The chambers of Brynden Rivers were located in the upper reaches of the crawlspaces beneath the roof of the King's Keep, a damp, drafty warren that most lords avoided. The air up here smelled of dried herbs, old parchment, and the strange, vinegar-sharp scent of the inks Bloodraven used for his ledgers.
When Valarr entered, without knocking—for one did not knock on a door that was already wide open, waiting—he found his uncle sitting before a single, guttering candle. Bloodraven's pale, milk-white skin seemed to absorb the shadows around him. The red raven-shaped birthmark on his cheek and throat looked like a fresh splatter of blood in the dim light. His one good eye, red as a ruby, fixed on Valarr before the prince had even cleared the threshold.
"You took the long way," Bloodraven observed. His voice was a dry rasp, like autumn leaves scraping across stone. "Did Maekar have much to say?"
"He thinks we should be sharpening axes instead of roasting pigs," Valarr said, taking a seat on a low wooden stool opposite the Master of Whisperers.
"Maekar is an anvil," Bloodraven said, dipping a quill into an inkwell that looked like a carved skull. "Anvils are excellent for shaping iron, but they are remarkably poor at catching flies. Tell me, Valarr, what did you see during your walk through the lower bailey?"
"I saw three wagons from the Westerlands, bearing the sigil of House Reyne," Valarr said, his mind cataloging the details he had stored away. "Their outriders wore new boots, but their horses were lean. They traveled fast. I saw two galliots from the Reach docking at the harbor, carrying wine from the Arbor, but the crewmen were too broad in the shoulder for mere sailors. And I saw a man in a grey cloak with a rusted iron ring on his thumb standing near the stables."
Bloodraven stopped writing. He looked up, a thin, terrible smile stretching his pale lips. "The iron ring. Do you know its meaning?"
"The Brotherhood of the Iron Ring," Valarr said, his throat tightening. "A secret society among the knights of the Reach. They swear themselves to the memory of the 'True Dragon,' though they never name him aloud. They hold that a king who cannot wield Blackfyre is no king at all."
"They are fools who romanticize the weight of a sword," Bloodraven said, leaning back. "But fools with swords can still kill kings. Daemon Blackfyre has stayed at Foat's End these past weeks, playing the pious lord, but his shadow stretches all the way to King's Landing. And Aegor... Aegor is the wind that moves that shadow."
"You said Bittersteel is coming," Valarr said, leaning forward, his hands resting on his knees. "The King has granted him safe conduct. If he enters the city under the peace of the realm, we cannot touch him without proving the King a liar."
"The King's peace is a lovely garment," Bloodraven murmured. "It covers many sores. But it is thin fabric, Valarr. It tears easily. Bittersteel does not come to seek reconciliation. He comes to look upon our weakness. He remembers the Great Hall two years ago, when your father humbled him in the lists. He remembers the way I looked at him from the dais. He thinks we are old men who have grown fat on Dornish sweetmeats."
"And what do you want me to do, Uncle?" Valarr asked. "I am the Prince of Dragonstone's eldest. If I am seen skulking in the alleys, it will look like the Crown is desperate."
Bloodraven reached into his robe and produced a small, leather-bound book. He did not hand it to Valarr; instead, he placed it on the table between them, his long, pale fingers resting on the cover like a spider guarding its web.
"This is the ledger of the Master of Coin's clerks," Bloodraven said. "Or rather, it is a copy of the transactions that do not appear in the official books. Someone within the Red Keep has been buying large quantities of wildfire from the Alchemists' Guild. Not enough to burn the city, but enough to cause a considerable distraction. A distraction that might allow a small, determined group of men to enter the Maidenvault, or perhaps the King's own bedchamber."
Valarr felt a chill run down his spine. "The Alchemists are forbidden from selling to anyone without a royal warrant."
"Laws are like spiderwebs, nephew. The great flies break through, while the little ones are caught," Bloodraven said. "The warrant was signed with a seal that looks remarkably like your grandfather's. But the wax was of a lower quality, dyed with beet juice rather than the cochineal the royal scriptorium uses."
Valarr's hand went instinctively to his dagger. "Who?"
"That is the thread I need you to pull," Bloodraven said, pushing the book an inch closer to Valarr. "The man who delivered the wax is a merchant named Garse, who operates out of a fishmonger's stall near the Fishmarket. He is a small man, terrified of his own shadow, but he has recently acquired a taste for Dornish red and expensive silk. He is being paid by someone who wishes to remain in the dark. Find out who owns him, Valarr. But do it without waking the castle. If Bittersteel realizes we are onto his hounds, he will call them back, and we will lose the chance to leash them."
Valarr looked at the book, then up at his uncle's single, unblinking red eye. He realized then that this was his test. His father had won his spurs at the tourney, breaking lances and winning the love of the smallfolk. But the kingdom Valarr was meant to inherit was not the kingdom of song and story. It was a kingdom of whispers, poison, and late-night bargains.
"Consider it done," Valarr said, taking the book and slipping it inside his doublet.
"And Valarr," Bloodraven called out just as the prince reached the door. Valarr turned. The candle had burned down to a nub, casting Bloodraven's face into deep, skeletal relief. "If you must bleed a man, ensure he bleeds into the river. The Blackwater carries many secrets to the sea, and te fish do not talk."