Dance of The Dragonwolf

The Red Door's Shadow

The Red Keep's courtyard buzzed with whispered conversations as Aenar dismounted his horse, the sound of steel-shod hooves on ancient stone echoing off the towering walls. Courtiers lined the pathway to the throne room, their faces a mixture of curiosity, calculation, and barely concealed unease. Word of Tyrosh's conquest had preceded them, along with darker rumors of what methods had been employed.

Like vultures circling a fresh corpse, Aenar thought, noting how the nobles maintained careful distances while the servants and guards pressed closer with obvious admiration. The divide was stark—those who lived in comfort feared him, while those who scraped for survival saw him as a champion.

"Prince Aenar!" called a voice from the crowd. A young kitchen maid had broken from her designated position, her face bright with excitement. "We've kept your fountains clean, Your Grace! Just as you showed us!"

Several lords exchanged disapproving glances at the breach of protocol, but Aenar offered the girl a genuine smile. "I thank you. The smallfolk's dedication honors us all."

Lord Lannister—Jason, the elder twin—stepped forward in a way as if he were afraid of him. "Your Grace," he said, the title rolling off his tongue like honey over glass. "All of King's Landing celebrates your triumphant return. Though some question whether Tyrosh's... renovation... was entirely necessary."

"Conquest is rarely tidy, my lord," Aenar replied smoothly. "I'm sure your own ancestors understood this when they carved out Casterly Rock's fortunes."

"Indeed," Lannister's smile didn't reach his eyes. "Though one wonders if such thoroughness might complicate future diplomatic endeavors."

Daemon appeared at Aenar's shoulder, his presence like a sword half-drawn from its sheath. "Diplomacy works best when backed by strength, wouldn't you agree, Lord Jason? Ask the Tyroshi how persuasive our dragons proved."

The procession moved toward the throne room's towering doors. Aenar caught sight of Lord Beesbury speaking in hushed tones with several other council members, their conversation dying as he approached.

"Your Grace," Beesbury offered with a nervous bow. "The Crown's treasury celebrates your success in the Stepstones. The gold from Tyrosh's dye trade will prove... substantial."

"Assuming the trade routes remain stable," interjected Lord Strong, his tone carefully neutral. "Reports suggest some merchant families fled during the conquest."

Of course, they focus on gold and trade routes, Aenar mused. Not the lives lost or the piracy ended. Just the coin that might line their purses.

"Fled merchants can be replaced," he said aloud. "Pirates cannot be reasoned with. We chose the permanent solution."

The throne room doors swung open with a groan of ancient hinges, revealing the Iron Throne in all its twisted glory. King Viserys sat upon the monstrosity of melted swords, one should look like a King upon sitting on that throne. Daenerys loved to tell him that when he sat on the Throne, he looked like a True Targaryen King. His uncle did not. He seemed fragile, his full face was gone, and his silver hair had lost its brightness, now appearing more as grey from old age, despite Viserys being 37 years old.

"Approach," Viserys called, his voice echoing in the vast chamber.

The returning party walked the length of the hall under the watchful eyes of assembled courtiers. Aenar noted the careful positioning—supporters of House Hightower clustered on the throne's right, while those loyal to Rhaenyra gathered on the left. The divide that had begun with Viserys's remarriage had only deepened in their absence.

"My daughter, my brother, brave lords and ladies of House Velaryon," Viserys began formally, "we welcome you home to King's Landing. Your victory in Tyrosh brings great honor to House Targaryen and the Seven Kingdoms."