Chapter 14: The Master of Ceremonies
The ravens came to Harrenhal like black-feathered accusations. They found Prince Daemon in the Hall of a Hundred Hearths, brooding on the cold stone throne of a long-dead king, the taste of ashes in his wine and in his soul. The Riverlords had ceased their angry petitions; their pleas had curdled into a sullen, resentful silence. They remained in the cursed castle only because the horrors outside were even greater than the ghosts within. Daemon was a king with no subjects, a protector with no power.
The first scroll was from Rhaenyra, her script elegant but strained.
"Husband," it read. "Lord Tully sends word that the leagues surrounding Riverrun are a wasteland. He writes that Aemond does not fight, he merely burns. What is the meaning of this? You promised to deal with the One-Eye. The lords you swore to protect are losing faith. I am losing faith. Act."
Daemon read the scroll and tossed it into the fire. He poured another goblet of wine, the bitter red liquid doing nothing to drown the taste of his own humiliation. An hour later, a second raven arrived. The script was more frantic, the ink slightly smeared.
"Daemon, Lord Blackwood's heir is dead. Vhagar fell upon a column of refugees fleeing the fires and left none alive. They say Aemond laughed. The Riverlords speak of abandoning our cause. They say the Queen's protection is a phantom, and her Prince a coward hiding in Harrenhal. Your silence is costing me my kingdom before I have even won it. Answer me!"
He burned that scroll as well, the parchment curling into a black fist before vanishing. The silence he was keeping was not his own. He was a prisoner of a god's indifference. He closed his eyes and tried one last time to send his will, his command, across the water to the creature lurking in the Gods Eye. It was no longer a demand. It was a hateful, bitter snarl.
Damn you. Damn you to whatever hell spawned you. Is this your grand design? To make me a fool? To break my allies and mock my power? You have had your fun. You have made your point.
The only answer was the wind whistling through the broken panes of Harrenhal's high windows. A profound, absolute, and mocking silence.
The third raven arrived at dusk. It was not from Rhaenyra. It was from her son, Jacaerys, the Prince of Dragonstone. The boy's script was a furious scrawl.
"My Prince and stepfather," it began, the formal title dripping with youthful contempt. "My mother weeps while you sit idle. Her allies burn while you drink wine. If you will not defend the Queen's domain, then I will. I ride for the Trident on Vermax at dawn. The heir to the Iron Throne will not be called a coward, even if his good-father is."
Daemon crushed the scroll in his fist. The boy's words were a slap in the face, a challenge to his pride, his love for Rhaenyra, his very identity. Jace, on his young dragon, flying against Aemond on Vhagar. It would be a repeat of Storm's End, another son lost, another dragon torn from the sky. And it would be his fault. His inaction, his utter powerlessness, had forced the boy's hand. He was at his breaking point, a king on the board with no valid moves left, poised for checkmate.
And it was in that moment of absolute despair, as he stared into the abyss of his own failure, that the abyss finally stared back.
The vision did not creep in. It detonated behind his eyes. One moment he was in the cold, dusty hall of Harrenhal, the next he was adrift in a silent, starless void. Before him stood a throne. Not the familiar, ugly chair of twisted swords from the Red Keep, but a throne of impossible scale, carved from the colossal, fossilized bones of dragons a thousand times larger than Balerion. It was a throne built from the skeletons of dead gods.
Seated on it was a being of pure shadow and starlight, its form constantly shifting, but its intent was as clear and as cold as the void itself. It was Krosis-Krif, not in his physical form, but in the truest shape of his soul.
You sought a sword, a voice echoed, not in his ears, but in the very center of his consciousness. The voice was the grinding of mountains and the whisper of entropy. I am not a sword. A sword is an object. It is wielded. I am the hand that wields. I am the will that guides the blade.
An image flooded Daemon's mind. He saw a pair of cosmic scales, so vast they contained nebulae in their pans. On one side, he saw the sigil of the three-headed dragon in black. On the other, the same sigil in gold. The being of shadow reached out a hand and began to place figures on the scales. The body of Lucerys Velaryon was placed on the Black pan. The body of Jaehaerys Targaryen was placed on the Green. The dragon Meleys was placed on the Black pan. The army of Criston Cole and the host of Ormund Hightower were heaped onto the Green.
I maintain the balance, the voice explained, its tone devoid of malice or glee. It was the voice of a cosmic accountant. The war is the equation. Your passions, your griefs, your ambitions—they are merely variables. I solve for chaos.
The vision shifted. Daemon saw Vhagar, a lumbering, ancient beast, green with age and rage, breathing fire upon a burning field. He saw his own Caraxes, a vicious red serpent, beautiful but noticeably smaller, snarling in defiance. Then, the perspective pulled back, and he saw a third shape, a shadow on the edge of the vision that dwarfed them both, a shape so vast it made the mighty Vhagar look like a hatchling.
You point me at your foe, the voice continued, laced with a cold amusement. You do not understand. Aemond One-Eye is not my foe. He is my most diligent shepherd. He gathers the scattered flock for the slaughter. He prepares my feast with an artist's flair. Why would I kill such a useful, passionate tool?
The words were a dagger of ice in Daemon's soul. He, the Rogue Prince, the master manipulator, was being outplayed, and the entity was explaining the rules of its game simply to mock his ignorance.
But, the voice shifted, a new thought forming. A shepherd who slaughters too eagerly can ruin the pasture for future seasons. The hunt grows… predictable. Aemond's rage is a powerful instrument, but it is a single, deafening note. It is time for a new movement in the symphony.
The vision changed again, becoming sharp and clear, a direct instruction. Daemon saw himself, standing on the highest tower of Harrenhal. He saw a raven being released from his hand, flying into a sky red with the fires of the Riverlands. He saw Aemond, his face contorted in a mask of hate, receiving the message. Then he saw the sky above the Gods Eye, a vast, empty arena. He saw Vhagar and Caraxes circling each other. A duel. A challenge. An appointment.
You cannot command me to fight your battles for you, the voice concluded, the lesson now complete. Your demands are tiresome. Your prayers are an annoyance. But you can set a handsome table. You can arrange the pieces for a truly spectacular finale. I do so enjoy a good meal, Prince Daemon. And the combined energies of two of the last great dragons of your age, consumed in a singular moment of mutual annihilation… that is a vintage I have not tasted in a very long time.
The vision shattered. Daemon gasped, stumbling back against the cold stone of the throne, his body drenched in a cold sweat. He was breathing heavily, his heart a frantic drum against his ribs. He was terrified, but underneath the terror was a new, horrifying clarity.
He was not the wielder of the sword. He was not even the sword itself. He was the Master of Ceremonies, tasked with arranging the main event. He had been given his script. He understood his role. And the Targaryen pride, the part of him that would rather orchestrate a legendary doom than fade into impotent obscurity, accepted it. If he could not be the god of the stage, he would be its finest director.
He pushed himself off the throne, his movements now calm and deliberate. The panic was gone, replaced by a cold, resolute purpose. He strode from the Hall of a Hundred Hearths, his boots echoing with a new authority. He found his scribe, a nervous young man from House Piper, huddled by a fire in the scriptorium.
"You, boy," Daemon's voice was steady, devoid of the rage and frustration that had plagued him for days. "Two ravens. Now."
The scribe scrambled for parchment and ink, his hands trembling under the prince's intense gaze.
"The first," Daemon began, "is for Dragonstone. To Queen Rhaenyra." He dictated without pause. "My Queen, my Wife. Forgive my silence. I have been seeking the heart of the shadow that plagues us. I have found it. Prince Jacaerys is to remain on Dragonstone. I forbid him from flying to the Trident. Vhagar is mine to deal with. The Riverlands will be avenged. Trust me in this. Your faithful husband and Prince Consort, Daemon."
He watched the scribe finish the first scroll, then nodded. "Good. Now, the second. This one will be more difficult to deliver. Find a way. Send it to whatever camp, whatever burned-out town Prince Aemond Targaryen currently occupies."
He took a breath, the words of the vision echoing in his soul. He was setting the table.
"The message is short," he said, his lips pulling back in a faint, terrible smile. It was the smile of a man who has seen the end of all things and has decided to greet it with style.
"It will read: 'Nephew. You have burned the fields, but you have yet to face the dragon. I await you at Harrenhal. Let us end this dance, just you and I. Come alone. Choose your day. Or does the one-eye fear the dark?'"
The scribe looked up, his face ashen, his eyes wide with the magnitude of the words he was writing down. He was transcribing a challenge that would echo through history.
Daemon watched the second raven take flight, a black speck soaring into a blood-red sky. He had done it. He had arranged the duel. The Battle Above the Gods Eye. A legendary confrontation between two princes, two dragons, two ideologies. But he knew the truth. It was not a duel. It was a sacrifice, an offering laid at the feet of a silent, hungry god, and he, Daemon Targaryen, was nothing more than the priest presiding over the ceremony.