in the pristine white armor of the Kingsguard, exuded quiet confidence. He was mounted on a dark brown destrier, its powerful frame a testament to its strength. Opposing him, Prince Oberyn Martell cut a far different figure. His armor was lighter, dyed in the rich hues of Dorne's sunset—deep orange and gold. His horse, a swift Dornish sand steed, pawed eagerly at the ground.
The crowd erupted in cheers as the two knights lowered their visors and took their positions.
"May the best jouster win," Daemon announced, his smirk widening as he turned his gaze toward me once more.
The first pass saw both knights shatter their lances upon each other's shields, neither giving an inch. The second was much the same, though Oberyn's sand steed moved with an agility that made him difficult to strike cleanly. But as the rounds continued, it became clear that Ser Barristan was the superior jouster. His technique was flawless, each tilt pushing him closer to victory.
Then came the final tilt. The crowd held its breath as the two knights charged at each other one last time. Wood splintered, horses reared, and in the next instant, Prince Oberyn was unseated, sent tumbling to the ground in a cloud of dust.
A thunderous cheer erupted across the field. Ser Barristan, ever the knight, dismounted swiftly and extended a hand to Oberyn, who, though clearly frustrated, accepted it with a wry grin.
Ser Barristan took his victory lap, his white cloak billowing behind him as he rode past the adoring crowd. When he reached the royal box, Daemon stepped forward, holding out a wreath of blue winter roses. "Ser Barristan," Daemon proclaimed, his voice laced with amusement, "it is your right to crown the Queen of Love and Beauty. Choose wisely."
Ser Barristan accepted the wreath, then turned his horse toward the noble pavilion. My breath caught as his steady gaze met mine. The entire world seemed to still in that moment. I could feel Eddard Stark tensing beside me, his hand tightening into a fist upon his lap.
The Kingsguard knight stopped before me, lowering his lance, upon which the wreath of winter roses rested. My heart pounded as I reached forward, plucking it delicately from its perch. The crowd erupted into applause as I slowly placed the crown upon my head, my gaze flickering momentarily toward Daemon.
He was staring at me, his expression unreadable, yet the smirk still played upon his lips. There was something dangerous in his amusement, something that made my pulse quicken in a way I was not certain I welcomed.
Beside me, Eddard Stark remained silent, his jaw tight, his gray eyes unreadable.
The moment stretched on, charged with something unseen but undeniably present. And though the crowd cheered and the festivities continued, I could not shake the feeling that this tourney had set events in motion that none of us could yet comprehend.
--------
The feast was in full swing—firelight flickered against polished goblets, musicians strummed strings to lively tunes, and the scent of roasted duck and Dornish spices drifted through the grand hall like smoke. Laughter rolled off the vaulted ceilings, mingling with the clink of silver and the rustle of silk.
And yet, for all the merriment, I was growing restless.
I barely got a moment's respite, every lord and knight seemingly determined to spin me about the floor, to earn a glance, a smile—perhaps more. I obliged, of course, out of courtesy if not interest. I moved with practiced ease, slipping into rhythm with one partner after another. But through it all, I remained... distracted.
Because the one man I wanted a dance from had yet to ask.
Daemon Targaryen sat at the high table, draped in shadows and arrogance. The Golden Prince, they called him—and never had a title fit more snugly. Clad in black and gold, hair gleaming silver-gold beneath the chandelier's soft glow, he lounged like a dragon sunning itself after a kill. His mismatched eyes roamed the hall lazily, and he wore that smirk—half-amused, half-predatory—as he jested with his father, the King, and some lord whose name I didn't care to remember.
He hadn't so much as looked my way.
It irked me. Truly.
The song ended, and I dipped a shallow curtsy to Ser Lyle of House Mooton, who bowed too deeply and almost stumbled over his own feet. Before I could slip away, another approached—this time, with solemn grace.
"May I have this dance, my lady?"
Eddard Stark stood before me, pale-faced and stiffer than a freshly forged blade. His grey eyes didn't meet mine, as if afraid to offend me by even daring to ask.
Sweet. Earnest. Doomed.
I smiled gently. "Of course, my lord."
We danced. He was better than expected—measured, careful—but my mind wandered. My gaze drifted to the dais. Daemon was watching now, twirling the wine in his goblet with a lazy wrist. I saw the slight shift in his posture as he leaned over to whisper to one of the musicians. The man nodded and quickly disappeared backstage.
Then the song ended.
And the hall began to quiet.
I heard the opening notes—soft, haunting, unmistakable. The strings wept a mournful tune, low and sultry. I knew it immediately. Everyone did.
The Fires of Duskendale.
A tune that whispered of ruin and delight in the same breath. It had long since eclipsed The Rains of Castamere in infamy.
I felt Eddard stiffen beside me, his hand falling away from mine. The crowd began to part, whispers trailing behind.
And then I saw him.
Daemon had risen from the high table. He moved with deliberate ease, like a beast entirely aware of its power. As he stepped into the firelight, I could see the smirk playing on his lips, the glint in his mismatched eyes—one violet, the other emrald green.
"Dance with me," he said.
It wasn't a question. His voice was deep, velvet laced with steel, and it brokered no argument.
I stood still for a breath, feeling the weight of every eye in the hall. Then I stepped toward him, letting Eddard fall away without a word.
Daemon's hand slid into mine, warm and firm. His other pressed to the small of my back, possessive already. And then we moved.
We danced alone.
The other guests had fallen still, their whispers hushed in the face of what they were witnessing—Daemon Targaryen dancing The Fires of Duskendale with the daughter of Starfall beneath a thousand candles.
"Quite the song you chose, my prince," I said, arching a brow.
He snickered. "Since when do you call me prince, Ashara?"
His grip tightened slightly, pulling me just a breath closer than propriety allowed.
"You're drunk," I muttered.
He leaned in, his lips grazing the curve of my ear. "On wine. On you. Perhaps both."
I felt a flush rise to my cheeks, though I masked it behind a smirk. He smelled of Dornish red and dragonfire—or maybe that was just my imagination, playing tricks on me.
"You're bold tonight."
"I'm always bold," he said. "But only with those worth the effort."
"You mistake me for someone easily won," I said as I let my fingers trail lightly over the back of his hand.
"I mistake nothing." His eyes burned into mine. "You're fire, Ashara. But not the kind that flickers and fades. You burn cold and high, like starlight on steel. It draws men like me in... and dares us to get close enough to burn."
"Is that what you want?" I asked, my voice lower now, more dangerous. "To be burned?"
He laughed softly, the sound dark and thrilling. "I've lived my whole life chasing the flame. Why stop now?"
His hand slipped lower, dangerously close to the line of impropriety. I gave him a look—one that warned, and invited, all in one breath.
"You would wither in the snow," he murmured.
I stilled. The meaning wasn't lost on me. A jab at Stark. A statement of preference. An implication.
"So you believe I should burn alongside you?"
Daemon tilted his head. His silver hair glinted in the candlelight, framing his face like a halo. A wicked, glorious halo.
"A star burns brighter than fire," he said. "Let's see which of us consumes the other first."
My breath caught. I hated that he had that effect on me. That I couldn't look away from his mouth when he said things like that.
The music rose in a final crescendo, strings singing of ruin and pleasure. And as the last note hung in the air, he didn't let go of me.
Instead, he took my hand in his again—this time firmly—and turned toward the doors. The crowd parted once more, this time with reverence, or fear, or both.
He led me out of the hall.
Eyes followed. Mouths whispered. But none dared speak aloud.
Because they all saw it too.
The fire. The danger. The beginning of something glorious—and disastrous.
----------
As I entered his chambers in the Tower of the Hand, the first thing I noticed was the unmistakable scent of wine—rich, dark, and intoxicating. A dozen bottles lay scattered about the room, some Dornish red, others Arbor gold, their contents partially drunk or entirely emptied. Goblets, both his and those of guests now gone, were strewn on the table. The hearth still crackled softly, casting amber light across the stone walls and the silver of his hair.
"How much have you been drinking?" I asked, arching an eyebrow as I stepped inside, closing the heavy wooden door behind me.
Daemon barely lifted his head from the bed before flopping onto his back with a groan of satisfaction. "I had to meet quite a few lords today," he said, his voice muffled slightly against the plush pillows, "to discuss the future. It would've been rude not to provide them with refreshments."
I eyed the mess. "An excuse for you to indulge, you mean."
He let out a short laugh, deep and unapologetic. "Perhaps. Or perhaps this is how one eases the burden of politics."
With a grunt, he sat up and swung his legs over the edge of the bed, running a hand through his tousled silver golden hair. He looked tired and flushed from drink, but those mismatched eyes still burned with their usual gleam. He rose and stepped toward me slowly, like a hunter not yet sure if his prey would bolt or stay.
"Enough of all this," he murmured, stopping just a breath away.
My heart thudded in my chest. "What do you mean?"
He gave a crooked smile, his voice dropping to that lower, velvet-soft timbre that always made me feel like the air around us had thickened.
"Do you remember Casterly Rock?"
A smile crept to my lips, unbidden. "How could I forget?"
We had danced too long that night and we had kissed for the first time. It had been reckless, unexpected, and far too brief.
"But then your betrothal was announced," I said, letting the smile slip from my lips.
Daemon's expression darkened for a heartbeat. "And look how that ended."
Rumors had run wild, as they always did. But tonight, Daemon didn't look mournful. He looked free.
"And now," I said softly, "here we are. Unspoken for. Unclaimed."
His eyes roamed my face with slow appreciation, a flicker of amusement rising in them.
"What?" I asked, intrigued.
"Well," he said, voice low, "we're about to do what even betrothed couples are forbidden to do."
He stepped closer. I felt the heat radiating off him, smelled the wine on his breath and the smoky spice of the wood burning in the hearth. Our lips were an inch apart. My pulse fluttered like a caged bird.
"You should ask a lady for her permission," I murmured, even though every inch of me ached for him to close the gap.
Daemon smirked, his hand lifting to brush a strand of hair from my cheek.
"A dragon takes what he wants."
Then he kissed me.
Fierce. Possessive. Unyielding.
I melted into him. My hands tangled in his hair as our mouths found a rhythm, hungry and desperate and raw. He tasted of wine and sin, and I drank him in like I'd been parched for years. His arms wrapped around my waist, pulling me flush against his body, and I could feel the fire in him—burning hot and wild just beneath the surface.
He broke the kiss only to press his lips to my neck, his breath warm against my skin.
"I want you, Ashara," he whispered into my ear, sending a shiver down my spine.
"I know," I breathed, running my fingers down his chest, fingers curling around the edge of his tunic. "And I want you."
He kissed me again, slower this time, exploring. His hands moved with purpose, one resting at the curve of my hip, the other sliding up my back. When he slipped the clasp of my cloak free and let it fall to the floor, I didn't stop him. I didn't want to.
His lips trailed kisses from my jaw to my collarbone, each one igniting my skin like sparks from a forge. My hands found the hem of his shirt and tugged it upward, exposing the scarred muscle of his stomach and chest. He pulled it off without hesitation, and I followed suit with my own gown, letting it fall in a rustle of silk around my feet.
For a moment, we stood there—bare, exposed, our chests rising and falling in quiet tandem. The firelight bathed his skin in gold, dancing across the curve of his shoulders, the cut of his jaw. I had never seen anyone more beautiful, nor more dangerous.
He stepped forward and lifted me into his arms with such ease that I gasped, and then he carried me to the bed. The mattress dipped beneath our weight, and then his hands were on me again—slow and reverent this time, as though he were memorizing every inch of me. My breath hitched as his mouth found mine again, and then lower.
He worshipped me like a knight his queen, his touch both commanding and tender. Every kiss made me arch into him. Every whisper set my skin ablaze. I moaned his name against the hollow of his throat, and he growled mine back like a vow.
We tangled together, limbs and breath and need, until there was nothing but us—the prince and the star, the dragon and the flame. There was no crown, no kingdom, no family feud, no future to fear.
Only this moment. Only this heat.
And when it was over, we lay entangled beneath the silk sheets, his head resting on my shoulder, fingers tracing idle circles on my thigh. The fire had dimmed to embers, but the warmth remained, seeping into my bones.
I turned to him. "Was that... something you planned?"
Daemon gave me a lazy grin. "No. But I always knew it would happen."
"So confident."
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Jon Arryn Pov
The fire in the hearth crackled softly, but the chamber felt cold.
Across from me, Rickard Stark sat with the same icy calm that defined his house, hands folded, eyes like polished steel. Hoster Tully, in contrast, paced like a caged fish, his ruddy face flushed with barely contained fury.
"He brought the dragons back to life," Rickard said finally, his voice cold, measured — but the weight of it landed like a hammer blow.
Hoster stopped in his tracks, turning toward him. "He already strutted around the realm as if he were king. And now… with dragons?" His voice dropped to a bitter whisper. "There's truly nothing we can do to check him."
I folded my hands in front of me, watching the firelight flicker across the stone. "The dragons have not yet grown. Not fully. That is our only advantage, and it will not last."
Hoster's eyes lifted to meet mine, sharp and observant. "Yes," he said slowly. "You're right."
"We still have our strength," Hoster spoke, planting both hands on the table before us. "The Vale. The Riverlands. The Stormlands. The North. We have more than enough swords between us."
"Enough swords for what, Lord Hoster?" Rickard said coldly, his voice low but dangerous. "To raise a banner against House Targaryen? To crown a new king?"
Hoster's eyes narrowed. "We swore no oaths to Daemon. He is not the king. He wears no crown."
Rickard rose to his feet, slow and deliberate, like the rising of winter. "We forged this alliance to keep the realm united — to temper the Targaryen fire, not extinguish it. To ensure peace. Now you speak of rebellion."
Hoster's jaw clenched. "Peace is dead the moment fire returns to the sky."
Rickard did not flinch. "Then we must speak of how to endure it, not destroy it. The North will not join this folly. The Starks do not abandon peace for ambition."
I leaned forward. "You call it ambition. But the realm already bends toward chaos. Daemon has done more to divide the kingdoms than any Targaryen before him. He places dragons above diplomacy, fire above reason. If we wait, he'll come for each of us in time."
Rickard's eyes turned toward me, cold and unreadable. "The last thing Prince Daemon wants is civil war."
"How do you know that for sure?" Hoster snapped, his voice rising.
Rickard looked down for a long moment, then back up. He exhaled sharply through his nose, as if steeling himself. "Because he told me. And because I have seen his deeds, not just his words."
That caught me off guard.
"What deeds?" I asked.
Rickard straightened. "He has been mining dragonglass from Dragonstone and sending it to the North. Quietly. He has armed the Night's Watch. With blades capable of slaying White Walkers."
A long silence followed.
Hoster laughed — sharp, mocking. "The White Walkers? Ghost stories. He sends blades to the Wall and you think that makes him noble? The Targaryens have always been mad."
Rickard's voice darkened. "Mind your tongue when you speak of the prince."
A long, dangerous pause stretched between them. Rickard's jaw was clenched, his shoulders taut. Despite the northern calm he wore, I could see the storm beneath it.
"Daemon Targaryen may be reckless. He may be proud," Rickard continued, his voice steadier now. "But he has done more for the Night's Watch than the entire south combined. You call him mad for seeing what others refuse to see."
I watched him closely. There was something more — a loyalty in his tone that went beyond politics.
"You truly believe him?" I asked, incredulous.
Rickard met my gaze. "Aye. I do."
Thunder cracked overhead. For a moment, all I could hear was the rain hammering the windows and the low hiss of logs splitting in the hearth. I felt the weight of decades of service pressing down on my shoulders. This was not how the realm was meant to go — lords turning against each other, the old alliances fraying like worn cloth, and dragons once again rising from ashes.
"What would you have us do, then?" Hoster asked, trying to keep the anger from his voice. "Kneel?"
"I would have us think," Rickard answered. "Before we throw men into fire."
There was a knock at the door — firm, deliberate.
I turned. "Enter."
The door creaked open, and in stepped Robert Baratheon, taller than any man in the room, broad as a warhorse. Beside him stood Eddard Stark, his face a mirror of his father's — calm, quiet, but alert.
"It seems," Robert said with a wry smile, "it's time we go meet the King."
The great doors of the throne room groaned open with the weight of centuries, echoing down the vaulted stone corridors like the bellow of a waking giant. A gust of warm air followed us in, and the golden beams of the midday sun poured through the high windows, setting the marble floor ablaze with light. I stepped into the Great Hall, my boots clicking on the polished stone, and raised my eyes toward the Iron Throne.
The sunlight, however, denied me a clear view. It struck the Iron Throne at its zenith, a dazzling glare glinting off twisted blades and splintered hilts, the remnants of a thousand conquered enemies. The figure seated upon the throne was wreathed in light, as though the gods themselves sought to obscure him from mortal eyes. But I knew who sat there.
At the base of the Iron Throne, the white-cloaked knights of the Kingsguard stood as still as statues, their polished plate gleaming, their hands resting on the pommels of their swords. They watched us with cold, impassive stares — shields of the realm, swords of the crown.
Lords had gathered beneath the throne, arranged like pieces on a cyvasse board, each one in a position that mirrored the territories they hailed from. A massive map of the Seven Kingdoms had been unfurled across the stone tiles, and I realized, with a slow sense of unease, that each lord stood upon their domain. This was not merely a royal audience — it was a reckoning.
I recognized the tall, lean figure of Prince Oberyn Martell and Prince Of Dorne Prince Doran Martell, his orange-and-red robes like flames licking at the floor. He stood with arms crossed, his dark eyes watching everything, missing nothing. House Martell had long kept to itself, but Oberyn's presence here was no mere formality — it was a declaration.
Ser Kevan Lannister stood beside the golden lion of the west. Broader and less imposing than his elder brother, Tywin, yet still a formidable presence. He whispered something to a bannerman at his side, his eyes wary. Even without Tywin here, the shadow of House Lannister loomed large.
To the west, near the painted isles of Pyke, stood Quellon Greyjoy, stoic and sea-worn, his salt-and-pepper beard cascading down his breastplate. His heir, Balon, was at his shoulder — younger, hungrier, and with a sharpness in his eyes that made me uneasy. The krakens had come from the deeps, and one did not summon them lightly.
Closer to the Reach, I spotted Mace Tyrell, puffed up with self-importance, his stomach testing the limits of his doublet. But beside him stood a far more dangerous figure — Lady Olenna Tyrell, the Queen of Thorns. Her eyes flicked about with hawkish precision, cataloguing every alliance, every slight, every crack in the realm.
My gaze swept over the gathering and fell upon Stannis Baratheon, stiff-backed and brooding, the fire of his brother Robert tempered by cold discipline. His jaw was clenched, his fingers curled into fists at his sides. He had not come to play games. I felt a flicker of familiarity. He was the brother of my ward, after all.
But before I could dwell further, the silence was broken.
Boots rang out on the stone as Prince Daemon Targaryen descended the steps of the Iron Throne, each stride deliberate, confident, dangerous. The long black coat he wore swirled behind him, and one hand rested on the hilt of his infamous Valyrian steel sword — Dark Sister. The blade caught the sunlight, casting shadows like dancing smoke across the map. His silver-gold hair glowed in the sun, but his violet eyes were fixed on us, piercing and unreadable.
"It seems," Daemon said, his voice carrying across the hall like the crack of a whip, "the rebels have joined us after all."
My breath caught. The words were spoken with deliberate provocation — an accusation veiled in mockery. My eyes widened as the full weight of his meaning settled upon me.
To my right, Lord Hoster Tully turned, his face grim. His eyes sought mine briefly, searching, questioning. To my left, Lord Rickard Stark's jaw was tight, his breath expelled in a quiet, barely contained curse. The words stung because they held a kernel of truth — or, at the very least, a truth Daemon wished to forge.
This meeting was no council. It was a theater of power.
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Daemon Pov
The Falcon looked stricken. His usually composed face, carved from stone and honor, twitched as he realized I had just called him out — publicly and without apology — as a traitor.
"Ah, Lord Arryn," I said, amusement coating my words like honey, "you look as if I accused you of treason." I let the moment hang, like a sword dangling by a hair. "I merely stated a fact."
A ripple passed through the hall.
"My father, King Aerys, truly wished to be present here among you all," I began with a smirk, turning to face the full court, my arms wide as if to embrace them all. "But alas, he is... resting." A few awkward coughs. "The feast last night was rather excessive. Too much wine. Too many women. The usual."
What I did not say — what I knew all of them suspected — was that Aerys hadn't simply drunk too deeply. I'd seen to it that the women he spent the night with had left him too exhausted to rise, let alone sit the Iron Throne. The old dragon was grounded, and today, this was my court.
"Do not look so troubled, my lords," I said cheerfully, turning my gaze toward the gathering of men who styled themselves 'STAB' — Stark, Tully, Arryn, Baratheon — such a quaint little acronym. I rolled it around in my head like a bauble a child might play with before smashing it underfoot. "This is just a game, after all. And what better place to play... than upon the very map of Westeros?"
The map spread across the floor gleamed in the sunlight. Painted rivers and ridges, hills and coastlines, the very veins and bones of the realm. It was more than art. It was strategy. Theater. War.
"Go on now," I said with a grin. "Stand where your lands lie. Let us see the kingdoms made manifest."
The lords obeyed. Some with pride, others with suspicion, and a few — like Rickard Stark — with thinly veiled contempt.
"Now," I continued, plucking from a velvet pouch a set of carved tokens — lions, krakens, suns, roses, dragons, and stags. Symbols of the noble houses. "We are all such devoted fans of this little 'Game of Thrones,' are we not? I thought, why not turn fiction into reality? Let's play at civil war."
They didn't laugh.
"We begin with the loyalists," I said, walking across the map and placing the Targaryen dragon token — crimson and black — upon the Iron Islands, then the Reach, Dorne, the Westerlands, and finally, the Crownlands. "These are the houses who remember the debt they owe the dragon."
I gave a slight bow toward Oberyn Martell, who returned it with a smirk, then to Ser Kevan Lannister, who gave a small, stiff nod. Mace Tyrell puffed out his chest, already imagining songs about his coming glory. Quellon Greyjoy remained impassive — but his eyes gleamed like wet stones.
"And now, the traitors," I said, voice dropping low as I drew out a carved stag — its antlers gilded, its eyes made of jet. I placed it first on the North, then the Vale, the Riverlands, and finally the Stormlands.
The silence in the room thickened.
"You might wonder," I said, turning to them all like a showman beneath a great tent, "why the rebels bear the crowned stag. A curious choice, no? But fitting. For they intend to crown my dear cousin, Robert Baratheon, King of Westeros."
Gasps rippled outward like waves.
I turned and walked straight toward Jon Arryn. "Tell me, Lord Jon," I said lightly, "have you considered how closely related Robert is to House Targaryen? His grandmother was a dragon. That makes him... what, one-eighth royal?"
Jon said nothing. His face was pale.
"This alliance of yours," I continued, "is no accident. It's ancient in the making. Do you think I've not studied the past?"
I turned and addressed the whole hall.
"During the last Blackfyre Rebellion, certain houses dreamed of rising higher. Talks of betrothals and fostering were bandied about like merchant coin. And now? History repeats."
I gestured dramatically toward Rickard Stark and Hoster Tully.
"Lord Stark's heir, Brandon, is betrothed to Catelyn Tully. Robert Baratheon and young Ned were both fostered under Jon Arryn's roof. And from the rumors I've heard — oh, such sweet, scandalous things — Lady Lyanna Stark is to be wed to Robert. Meanwhile, Hoster Tully intends to marry his other daughter, Lysa, to Elbert Arryn, heir to the Vale."
My voice dripped with mockery.
"What a splendid web you've woven! North, Vale, Riverlands, Stormlands — all tied together in a neat little alliance. Not for love. Not for peace. But for power."
The lords stood still. Some looked away. Others clenched their jaws.
"Of course," I added with a grin, "this is just a game. A hypothetical. A jest. Surely you don't mean to betray your oaths for a handful of marriages?"
Then I raised my hand again, and the mood shifted. My voice turned colder.
"Now, how would the loyalists respond to such an alliance of traitors?"
I paced.
"The Ironborn would raid the North and Riverlands from the sea, setting your shores ablaze. Lannister legions would pour into the Riverlands from the west, burning every Tully banner from Seagard to Harrenhal."
I turned to Hoster Tully, who flushed with rage.
"Oh, forgive me, my lord. Unlike the North and the Vale, the Riverlords have no deep loyalty to your house. Not truly. It was the dragons who broke the chains of the Ironborn. Not House Tully."
I spun on my heel.
"The Reach? The Reach will shatter them all. The Ironborn from the west, the Westerlands from the north, and from the south... Dorne. Yes, Prince Doran has agreed to march beside Tyrell banners. A united force — roses and suns — sweeping through the Stormlands, crushing resistance beneath sandaled heels and steel."
I caught Robert's glare and grinned wider. The stag was ready to charge — but chained by the gaze of a thousand witnesses.
"And if, by some miracle, the rebel 'king' escapes, he will flee north, harried by Crownlander forces. But it will be for nothing. For the moment he crosses the Trident..."
I paused.
"...he will find the North and Vale descending from one side to support him, and loyalist forces from all others. Trapped. Encircled. Annihilated."
Whispers swelled like wind before a storm.
"Ah," I said brightly, "and you must be wondering — why are these noble, royal houses siding with the dragons?"
I let the silence draw out. Then I threw down the next revelation like a gauntlet.
"My youngest brother, Prince Viserys, has been betrothed to Princess Arianne Martell, heir to Dorne. A most fruitful match."
"My elder brother, Crown Prince Rhaegar, is married to Cersei Lannister the daughter of the Warden of the West."
"My brother Daeron has been betrothed to Asha Greyjoy, the only daughter of Balon Greyjoy and heir to Pyke.
Quellon's expression didn't change, but Balon's eyes flashed.
"And me?" I said, spreading my arms. "I have been promised to Lady Janna Tyrell, younger sister to Mace Tyrell. A beauty of the Reach, and soon, a princess of House Targaryen."
Mace smiled like a man who'd just been crowned.
"Dragons do not marry for love," I said, my voice silk and steel. "We marry for power."
The lords were stunned into silence. The rebel alliance they'd formed in shadows was now a pale reflection of mine — forged in dragonfire, sealed in blood and bed.
"Dragons," I said softly, "will not be needed. Not when we have strategy, soldiers, and steel. The rebellion will be crushed before a single wing beats the sky."
Then I turned toward Eddard Stark — the quiet wolf. He had been still throughout, but now I saw the tension in his jaw, the flicker of fury in his eyes.
I stepped close. Uncomfortably close.
"Eddard," I said, "thank you. Truly. For keeping Lady Ashara Dayne company during her stay. You were a proper gentleman, weren't you? Honor and all that."
Then I leaned in.
"Which made it all the more enjoyable for me — when I took her maidenhead myself. Fucked her like a bitch in heat, as you Northerners might say."
Eddard's fists clenched, and for a moment I wondered if the wolf might bare his fangs. But no — too many eyes. Too much at stake.
I stepped back, laughing.
"Come now, don't be dour. I expect you all at my wedding next year," I announced grandly. "It shall be the grandest tourney ever held — a Tourney at Highgarden! Better than the one that would take place in Harrenhal, I daresay."
I looked around at the faces of the lords — stunned, angry, some calculating, others defeated.
"Come," I said, voice turning mocking once more. "This is all just a game. Why worry about the consequences of your actions? Unless, of course, you're foolish enough to raise your banners against a rejuvenated House Targaryen — and its dragons."