Rain had fallen for three days, turning the roads of the Riverlands into a mire of mud.
Inside the great hall of Raventree Hall, the fireplace blazed fiercely, yet it could not drive away the damp, bone-deep chill.
Daemon Targaryen stood by the window, looking out at the gray, overcast sky.
Rainwater slid down the glass like tears.
"Prince."
Mysaria—called the White Worm, mistress of whisperers—stepped in and leaned close, speaking softly into Daemon's ear. "A message has just come from Dragonstone."
"Princess Rhaenyra is in a disturbed state. The maesters say her mind has suffered a great shock."
At the report, Daemon's heart sank.
Since the Battle of Dragonstone—after losing two sons and seeing the third maimed—Rhaenyra had been teetering on the edge of collapse.
At times she was lucid. At times she wandered in a haze. Sometimes she screamed for vengeance; sometimes she clutched the clothes her sons once wore and wept.
He knew his wife stood at the brink of breaking.
But the war needed her. The Blacks needed her as their banner.
"What else does the letter say?" Daemon asked, his voice steady.
"Only that you should finish affairs in the Riverlands as soon as possible and return to her side."
Daemon fell silent.
He wanted to fly back to Dragonstone at once, to comfort his wife, to tell her everything would be well.
But he could not—not yet.
The Riverlands were the key. The throat that linked the North and the Vale. If it fell into the Greens' hands, the Black forces would be split apart.
"The Riverlands," Daemon said, turning to face the gathered lords. "What say you?"
Marq Piper, a young lord with sharp eyes, spoke first. "Old Lord Tully may lean toward the Greens, but that does not mean all the Riverlands follow him."
"House Piper, House Blackwood, the Freys, the Mallisters… we are all willing to support Princess Rhaenyra."
"But the problem is—"
"The problem lies within," the Lord Blackwood cut in. "Our liege lord, House Tully—and House Bracken—support the Greens."
"And their strength is not to be underestimated."
"Among them is Elmo Tully—the heir to Lord Grover Tully."
"Though Elmo is not as firmly aligned with the Greens as his grandsire, and would rather keep Riverrun independent…"
"If we press him too hard, he may be driven into the Greens' camp."
"Then do not press him too hard," Daemon said, walking to the map and tapping Riverrun. "Give him a choice."
"Declare for us openly, and I will reward him richly."
"Or remain neutral, and keep his lands after the war."
"But he must allow the Black armies free passage."
"Otherwise… he becomes my enemy."
"And if he becomes your enemy?" Marq asked.
Daemon looked at him.
That look sent a chill down the spines of the young, war-hungry lords.
"The fate of Harrenhal," Daemon said calmly.
"If House Tully chooses to stand against us, I will not hesitate to see Riverrun burn."
The hall fell silent.
Mysaria coughed softly, breaking the tension. "From a strategic standpoint, the Riverlands are indeed crucial."
"With control here, the North and the Vale can march south and join forces."
"But if the Riverlands side with the Greens—"
"The North and Vale will be cut off," Daemon finished. "So we must take the Riverlands."
"With rewards and punishment."
"Those willing to support us will be rewarded. Those who hesitate will be pressured. Those who refuse…"
The doors suddenly burst open.
A messenger, soaked to the bone and caked in mud, rushed in, clutching a raven.
The tube on its leg was black—urgent dispatch.
"My lord! A raven from King's Landing!"
The messenger presented the tube with both hands.
Lord Blackwood took it, broke the seal, and pulled out the parchment.
As he read, his face grew darker and darker.
"What is it?" Daemon asked.
The lord handed him the letter, casting him a complicated glance. "My prince… you have my condolences."
Daemon took the letter.
At the first line, he frowned.
At the second, his hand froze.
At the third, he held his breath.
Viserys was dead.
Poisoned.
The Greens accused Rhaenyra of conspiring with Grand Maester Orwyle to commit patricide and regicide.
Aegon would be crowned today.
The Faith and the Citadel supported the Greens.
Every word was like a blade, 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 envied, later understood, and finally reconciled with.
"Dismissed," Daemon said, a wave of dizziness and exhaustion washing over him. "All of you. Leave."
"My prince?" Marq asked, confused.
"Out!"
This time it was a roar.
No one dared question him again.
The Riverlords hurried out, and the doors closed.
The hall was left with Daemon alone.
He stood there for a long time.
Then slowly walked to the high seat and sat down.
He unfolded the letter again and read it once more.
To Lord Evan Blackwood:
Viserys I, King of the Seven Kingdoms, passed away two days past.
Cause of death: acute poisoning. Suspect: Grand Maester Orwyle, currently missing.
The Iron Throne suspects Princess Rhaenyra conspired with Orwyle in regicide.
Aegon Targaryen will be crowned king today.
The Faith and the Citadel have declared their support for Aegon II.
You are hereby requested to proceed to King's Landing at once and swear fealty to the new king.
Daemon's hand trembled.
He tried to steady it—but could not.
When had he last seen Viserys?
More than a year ago, perhaps.
The two brothers had spoken then—of Rhaenyra, of succession, of the future of their house.
But now Viserys was dead.
They would never argue again.
That brother who had always suppressed him… and yet protected him…
Daemon felt the hollow emptiness rise within him. He closed his eyes.
The rain drummed against the windows like countless tiny beats.
The door opened softly.
Benjicot Blackwood, who had just rushed back, entered breathless, carrying a wooden box.
"My prince?" he asked quietly.
"Did I not say? Everyone get out!" Daemon turned, eyes flashing with killing intent.
"Benjicot?" Daemon frowned as he recognized him.
"It's me, my prince." Benjicot wiped the mud from his face.
"I've just come from King's Landing. I bring urgent news…" he said carefully.
Daemon still looked puzzled.
Benjicot had already opened the box.
"This was given to me by Grand Maester Orwyle… the crown, and a letter."
Daemon stared in disbelief.
Inside lay his brother's Valyrian steel crown, along with a scroll.
He seized the letter at once and read it word by word, unable to stop himself from cursing.
"Aemond, you damned bastard…"
At the end, his gaze sharpened.
He could tell at once—the letter was not written by his brother.
It mimicked Viserys's hand well… but not perfectly.
It accused Aemond and Alicent of conspiring to murder the king.
It declared Rhaenyra the sole rightful heir.
But Daemon knew—it was a forgery.
As brothers, he knew Viserys had a habit.
When writing the word sole, he would always pause slightly on the first stroke.
This letter did not.
"What did Orwyle say when he gave this to you?" Daemon asked.
"He said… the king knew Aemond had poisoned him, so he wrote this in advance and entrusted it to him," Benjicot replied.
"At the time, Lord Willem Royce of the Vale also thought the timing too convenient… as if someone were handing us a blade."
Daemon's thoughts stirred.
He thought of Orwyle's background…
The Citadel.
If someone was deliberately pushing this war forward…
Daemon's expression grew complicated.
This war—he could not lose.
The Greens had already struck first, branding Rhaenyra a patricide and traitor.
If they lost, his wife Rhaenyra Targaryen would forever bear that name.
At the thought, a cold light flashed in Daemon's violet eyes.
Rest easy, Viserys. I will uncover the truth.
Anyone who harmed you…
I will see them die in agony.
"My prince?" Benjicot said eagerly.
"We can use this letter."
"Spread it, and the Seven Kingdoms will suspect Aemond of murdering his father. The Greens will lose their legitimacy."
"With the Faith and the Citadel backing the Greens, this letter alone has limited effect," Daemon said, shaking his head as he folded it and tucked it away.
"But with this letter—and the crown—it is enough."
"We can raise our banners with rightful cause…"
He stood and walked to the window.
The rain had not stopped.
"Will House Blackwood support us?" Daemon asked without turning.
"They will," Benjicot said firmly. "My father told me to assure you—House Blackwood stands with the Blacks."
"But the Riverlands are delicate. We cannot openly muster troops yet, or House Bracken will seize the chance to strike."
Daemon nodded. He understood.
The feud between Blackwood and Bracken had lasted a thousand years.
If one moved, the other would move.
They were mortal enemies.
Even in times of peace, they built their strength against one another.
Between them, they rivaled even their liege lord, House Tully.
If you oppose, I will support.
Even if the only result was to see the other suffer—no matter the cost.
"So we make sure Bracken cannot move," Daemon said, turning, cold light in his eyes. "I will visit them myself."
"And make Lord Grover Tully understand what happens if he does not stand with us."
"My prince… what will you do?" Benjicot asked.
Daemon smiled, his violet eyes narrowing.
The smile reminded Benjicot of what his father had once said—Daemon in his youth had been both charming and deadly.
Daemon smiled faintly. "House Bracken's castle is about to burn…"
Benjicot's eyes lit up.
Daemon patted his shoulder. "Make ready."
"Tomorrow, we pay the Brackens a visit… and bring them some warmth."
---
I will post some extra Chapters in Patreon, you can check it out. >> patreon.com/TitoVillar
---