Brynden Rivers Bloodraven (195 A.C. Seventh Moon)
Bryden Solar.
Brynden was watching through a raven as the King arrived with his retinue. King Daeron the Good, they called him, and a good man and King he was. The best man Brynden knew, his father in all but name. Not the wretched stain that had sired him. Even if that man had given him a sister he loved, a brother he loved, one he hated, and one who caused him endless dreams of blood and pain.
Daeron's face looked weary. Brynden frowned inwardly. Summerhall was his fourth son's seat, yet also a retreat of the royal family. Normally, it energized him, yet now the man returned more weary than when he had left.
Prince Baelor rode beside his father, the heir to the throne, and a brother to him in all but name.
He watched as the rest of the royals arrived in the royal wheelhouse. The two little princesses with their nurses. The boys, motherless; the closest thing they had was Mariah and their aunts by marriage. He knew how it felt. His own mother had been taken from him when he was but ten, a damn fever taking her.
He knew, based on all his dreams, that she would not be the last taken by a fever. There was something about his dreams. He knew they would happen. One clearly had, when his father legitimized all his bastard children. He remembered his own dream of a dying dragon, crying out for all his children to be true, and a few years later that dream had come to pass.
Finally, the last of the King's entourage arrived. Mostly guards, servants, and Ser Donnel of Duskendale, a new member of the guard at the ripe age of thirty. Daeron's appointment had led to Quentyn Fireball retiring from his duties in the Red Keep and joining Daemon's holdfast.
It had been a loss, for sure. Yet his leaving had been expected, after divorcing his wife and sending her to a sept, all so he could become a Kingsguard, only to be denied a position. Brynden, despite his love for Daeron, did understand why Quentyn left.
At that moment, he heard the uneven knocking on his door. He snapped out of his bird.
He walked over to it and opened it, seeing that Daeron was waiting for him on the other side.
"Your Grace," he said with a small bow.
"Little brother, may I enter?"
His brother looked as weary up close as he had from afar.
Brynden smiled as he nodded. Daeron was the King; he could enter most places wherever he liked, but he would not force entry unless he had to.
Daeron walked toward the window as Brynden closed the door.
"Brother, to what do I owe this pleasure?"
"Pleasure. I hope it will be pleasure. Brynden, I know over the years you have dreamed and have been more a part of the mysterious side of our family," Daeron began.
"Indeed, brother, I do have dreams. I know I once told you of the dream of our father legitimizing his bastards, even if it wasn't clear in the dream. Dreams are vague, yet many times they try to tell us something about ourselves, or in some cases, things that will happen," Brynden replied.
Daeron let out a sigh. "I thought so. Well, brother, you aren't the only dreamer."
At that, Brynden looked up toward Daeron. Truly, whom did he mean? "Whom?"
"Baelon. The lad was quite headstrong, if I hear my sons speak of him correctly. He spoke to them with intent, as if he somehow knew what he saw was important. I know, coming from a two-year-old, it sounds ridiculous," Daeron replied, looking at him wearily.
It did. Although he had heard the tales of little Baelon being a terror, quick on his feet and quite smart for a two-year-old. "Well, the child has always been quick."
"Indeed. Yet it is the fact that both Maekar and Baelor believed the lad. Maekar has always been skeptical of the magical side of the world, and Baelor does rarely act without thinking something through," Daeron said with a small laugh.
Brynden nodded as Daeron continued. "The lad, however, spoke of something I wish and pray is wrong."
"Spoke of what? I noticed on you, brother, that whatever it is has made you more weary than when you departed," Brynden asked.
"The boy dreamed of the black dragon fighting the red, Brynden," Daeron replied, and those words made his own breath pause for a moment. He remembered his own dream, one that occurred from time to time.
"Are you certain?"
"I am. Baelon even had two dragon toys, one black and one red, and he smacked them against one another, saying, 'Blak drage… fig red drage. Fig. Fire. Burn.' Of course, he meant black dragon fighting red dragon. Fight. Fire. Burn." Daeron looked at him then.
"It seems the lad has seen something. And sadly, if we believe that dream to be true, he saw House Targaryen fighting House Blackfyre," Brynden noted wearily, thinking of his own dreams. The hatred for the Black Dragon in his dreams had always seemed directed toward him. His own feelings, over time, had turned to hate as well. He hated the black monster in his dreams, as he had when he was young. Yet then he had not known what it meant.
"Indeed. Another confirmation, same as your own dreams. I know of little Brynden coming to our bed late at night, saying he dreamed of a black monster," Daeron said more fondly.
"I know. And it isn't the only thing I have dreamed. In the past two years, a new vivid dream has been coming to me," he began.
"Truly? What has it been like?" Daeron questioned, and Brynden began to explain the dream.
"An odd combination. But a black dragon and a red horse with wings are quite damning. The rest of it seems quite random. The dragon of orange, yellow, and red. Then there is the grey dragon. As for the raven, it could be you," Daeron responded after he finished.
"Indeed, except the red horse with wings represents Aegor, and the black dragon could be Daemon. Then again, he already has quite some sons. So the dream could take place soon, or years from now," Brynden explained.
Daeron sighed and rubbed his face. "Brynden, I need you to start gathering evidence. Because I cannot act without proof. Sure, we have had dreamers in the family, yet that will not sway the realm. A realm without laws is no realm at all, only chaos. Chaos is something my father seeded all around the realm, and we will not return to it."
"I shall, brother, and hope for both of us that the dreams are wrong," Brynden said.
"I know you will. You have been a loyal brother, the one I have left. Daemon was, until Daenerys," Daeron said sadly, placing a hand on his shoulder.
"Yet that is the thing about being royals. Sometimes we have duties. Sometimes duties prevent us from being kind," Brynden noted.
"I know. Yet I can't help but wonder if it was a mistake," Daeron added.
"We will not know until we see the outcome, brother," Brynden replied.
"Have a good day, brother. I hope you do not find something and prove our dreams right."
Daeron then passed out the door without another word. Brynden watched his brother leave, shadowed by his two white cloaks.
Blackhold – Daemon's castle
Brynden felt tired. It had been four moons since his conversation with Daeron, and still he had found nothing solid enough to place before a king. Suspicion was not proof. Dreams were not proof. Whispers were not proof. And yet whispers were all he had.
Night had fallen over Blackhold. The torches along the battlements burned low, their flames bending in the wind coming off the sea. Brynden watched through the eyes of a raven perched upon the outer wall. The salt air filled the bird's lungs. The world was sharper through its sight, colder, distant.
He swept from one tower to the next, searching for something amiss.
Then he saw them.
A line of riders approached the gate, their horses dark against the torchlight. Even from above he knew that sigil. It made something tighten in his chest.
A red horse with wings, breathing flame upon a field of yellow.
Aegor.
The gate guards recognized the banner at once and lowered the portcullis without hesitation. The riders entered at a brisk pace, ten in number. At their head rode Aegor Rivers himself.
The contrast between them had always been cruelly ironic. Brynden small, pale, sharp-eyed. Aegor broad-shouldered, powerful, with that unyielding presence like iron hammered into shape. Where Brynden moved like a knife, Aegor stood like a shield.
But it was not Aegor who drew Brynden's attention most.
In the middle of the party rode a man slumped in the saddle, his hands bound before him, a coarse sack pulled tight over his head. His body swayed weakly with the horse's gait.
Brynden felt a flicker of unease.
As soon as Aegor dismounted, he tore off his gloves and barked, "I need to speak with Lord Daemon. Now."
Ser Quentyn stepped forward from the yard. His armor gleamed pale in the torchlight, almost white, polished to a brilliance that bordered on mockery of the Kingsguard he had once desired to join.
"Ser Aegor," Fireball said evenly. "It has been some time."
"Fireball," Aegor grunted, not bothering with courtesy. "Fetch my brother. I bring news."
"It must be dire news to storm in like this," Quentyn replied, though his tone carried no true rebuke. "He is in the great hall."
Brynden lifted from the battlements and glided through the open doors before they closed, landing silently upon a beam high above the hall.
"Aegor, what news do you bring? It must be urgent to come in like this," Daemon noted, sitting upon the high seat. Beside him sat his two eldest sons, both young men, nearly three-and-ten.
"To your dungeons. Now. This is not for listening ears," Aegor growled.
Daemon looked at their brother and sighed as he rose. "Very well. But use manners. We are both knights of the realm, after all."
Ah, noble Daemon. For all his faults, he was an honorable knight. Yet it was resentment and desire that had pushed him away from Daeron, much like their father before him.
Their father had been driven apart from Daeron by his desire for the love and admiration that Daeron received but he himself was denied. Resentment had turned that fat fool into a man who made all his bastards true. Brynden did not find his own legitimization entirely ill, but for the realm it had been a disaster.
"Enough of that. Now follow," Aegor grunted.
Brynden sought connections, reaching toward the rats he had set loose moons ago. Soon he found one and slipped through cracks and corridors down to the dungeon.
The bound man was now hanging in chains within a cell. The sack had been removed. His right eye was swollen shut, his lip split and bleeding. After a moment longer, Brynden recognized him.
Damn, he thought.
Daemon's face darkened. "Who is this man?"
"Ser Martin Rivers. Once a loyal man of my company of a hundred. Now a traitor. I caught him sneaking through my letters," Aegor said with a grunt, punching the man in the gut. The man groaned.
"Why?" Daemon asked.
"For our little shit of a brother, that's why," Aegor sneered.
"For Bloodraven?" Daemon asked.
"The very same."
"It is good I caught him. Otherwise he would have found the letters. Copies of contracts from the Company of the Cat and the Second Sons," Aegor added.
That made Brynden frown. Why would Aegor have copies of contracts from those sellsword companies unless they were preparing for war?
That was the proof he needed. Yet he only saw through the eyes of his rats. With Ser Martin dead, he still had nothing tangible.
Daemon's face looked pained. "So my brothers are suspicious. Very well, Aegor. It is time. Send out the riders. It is time to begin the overthrow and set the true heir upon the throne. I should have taken Daenerys when I had the chance, and not tried to win her by tourney."
Brynden saw Aegor grin. Damn bastard. He was almost certain that Aegor, Fireball, and others had stirred Daemon against them. Daemon had been laid back for most of his life. The more opportune moment for rebellion would have been during the talks with Dorne, or right after their father's death, or even before. Yet then they had all been boys, not men grown bitter over years.
"As you say, Your Grace," Aegor said, taking a knee.
Brynden's heart stopped. War. It was here.
Daemon unsheathed his sword. "In the name of King Daemon the First of House Blackfyre, I sentence you to die."
With a swift slash, he hacked off Ser Martin's head.
"First blood to us," Aegor grinned.
Brynden felt the strain of the connection. It was one thing to fly as a raven to Blackhold and watch for hours. Slipping into rats, half-wild and skittish, was far harder.
"Summon Fireball and the other loyal retainers. Aegor, you are going on a little trip," Daemon commanded.
Brynden's vision went black.
He tore back into his own body with a gasp, hands clutching the arms of his chair.
"My love."
Shiera Seastar knelt beside him, her silver-gold hair spilling like silk over her shoulders. "You were gone for hours," she whispered. "You are shaking."
Brynden wiped sweat from his brow. His heart still raced as if he had run miles.
"It has begun," he said hoarsely. "Daemon has declared himself. He executed one of my men. They have hired sellswords."
Shiera's eyes darkened. "Are you certain?"
"I heard it. I saw it."
He rose unsteadily. She steadied him with gentle hands.
"I must go to the King."
She touched his chest lightly. "What do you need?"
"Another draught," he said. "I will need strength. I must see more."
She nodded, though fear flickered behind her calm.
Daeron's Chambers
When Brynden arrived at his brother's chambers, the sun was setting, orange light pouring through the windows. At the King's door stood Ser Gwayne Corbray and Ser Barmund Estermont.
"Sers, I am here to see the King."
Ser Gwayne knocked and stepped inside. "Ser Brynden is here to see you."
"Let him in," Daeron called.
Ser Gwayne opened the door and allowed him entry.
Daeron sat at the table reading a book. "Brother, what brings you here at this hour, with supper being served so soon?"
Brynden sighed. "I have news."
It was abrupt. Brynden was used to bringing bad tidings, but this was different. This was war. A brother's betrayal.
His face must have betrayed him.
"You have proof, don't you?" Daeron asked.
"I do not."
Daeron sighed in relief.
"Yet there is no good news. I may not have proof, but I know Daemon and Aegor are planning for war. One of my informants was executed moments ago in Blackhold while attempting to obtain evidence."
"How do you know that, if your informant was just executed?" Daeron asked.
"Warging, Your Grace. Apparently, I have received another gift from my family, though from the Blackwood side."
"I have read of it. Skinchanging, is it not?" Daeron asked.
"It is. I can slip into the minds of animals, though I have an easier connection with ravens."
Understanding dawned upon Daeron's face. "You saw it yourself. You saw them execute your informant. What else?"
Brynden sighed. "They have likely hired two sellsword companies: the Second Sons and the Company of the Cat. Though I do not know the details."
Daeron slammed his hand upon the table. It was one of the few times Brynden had seen him lose his temper.
"Damn them. I allowed the legitimization. I honored the marriage my father arranged for Daemon. I built him a keep. And now he rebels? Together with the other fools who rage over the integration of Dorne? Have they forgotten the wars we fought against them? The losses?"
Daeron picked up his cup, drank from it, and rose from his seat. "What else did you see?"
"Daemon killed the man himself, in the name of King Daemon the First of House Blackfyre," Brynden said. He heard Daeron mutter something under his breath. "Also, Quentyn Fireball is being sent on a journey. After that, I blacked out. The strain became too much."
"Summon the council. It is time we prepare for war," Daeron said wearily.