297 AC
The Small Council chamber in King's Landing was thick with tension, the flickering light from the high-arched windows casting long shadows on the stone walls. The heavy wooden doors had barely closed behind the latest messenger when King Robert Baratheon slammed his goblet down on the table, splashing wine across the polished surface.
"That fake Targaryen bastard?" Robert barked, his face flushed from drink and anger. "Haven't we killed enough of them already?"
The gathered council members exchanged wary glances. The air was heavy with unspoken fears and political calculations.
Jon Arryn, the Hand of the King, sat at Robert's right, his expression calm but troubled. The years weighed heavily on him, his once-sharp features lined with age and worry. "This is not a rumor we can ignore, Robert," Jon said quietly. "Aemon Targaryen has taken Daenerys. If he claims her as his queen, their combined bloodline could rally many to their cause."
Robert waved a dismissive hand, reaching for his goblet again. "A bastard and a girl?" he scoffed. "What armies could they raise? Let them rot in Essos."
Stannis Baratheon leaned forward, his face as grim as ever. "They have dragons, Your Grace." The words hung in the air, heavier than the stone walls surrounding them.
Robert's hand froze mid-air, the color draining from his face for a brief moment before he forced a laugh. "Dragons? Old tales for old women. We've faced worse than dragons."
Varys, the Master of Whisperers, steepled his fingers beneath his chin, his expression unreadable. "And yet, dragons or no, Aemon's actions have stirred the people of Essos. The slavers fear him, and the free cities watch him closely. If he gains the loyalty of the Dothraki or the support of Braavos, it could be more than just dragons we face."
Robert's face darkened, his knuckles whitening around the goblet. "Let them come," he growled. "We'll crush them like the rest."
Jon Arryn's voice remained steady, but there was a note of urgency beneath his calm exterior. "We can't afford to be complacent, Robert. The Targaryens have supporters still. And with Daenerys by his side, Aemon could claim legitimacy in the eyes of many."
Petyr Baelish, known to most as Littlefinger, lounged in his chair, a sly smile playing at his lips. "Perhaps this could work to our advantage," he mused, his fingers idly tracing the rim of his goblet. "Aemon's rise could destabilize Essos. Chaos often breeds opportunity."
Robert glared at him. "Opportunity? I'll give you opportunity, Petyr. I want their heads on spikes before they set foot in Westeros."
Varys's eyes glinted in the dim light. "Then perhaps it is time to act decisively, Your Grace. A well-placed assassin could end this threat before it grows."
The room fell silent, the weight of the suggestion settling over them like a shroud.
Robert drained his goblet and slammed it down again, his decision made. "Do it," he snarled. "Send your bloody spiders. Kill Aemon and the girl. Burn them with their dragons if you have to. I won't have another Targaryen sitting on my throne."
Jon Arryn's face tightened, but he said nothing. The die was cast, and he knew better than to argue with Robert when his mind was set.
As the council dispersed, Varys lingered in the shadows, his mind already spinning with plans and possibilities. Littlefinger's smile widened, his thoughts turning to how he could twist this new chaos to his own advantage.
But in the quiet corners of the Red Keep, whispers grew louder. The dragons had returned, and with them, the fire of House Targaryen burned anew.