Daeron II Targaryen (195 A.C. Seventh Moon)
Red Keep – Council Chamber
Daeron walked into the council chamber, his footsteps heavy against the polished stone floor. Each step seemed to echo louder than it should. His stomach churned as though he were about to retch, yet he was the King, and a king did not falter before his lords. He forced himself to breathe, slow and steady, and crossed the chamber with measured dignity.
The long oaken table dominated the room, carved with the sigils of the great houses. Sunlight filtered through the tall, narrow windows, catching the motes of dust that drifted lazily in the air. The banners of House Targaryen hung behind his chair, the three-headed dragon seeming almost to watch him as he took his place at the head of the table.
Ser Gwayne stepped in behind him, armor faintly clinking, and took his position as silent sentinel.
Daeron folded his hands upon the table and waited patiently as the rest of his councilors entered one by one. Lord Butterwell, wiping his brow though the chamber was not warm. Lord Arryn, composed and sharp-eyed. Lord Manwoody, watchful as ever, and Matthew the grandmaester around his own that had served him well for the past five years. Last of all came his son, Baelor, who took his seat at Daeron's left hand. The sight of him steadied the King somewhat.
When all were seated, Daeron rose.
"I apologize for the unexpected meeting," he began, his voice calm though his chest felt tight. "Yet I have received news that cannot wait to be revealed."
"It is no worry, Your Grace. We are here to serve you and the realm," his Hand stated dutifully.
We shall see, Daeron thought.
"Well," he continued, "an hour ago Ser Brynden came to me with tidings I have long dreaded. Something I prayed would never come to pass. Yet it has."
He paused, letting the silence stretch. He could hear the faint crackle of the hearth.
"My brothers, Daemon and Aegor, are plotting rebellion, my lords."
The words seemed to strike the chamber like a blow. Several councilors gasped. Lord Butterwell's face went pale.
"Are you certain, Your Grace?" Lord Butterwell asked carefully. "I know Prince Daemon was born on the other side of the sheets, but he has remained loyal since your father's passing."
"Indeed, Your Grace, why change his apparoach now?" Grandmaester Matthew questioned.
"Sadly on that I have answer too that. As for the rest it's true, he has been ploting to rebel." Daeron replied. "But by the reports Ser Brynden has provided, rebellion is on their minds and has been planned. Though we do not yet possess ironclad proof, we have strong authority. Nore have they declared it openly yet. They have hired sellswords, and Daemon has executed a man in his own name, calling himself Daemon the First of House Blackfyre."
At that, the silence deepened.
Daeron looked toward Brynden, who stood at the far end of the chamber, pale and watchful, his mismatched eyes unreadable.
"How did you learn this?" Lord Arryn asked.
"I have many eyes and ears across the realm, my lord," Brynden answered evenly. "Proof of open rebellion has not yet been secured, but it is true they are plotting treason. A knight in my service was executed, as His Grace stated."
"Executed?" Baelor repeated quietly.
"Beheaded," Brynden said. "For spying."
The council fell silent again. Outside, a gull cried somewhere beyond the city walls.
It was Lord Arryn who finally broke the stillness. "Your Grace, as loyal men to the crown, yet we must ask. Can we truly act without proof?"
Daeron's jaw tightened. "Oh, I wish I had more than whispers," he said. His gaze flicked briefly to Brynden. He could not reveal the deeper truths. Brynden's gifts were best left unspoken in a realm that feared sorcery. "Yet if we act now, we may quench the spark before it becomes a fire."
"It is a risky proposition, Your Grace," Lord Butterwell noted.
Daeron studied him. In calmer times, Butterwell was a capable administrator, diligent and fair. But these were not calm times.
"That may be," Daeron said. "Yet I would rather act now than condemn thousands to their deaths in a war."
He rose again and walked to the window. King's Landing sprawled beneath him, smoke rising from countless chimneys, the Blackwater glittering in the distance, in the moon.
"Do you think I wish to order the arrest of my own brothers?" he said quietly, his back still to the council. "My own blood and kin? I do not."
He turned back toward them.
"Now tell me. What is the best course of action?"
Baelor spoke first. "Father, I suggest that a portion of the household guard, accompanied by a Kingsguard and the Lord Hand, ride to arrest Lord Daemon and Aegor for treason and bring them to trial. While they are held, we may gather further evidence of their treasonous acts."
Daeron inclined his head. Good lad. Lawful. Measured.
"Send me?" Lord Butterwell asked, swallowing.
"The prince's plan is prudent," Lord Arryn said. "The Lord Hand is the second most powerful man in the kingdom. The presence of a Kingsguard would grant undeniable royal authority."
"Indeed," Lord Manwoody added. "With the household guard, Daemon will have little choice but to comply."
"I shall send ten Raven's Teeth with them for additional support," Brynden said.
Daeron's lips pressed thinly. The Raven's Teeth were loyal, but their presence would be noted.
"Though the plan follows the law," Brynden continued, "it may not be the wisest course."
"And what do you suggest, Ser Brynden?" Lord Arryn asked.
"That we send an invitation to Lord Daemon to discuss a possible marriage between Prince Daemon's youngest daughter and Prince Valarr. It would appear a generous offer. In truth, it would serve to lure him to the capital, where he may be arrested cleanly."
Murmurs spread through the chamber. Lord Manwoody alone did not look surprised.
"Uncle," Baelor said carefully, "I understand your reasoning. But it would be dishonorable to lure him to the capital under false pretenses, and to risk breaking guest right once he enters the city."
"Guest right only is granted after bread and salt is given beneath once roof," Brynden replied coolly. "Not the streets of King's Landing. And sometimes, my prince, in harsh moments we must be ruthless, else the realm will fall into war."
Daeron closed his eyes briefly.
Both roads are stained.
"I see merit in both options," he said at last, returning to his seat. "An arrest without proof beyond reports will stir unrest. Arresting him under false pretenses would bring shame and suspicion upon my name."
"Yet if it saves the realm from bloodshed?" Brynden pressed. "What is more honorable, to plunge the realm into war, or to remove one man through deception?"
"I do not always, see eye-eye too with Master of Wisherpes but, true. Is one act of deception better to save the realm form war?" Grandmaester Matthew questioned.
Daeron's gaze hardened. "If we abandon the law, we invite chaos. The realm suffered enough under my father's later rule. Disorder. Favoritism. Hardship."
The memory of those years lingered like a scar.
"I will not rule through shadows and traps."
Brynden studied him for a long moment, then inclined his head. "Very well, Your Grace. Let the die be cast."
He then looked toward the Grandmaester. "I your will, Your Grace, we maester are here to serve were ever you may lead us."
Daeron turned to Ser Gwayne. "Lord Commander, who beside you would be best suited to accompany Lord Butterwell?"
"Ser Dunwal Rosby," Ser Gwayne replied without hesitation. "A good man and the most senior member of the Kingsguard. He is steady and will not act rashly."
"Then it shall be done."
He faced Lord Butterwell, who now looked as though he would rather be anywhere else.
"On the morrow, Lord Butterwell, you will ride to Blackhold and arrest Lord Daemon and Ser Aegor Rivers on charges of high treason. They are to be detained and brought before their King to answer for their crimes. I shall draft a letter bearing my seal, which you will carry."
Butterwell rose slowly and bowed. "As you command, Your Grace."
Daeron nodded once.
The decision was made.
Yet as the council began to disperse, Daeron remained seated, staring at the carved dragon beneath his hands. He felt no triumph. Only the weight of what might come.
If Daemon yielded, the realm might be spared.
If he did not, then this chamber would one day be remembered as the place where war was born.
Ambrose Butterwell (195 A.C. Tenth Moon)
Hand's Tower.
The Hand's Tower stood beside the rest of the Red Keep, its narrow windows overlooking the Blackwater and the city beyond. Within his solar, Lord Ambrose Butterwell sat alone, the door barred, the hearth burning low.
A cup of Arbor red rested in his hand, dark as blood in the candel light.
His finger tapped against the oak table in a restless rhythm as his thoughts churned. The wine was rich and warm upon his tongue, yet it did nothing to steady him.
He was the King's Hand.
Even now, the weight of the chain about his neck felt heavier than gold ought to. Daeron had kept him in the position despite the manner in which he had first gained it. In the waning years of King Aegon's reign, when favors were traded like coin and ambition ran thick as summer flies, Ambrose had played the game well. He had served efficiently, competently. Daeron had seen that. Had recognized that the realm needed administrators as much as warriors.
And yet.
Butterwell knew that part of the King did not approve of him.
How could he not?
He had shamed himself for a dragon egg. A dragon egg, glittering and cold, promised to him as reward and leverage. He had shamed himself for the position of Hand. For advancement. For security.
His daughters had paid the price.
Their honors traded for his favors, he gain. Their reputations stained, and only a couple a landed knight to take to wife after. The death of King Aegon, and only because King Daeron arranged it. He sighed he rarely allowed himself to dwell on it, tonight the memory clung to him like smoke.
He drained half the cup in a single swallow.
"In Loyalty We Prospered," he muttered under his breath, the words of House Butterwell tasting bitter now.
Loyalty.
To whom?
He rose from his chair and crossed to the narrow window. The city flickered below with light. Somewhere in the distance, heard the talks off people.
Could he truly side fully with Daeron?
Daeron was a good king. Thoughtful. Measured. Not prone to cruelty or rashness. A king a man could serve without shame. Even brought Dorne into the realm even if with some concesion he didn't agree with.
But was he strong enough?
Daemon's martial prowess was famed across the realm. The whispers of his skill with blade and lance were not exaggerated. Daemon was to many the conquere come again, and men followed strength. men followed certainty. And Daemon had both in abundance.
Would Daeron and his allies be able to stop him if it came to war?
Butterwell thought of Prince Baelor, brave and lawful, unhorsing Daemon in the lists once before. A memory that had filled the court with cheers. Yet a joust was not a war. One tilt did not decide a kingdom.
The King's youngest son was also a martial man, bold and eager, yet youth could be reckless.
War was not won by valor alone. It was won by numbers, gold, alliances.
Gold.
Butterwell's gaze drifted back to the desk.
He had always been a diligent man. A careful man. When he saw a sure opportunity, he took it. That was how he had risen. That was how House Butterwell had always prospered.
But now there was no sure opportunity.
Only uncertainty.
If he bound himself wholly to Daeron and Daemon triumphed, House Butterwell would be cast down, perhaps destroyed. If he declared too boldly for Daemon and the rebellion failed, the noose would await him on the Hill of Rhaenys.
His finger began tapping again.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
"In Loyalty We Prospered."
Yes.
But loyalty did not say to whom.
He returned to his chair and pulled parchment toward him. The quill trembled only slightly as he dipped it in ink.
He
To Blackhold.
To Lord Daemon.
To warn him that he was coming.
He would hedge his bets.
Whatever banner flew above King's Landing when the smoke cleared, House Butterwell would endure.
He began to write, the sound scratching of quill against parchment filling the chamber. When at last he set the quill down, he pressed his seal into the warm wax. The sigil of House Butterwell stared back at him from the red imprint.
"In Loyalty We Prospered," he said again, this time with quiet resolve.
He would be loyal to both Black and Red.
"Ser Jaren, come in, please."
One of his most loyal men stepped inside. "Lord Hand," the man said after a bow.
Butterwell rose and walked toward him. "What I am about to tell you must stay between us."
The man nodded. "I am yours to command, my lord."
"Good. House Butterwell's future depends on it."
The man's eyes widened slightly.
"I need you, when we ride out tomorrow, to break away from the party and take this letter to Blackhold."
The man frowned. "My lord, are we not going there anyway, on His Grace's orders?"
"That we are. But I need House Butterwell to survive. I need this letter to reach Daemon before we arrive. If anyone asks, I shall say you ride with orders for my son."
He held out the sealed letter.
"Very well, my lord. I shall do as you ask," Ser Jaren said, taking the letter in his hand.
"You are a good man. When all is set and done, we perhaps have to speak of gaining you more than a knighthood." He noted, placing a hand on the man's shoulder.
The man looked at him gratefully. "I would be honored, My Lord."
"Sleep well, Ser Jaren, you have quite the ride tomorrow." He noted.
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