The rain had fallen for three days, turning the roads of the Riverlands into a morass.
In the hall of Raventree Hall, the hearth fire burned brightly, but could not dispel the cold and damp. Daemon Targaryen stood before the window, gazing at the grey sky beyond. Rainwater streamed down the glass like tears.
"Prince Daemon."
Mysaria, the spymistress known as the White Worm, entered and whispered in Daemon's ear. "I have just received news from Dragonstone. Princess Rhaenyra seemed somewhat distraught. The maester said it was a nervous attack."
Daemon's heart tightened at the report.
Since the battle of Dragonstone, Rhaenyra had been on the verge of a breakdown—her three sons dead, one of them mutilated. Sometimes she was lucid, sometimes lost in a trance; sometimes she screamed for vengeance, sometimes wept bitterly, clutching the clothes her beloved sons had once worn. He knew his wife was at breaking point. But the war needed her. The Blacks needed her as their banner.
"What else was in the letter?" Daemon asked calmly.
"Only that she wants you to finish your business in the Riverlands as soon as possible and return to her."
Daemon was silent.
He wanted to return to Dragonstone at once, to comfort his wife Rhaenyra, to tell her all would be well. But he could not yet. The Riverlands were the key that connected the North and the Vale. If the Greens controlled them, the Black armies would be split.
"The situation in the Riverlands," Daemon turned to face the lords in the hall. "What say you?"
Marq Piper, young but sharp-witted, spoke first. "Though old Lord Tully leans Green, that does not mean all Riverlords follow him. We have Houses Piper, Blackwood, Frey, Mooton, and others ready to support Princess Rhaenyra. But the problem is..."
"The problem is within," Lord Blackwood answered. "Our liege lord is at Riverrun. And the Brackens support the Greens. Their strength is not insignificant. Among them is Elmo Tully, the heir to Lord Grover Tully. Though Elmo is not as pro-Green as his grandfather, he wishes to keep the Riverlands independent. But if we press too hard, he may fall to the Greens."
"Then do not press him," Daemon walked to the map and pointed to Riverrun. "Give him a choice. Either publicly support us, and I will give generous rewards. Or remain neutral and keep his lands after the war. But the Black armies must be allowed free passage. Otherwise... he will be my enemy."
"What happens if he becomes an enemy?" Marq asked.
Daemon looked at him.
That look made the young, warlike lord's blood run cold.
"The fate of Harrenhal," Daemon said quietly. "If Tully chooses to be an enemy, I have no objection to setting Riverrun ablaze."
The hall fell silent.
Mysaria coughed, breaking the stillness. "In military terms, the Riverlands are indeed crucial. If you control them, the armies of the North and the Vale can march south to join forces. But if the Riverlands side with the Greens... the North and the Vale will be cut off."
"Then we must take the Riverlands," Daemon replied. "With both soft and hard measures. Those ready to support us, grant them favors. Those who hesitate, pressure them. Those who are firmly opposed..."
The door burst open.
A messenger, mud-splattered to his boots, rushed in clutching a raven. The message tube on the raven's leg was black—an emergency dispatch.
"My lord! A raven from King's Landing!"
The messenger extended the letter with both hands. Lord Blackwood took it, broke the wax seal, and unrolled the parchment. As he read, his face grew increasingly grim.
"What is it?" Daemon demanded.
Lord Blackwood handed him the letter, casting a complicated look at Daemon. "My condolences, my prince..."
Daemon took the letter.
His brow furrowed as he read the first line. Reading the second line, his hand stopped. Reading the third, he held his breath.
Viserys was dead. Poisoned. The Greens blamed Rhaenyra and Orwyle for the murder of the king. Aegon was to be crowned today. The Faith and the Citadel supported the Greens.
Every word was a knife stabbing into Daemon's eyes.
Viserys... his brother... was dead. The brother he had grown up with, played with on Dragonstone, trained with in the Red Keep. The brother he had once hated, later understood, and finally reconciled with.
"This council is adjourned," Daemon felt dizzy, exhausted. "Everyone out."
"My prince?" Marq hesitated.
"Out!"
The word came out as a roar.
No one dared ask again.
The Riverlords quickly departed. The door closed. Daemon was alone in the hall.
He stood there a long time. Then slowly walked to the chair at the high seat and sat down. He opened the letter again and reread it.
To Lord Blackwood: Viserys the First, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, died yesterday. The cause of death was acute poisoning. The suspect is Grand Maester Orwyle, now missing. The Iron Throne suspects Princess Rhaenyra conspired with Orwyle to murder the king. Aegon Targaryen will be crowned today. The Faith and the Citadel have publicly supported Aegon the Second. You are commanded to hasten to King's Landing and swear fealty to the new king.
Daemon's hands trembled. He tried to control them, but could not.
When had he last seen Viserys? Nearly a year ago? The two brothers had spoken well then—of Rhaenyra, of the succession, of the future of the house. But now Viserys was dead. They would never have another chance to quarrel. The brother who had both suppressed him and protected him...
Daemon felt a great emptiness. He closed his eyes.
The rain drummed against the windows like a thousand small drums.
The door opened quietly.
Benjicot Blackwood, who had just returned, stood there breathless, holding a wooden box.
"My prince?" Benjicot asked softly.
"I said everyone out!" Daemon's eyes turned toward Benjicot.
"Benjicot?" Daemon looked at the newcomer suspiciously.
"It is I, my prince." Benjicot wiped the mud from his face. "I have rushed from King's Landing. I have momentous news..."
Daemon's suspicion lingered.
Benjicot had already opened the wooden box.
"This is what Grand Maester Orwyle gave me... the crown and a letter."
Daemon looked in disbelief. Inside lay his brother's Valyrian steel crown and a roll of parchment. Daemon seized the letter at once and unrolled it.
He read it carefully, word by word, and as he read, he could not help but curse.
"Aemond, you bloody bastard..."
Finally, he examined it closely and saw something strange at the end.
He could confirm that the letter had not been written by his brother... The handwriting was Viserys's, and the imitation was very close. It angrily accused Aemond and Alicent of conspiring to murder the king... The letter also ended by declaring Rhaenyra the sole lawful heir.
But Daemon knew the letter was false. As a brother, he knew that his brother Viserys had always tapped his quill slightly at certain words. But this letter did not have that.
"What did Orwyle say when he gave you this?" Daemon asked.
"Orwyle said... the king knew that Aemond was drugging him, so he wrote this letter in advance and entrusted it to Orwyle," Benjicot recalled. "At the time, William Royce of the Vale also thought it was too convenient—as if someone was handing us a knife..."
Daemon's mind stirred.
He thought of Orwyle's affiliation... the Citadel.
If someone was deliberately driving this war...
Daemon's expression grew complicated.
He could not lose this war. The Greens had already placed the blame for the king's murder on Rhaenyra. If he lost, his wife Rhaenyra Targaryen would indeed be remembered as a kingslayer...
Daemon's violet eyes flashed with cold light.
Do not worry, Viserys. I will settle this... Those who harmed you... I will give them terrible deaths.
"My prince?" Benjicot said anxiously. "We can use this letter. If it spreads, the Seven Kingdoms will suspect Aemond of killing his father, and the Greens will lose legitimacy to rule."
"With the Faith and the Citadel siding with the Greens, this letter's effect is limited," Daemon shook his head, folding the letter and tucking it into his sleeve. "But with this letter and the crown, it is enough. We can rightfully raise our armies..."
He stood and walked to the window.
The rain still fell.
"Will Blackwood support us?" Daemon asked, not looking back.
"Yes," Benjicot said firmly. "My father bids me tell you that House Blackwood remains steadfastly with the Blacks. But the situation in the Riverlands is delicate. We Blackwoods cannot openly mobilize yet, or the Brackens will take the opportunity to strike."
Daemon nodded. He understood. The feud between Blackwood and Bracken had lasted thousands of years. If one moved, the other moved. The two houses regarded each other as mortal enemies; even in peacetime, they were in an arms race. Thus, both houses possessed military strength in the Riverlands that was not inferior to their liege lord, House Tully. One opposed, the other supported. Even seeing the other uncomfortable, even at great cost, all was acceptable.
"Then the Brackens will not move either," Daemon turned, cold light flashing in his eyes. "I shall visit the Brackens myself. And let Lord Tully understand what happens if he does not stand with us."
"My prince? How will you do it?" Benjicot asked.
Daemon smiled, his violet eyes narrowing.
That smile reminded Benjicot of what his father had said: that Daemon in his youth was charming and deadly.
Daemon's smile widened. "The Brackens' castle will burn..."
Benjicot's eyes lit up.
Daemon smiled and clapped him on the shoulder. "Go prepare. Tomorrow, we shall deliver some warmth to the Brackens."