A song of Fire and Blood

Chapter 60: The Painted Table

The chamber of the Painted Table was dimly lit by the flickering glow of dragonfire torches, their light dancing over the carved lands of Westeros, painted in rich, faded colors from a time long past. Aerion Targaryen stood at its edge, hands resting on the smooth, time-worn wood, his violet gaze tracing the familiar coastlines that his ancestors had once conquered.

Beyond the massive window that overlooked the Blackwater Bay, the sea stretched out endlessly, dark and rippling under the moonlight. Somewhere out there, Aurane Waters and Ser Guncer Sunglass patrolled the waves with the fleet, ensuring that the Narrow Sea remained under their control. The seas belonged to him now, just as Dragonstone did, just as the Seven Kingdoms would in time.

A silver tray sat beside him, stacked with letters sealed in various colors of wax, each carrying the words of his allies, his bannermen, and those who had pledged their swords to the return of House Targaryen. With a sigh, Aerion broke the first seal—a deep blue imprint of a seahorse, the sigil of House Velaryon. The flowing Lyseni script was unmistakable, the ink elegant, precise.

> "To His Grace, King Aerion Targaryen, first of his name, rightful ruler of the Seven Kingdoms,

From Lysarra Rogare of House Velaryon, Lady Regent of Driftmark,"

He let his eyes skim over the first few lines, his lips pressing into a thin line as he absorbed the words.

Laenor Velaryon was thriving on Driftmark. Lysarra wrote of how the boy had taken to the island with ease, how he loved the sea, the salt in the air, the endless winds that carried the scent of adventure. His ancestral home welcomed him as if he had never left, and she promised that he was growing into a strong young man, one that Monford would have been proud of.

Aerion's jaw tensed at that name.

Monford Velaryon. Dead on the burning streets of Lys, fallen with a sword in his hand like a true Velaryon should. They had not been able to give him the funeral he deserved, to send him off in the old Valyrian way, the way of the Sea Snake and Corlys before him.

> "Though we regret being unable to perform the rites of our ancestors, Driftmark remains strong.

The Lyseni women have taken to the island well, settling among the villagers, who welcomed them back as kin rather than strangers. There was resistance at first—Daemon Velaryon did not approve of my presence, nor that of Monterys, but we have handled the matter. Laenor will inherit Driftmark in time, and until then, we rule in his stead."

Aerion let out a slow breath, rolling his shoulders. Daemon Velaryon had always been a problem, one he had expected to resist. But if Lysarra and Monterys had dealt with him, there was no need for his intervention—yet.

The next letter bore a different seal—a red crab, pressed into wax. Clement Celtigar.

Aerion broke the seal, unfolding the parchment.

> "Brother, I write to you now from Claw Isle, though I am not merely its lord anymore.

As you well know, House Scales was extinguished in the fires that took Dragonstone, their line ending with my mother's kin. By the laws of inheritance, the lands of the Scales are now mine. I am Lord of the Claw and the Scales both. You have given me a kingdom of my own."

Aerion smirked. Clement had always been ambitious, always seeking more, and now, fate had delivered him two domains instead of one.

> "The smallfolk welcomed me as if I had never left, and the governors of my lands even prepared a gift for me upon my return. A weapon, long lost but never forgotten—Crab's Pincer. A Valyrian steel axe, forged in old Valyria and carried by my ancestors. It is in my hands once more, and I swear to you, I will wield it in your name when the time comes to take what is ours."

Aerion tapped a finger against the parchment, thoughtful. Clement had trained for years with an axe, always boasting that he would reclaim the weapon of his forebears. And now, he had it.

The letter continued.

> "The Lyseni women are more beautiful than I expected, and I must thank you for this gift as well. It seems you have thought of everything, brother."

Aerion snorted, shaking his head. Clement had always been lustful, never one to resist temptation. He could only hope his friend wouldn't let the pleasures of Lys dull his edge.

He set the letters aside, exhaling as he looked out once more over the sea.

This was where it had begun.

Fourteen years ago, Dragonstone had fallen, swallowed by flame and storm, its dragon banners torn down and burned, its people slaughtered or scattered to the winds. He had been a child then, too young to fight, too weak to stop what had come.

But he was not weak now.

Now, the three-headed dragon flew once more above Dragonstone, its banners raised high, rippling in the ocean wind. The Valyrian-colored men and women of the island had embraced him, had knelt before him, had cheered as he set foot upon his ancestral home. They knew. They all knew.

The Targaryens had returned.

A knock at the door broke his thoughts. Aerion turned as the door creaked open, revealing two figures.

Ser Barristan Selmy, his Lord Commander, ever the knight, stepped inside, his white cloak flowing behind him. His face was lined with age, but there was fire in his eyes still, the fire of a man who had dedicated his life to the Targaryens.

Beside him, Naeron Qoherys, his Master of War, clad in black and red, his face unreadable as ever.

Aerion met their gazes, then glanced beyond them into the dim corridor.

Kinvara was there, as always. Lurking in the shadows. Watching. She said nothing, merely observing, her presence a silent promise of fire and blood.

Aerion turned back to his council, his voice steady.

"The fleet is ours. The Narrow Sea is ours. The Painted Table is ours." He let the words settle, then lifted his chin. "Now tell me—when do we make Westeros ours?"