Brynden Rivers Bloodraven (195 A.C. Seventh Moon)
King's Landing – Brynden Solar – Before the Battle
He snapped out of the raven. After Aegor, Quentyn, and Daemon had planned their ambush, they brought in the two eldest sons to teach them something. He rose and felt dizziness. The constant long-distance warging was beginning to strain him, and those long hours inside the minds of birds and beasts as well. Yet a potion that his love would brew would strengthen him and allow him to go back. Now, though, he needed to send out a rider.
He quickly walked through the Red Keep toward the barracks of the Raven's Teeth. His second in command, his cousin Marrick Blackwood, stood there.
"Lord Commander," Marrick noted, giving him a nod.
"I need you to send out your fastest rider toward the host riding toward the Blackhold. They are riding into an ambush."
The man's eyes widened in surprise, but he quickly replied, "I shall report back if I hear any news."
"Good. Make sure he rides with all haste."
"It shall be done, Commander." Marrick replied, and walked away.
Brynden turned back toward the Red Keep and went straight toward Daeron's chamber. As he did, he thought about what to do, what advice to give. Openly accuse the Hand of treason? Or would the dismissal of the court be enough? Because what did one say when the Hand of the King plotted against the King? Would the realm rally behind Daeron if the Hand himself supported Daemon?
He didn't know. Brynden gritted his teeth.
"I wish to speak to the King," he stated to the two Kingsguard.
Ser Gwayne opened the door. "Your Grace, Ser Brynden requests an audience."
He heard Daeron's voice faintly. "You can enter, Ser."
Brynden gave Gwayne a nod and walked inside, seeing he wasn't alone. Myriah was there as well.
"My King, my Queen."
"No need for that, Brynden," Daeron noted quickly. Then Daeron saw his face.
"I doubt you bring good news."
Brynden nodded. "Indeed, brother. Nothing good."
"You saw something, didn't you?" Myriah asked.
Her dark hair was still full, though streaked with small strands of grey. The same with her copper skin, still smooth, with only faint lines of age. Her husband, sadly, wasn't so lucky, though Brynden could hardly fault him. Daeron had endured their father the longest of all of them.
"Indeed. In the day I slip in and out of animals. I can slip my mind away, and during the morning I saw treason."
"Treason?" Daeron questioned.
"Indeed. The Hand sent word to Daemon ahead, warning him. I wrote a letter to him and sent a rider ahead."
"Butterwell betrayed us?" Myriah asked, her voice sounding disappointed. "After we allowed him to stay on as Hand. Even after the way he got the Handship." Myriah spat the last words out in disgust.
"That is how it seemed. I didn't read the letter, so I do not know what it said, only the results," Brynden replied bitterly, thinking of all those dead men now lying in the field.
"Sadly, that wasn't all the news I bring."
"What else? Are we going to have to besiege the Blackhold? Has Daemon fled before we could arrive?" Daeron asked.
"No. Worse."
"Worse?" Daeron looked at him skeptically.
"They are planning an ambush."
"By the seven hells." Daeron cursed, and Brynden raised his eyebrows, knowing full well his brother rarely cursed.
"Daeron, what will you do about Lord Ambrose?" Myriah asked, taking hold of her husband's hand.
"I do not know yet. But for now, let us wait. Perhaps the traitor dies if the ambush cannot be prevented," Daeron spat.
"I sent a rider to see if they can warn the party. If the rider will arrive in time remains to be seen."
"Let us hope he rides like the wind and saves those men," Daeron replied, not managing to keep the bitterness out of his voice.
"If there isn't more, I shall look once more and return when I know more, Your Graces," Brynden stated.
"Very well. Let us hope the men can hold them off," Daeron said with a sigh.
"Brynden, eat something first. You look famished," Myriah said with a kind smile.
"I shall, my Queen," he noted with a bow.
"Good. That is an order from your Queen," Myriah added with a chuckle.
A few hours later
Brynden knew the moment he saw the war lances upon the hill that it was over. Perhaps forty riders, if not more, all clad in steel, or chainmail and his blood boiled when he saw the red fire-breathing stallion on yellow.
The men were not prepared. They tried to form a shield wall, yet it was too late. The momentum of the charge was with Daemon, and not one held spears. The shield wall cracked almost instantly when the horses hit.
Men were crushed under hooves and pierced with lances. Though not all horses did well, some fell, but the two most important did not. Daemon and Aegor fought until the end, wrecking a bloody path through the men.
His own Raven's Teeth, bringing up the rear, were able to flee, shooting at the arriving horsemen, but it made little impact. What could ten do against that many? He saw arrows fall around Daemon and Aegor, yet except for one arrow that hit Aegor's horse. The rest sadly missed.
The second charge of Quentyn Fireball ended any hope for a fighting retreat, and the slaying of Ser Justin brought the group into a rout.
To his surprise, Butterwell was also nearly killed. Only he himself and two other knights escaped the carnage thanks to the Raven's Teeth.
Brynden cursed in shame. If Butterwell had died, it would have helped rally the realm.
Daemon ambushing the Hand of the King and killing him would have been far easier to use. Now it was only an ambush, and if Butterwell had died it would also have spared them the problem of dealing with him.
As he saw the thirteen riders ride away, he snapped out of the bird.
"War it is then. The realm will bleed because a fat man was jealous of his son, and one brother resented the other for taking away his love." He muttered.
He rose and took the potion Shiera had prepared. It tasted bitter, and he tasted the iron of blood. He knew his love used blood in her brews. She asked for blood from time to time, and he had been more than willing to give it to her.
Still, he swallowed and quickly took a cup of wine, washing the taste away.
Brynden then returned to the King's chamber.
Ser Gwayne and Ser Justin once more let him in. He saw Daeron sitting with Baelor, having a meal.
"Your Grace, my Prince."
"Seeing your face, Ser Brynden, you do not seem to have good news," Baelor noted.
"Indeed."
"Your rider didn't arrive in time, did he?" Daeron asked.
"No. The ambush they planned was successful. Only thirteen of the retinue we sent returned," Brynden replied.
He saw Daeron's face visibly sag.
"What of Lord Butterwell?" Daeron asked.
"Escaped, though he was nearly killed. Ser Dunwal saved him, though he himself fell when Ser Quentyn Fireball fell upon their flank. Fireball killed Ser Dunwal himself."
"We shall honor Ser Dunwal for his loyal service. He was a good man. Perhaps we will be able to recover the remains of the fallen in the future. Still, that leaves us with the fact that war will come soon enough," Baelor noted thoughtfully.
"Brynden, what do you think should be done about Butterwell? I did not take your advice on how to deal with Daemon, so I ask you now what should be done," Daeron asked.
"Depends on what you wish to be done. There are two options. Either execute him for treason and send a message to the realm. Yet it is a sword that cuts both ways, as it would show the realm your own Hand plotting against you.
Or dismiss him as Hand and send him back to Whitewalls. Yet perhaps increase his taxes, revoke certain privileges, have him pay some form of ransom, and take a hostage."
"Baelor, what do you think?" Daeron asked his heir.
"The second option, Father. The realm already resents your treaty with Dorne and the presence they have been given when they integrated into the Seven Kingdoms. Like Uncle Brynden stated, the realm would see it as your own Hand plotting against you. Why would the lords follow you if your own Hand would not?"
"Very well. When Lord Butterwell arrives, have him sent to my solar," Daeron said.
"As you command."
"Baelor, be with Brynden when he does, and both of you join me in my solar when we deal with him."
"As you command," both Brynden and Baelor replied.
A few hours later – Butterwell's arrival
Brynden once again returned to his solar and warged to return to the Blackhold. Seeing Daemon's force returning victorious, and even a couple of captives being dragged along.
Yet he also saw they were ready to leave. They would clean themselves and disappear.
The only thing he knew for sure was that Ser Quentyn would travel west and rally their allies there. Yet where Daemon and his family would go, he did not know. Though he suspected he would send his younger children, women, and his wife toward Tyrosh. Daemon's wife was from there, and though the family was not currently the Archon, they still held significant influence in the city.
A safe place to hide them.
Yet which route they would take was the question.
Something, to his frustration, he did not know.
As Brynden continued to watch Daemon and his followers prepare to leave, he heard a distant knock on his door.
He snapped out of it and felt his parched lips. He drank. The rats and birds drank and ate plenty, and it filled his belly in his mind, but it was not his own belly. What his bonded animals drank or ate did not nourish his own body.
Shiera had to force him to eat in the beginning, as one might not feel the need to eat. But the body did. It was the mind playing tricks on him.
Stay too long where you do not belong, and you will drown.
A voice in his head more than once, and the odd thing was it wasn't himself who said it.
He and Shiera had been trying to figure out who the voice was, but so far they had not found the answer.
Another knock drove him to his feet.
He opened the door and saw one of his Raven's Teeth standing there. "The Hand and the rest of the retinue are returning."
"Very well. Warn Prince Baelor. I will meet both in the courtyard."
Brynden arrived as the gates opened and the haggard party rode in.
Three of the fourteen riders were matted with blood. The others were simply tired and sweating, the same as their mounts.
"Lord Hand," Brynden proclaimed as the man dismounted from his horse. "It seems you ran into some trouble. I am dismayed to see my rider was not there in time to warn you."
"Ser Brynden," Lord Ambrose muttered. He looked tired and stressed.
"The King wishes for you to report immediately," Brynden stated.
"I will redress and wash first," Lord Ambrose replied.
"Sorry, but His Grace wishes to see you now."
"Indeed, Lord Hand. My father requests you see him immediately," Prince Baelor added.
"As His Grace commands," Lord Ambrose replied, his face unable to disguise his worry.
He knows something is wrong. Why else would I send a rider to warn him, if not because I know the truth about his betrayal?
Daeron's solar
"Lord Hand, it seems Ser Brynden's rider didn't make it in time," Daeron stated after greeting Lord Ambrose briefly.
"He didn't. We rode straight into an ambush. I am sorry to inform you that those who returned with me are the only survivors. The rest were slain or taken by Lord Daemon," Lord Ambrose replied stiffly.
"Indeed. A shame you didn't die. It would have been a worthy punishment for your treason," Brynden stated.
"Treason!" Lord Ambrose squeaked, his voice trembling. "I do not know what you mean, Ser Brynden."
Daeron slammed his hands on the table. "We have reliable information that you sent a warning to Daemon. A knight of your house was seen splitting off from your main party, and afterward was seen in the Blackhold. Not a few hours later, the party sent to arrest Daemon and Aegor was ambushed."
Daeron paused for a moment, breathing deeply. "Now we will be at war. Good men of the crown lie dead, even your own men. Then there is the death of Ser Dunwal Robsy. So tell me, Lord Hand, what do you have to say against that?"
"I do not know. I sent a rider away in the morning to send word to Whitewalls, to prepare for my possible death and likely war. I wished my son to be prepared for the eventuality. The ambush was proof I was right in doing so. Why a knight of my house was at the Blackhold, I do not know. Perhaps the man went rogue," Lord Ambrose replied while stuttering.
"Lord Butterwell, I know you are lying."
"I do not, Ser Brynden. I swear it by the old gods and the new," Lord Ambrose replied, looking at him.
Brynden scoffed. "Says the man who sold his daughters as bedwarmers."
The man flushed red with anger, and Brynden thought for a moment he might strike him. Yet the man was a coward. The actions he took today were proof enough.
"I know because I saw it myself. I heard your man speak. I saw him hand the letter written in your hand to Daemon."
"That cannot be true!" Lord Ambrose shouted.
"Oh, it can. Look into my eyes."
Brynden warged, finding a raven nearby. He flew it to the open window in Daeron's solar.
"Traitor," the raven croaked.
Brynden snapped out of it.
"See? It can be done. I am sure you have heard of skinchangers beyond the Wall. They are south of the Wall as well, though rare. I am one of them. So I know you betrayed us."
"No!" Lord Ambrose wailed, falling to his knees. The golden chain of the Hand rattled against his mail.
"I am sorry, Your Grace. I wrote to Daemon, indeed I did. I only wanted him to flee. I did not think he would ambush us. I acted because I thought it unjust to arrest Daemon without proof."
"Well, now you know we had proof, my lord," Brynden said with a smirk.
"I do," Lord Ambrose stuttered, looking at with fear.
"I say we take his head," Brynden muttered sarcastically.
"No, please! I will do anything to regain your trust," Lord Ambrose begged.
"Trust?" Daeron asked.
"Trust can never be regained, but I will not take your life," Daeron said coldly.
"Thank you, Your Grace. I am at your mercy. I am your humble servant," the man said, bowing so deeply his face touched the floor.
Brynden was surprised the man could kneel so well. He was quite stout and still wore mail, greaves, and a heavy gambeson.
"You will not escape punishment. You will send word to your son and order him to join you here with your levies. You will be stripped of the Handship and return to Whitewalls when your son arrives, but your son will remain here as a hostage until the war is done.
You will increase your taxes, and the right to hunt in your lands will be suspended for five years. All game caught in your lands will be sent to the crown."
"I will accept your gracious judgment," Lord Ambrose replied, still shaking.
"Now rise," Daeron said.
"Give me your pin and chain."
The man nodded, taking the pin from his pocket and lifting the chain from his neck.
"You may leave. You will be escorted to your chambers, where you will be confined until further notice," Daeron ordered.
"As you command. And I will gift you almost all my belongings in the tower as a gift, Your Grace," Lord Ambrose said meekly.
Brynden looked at the man in disgust.
"Traitor," he muttered as the man left.
"That he is. But an opportunist, not brave or daring. If he had been, he would demand a trial by combat, or felt form the Raven Teeth back to Whitehalls. He was the Hand of the King he had the authority to command them." Baelor noted.
Another knock sounded. "Your Grace, Grand Maester Matthew is here to see you. He has received a letter from Prince Daemon."
Brynden frowned.
A letter from Daemon now?
Then he knew without reading what it was.
He thought, Here the war truly begins.
Daeron II Targaryen (195 A.C. Seventh Moon)
King's Landing – Daeron's Solar
Daeron rubbed his brow as the Grand Maester entered. "Your Graces, Ser Brynden."
"I apologize for the inconvenience, yet I gather that you wished to read the letter right away, considering Prince Daemon's actions." Grand Maester Matthew noted as he gave him the letter, bearing the black wax seal of House Blackfyre.
The name always tasted bitter in his mouth. You are a fool, father. See where it has brought us now to war.
"No trouble," he replied, breaking the seal.
He rolled out the scroll and began to read it. By the end he slammed the letter onto the table.
"Father?" his son asked.
He breathed in deeply. "Read the letter out loud, son."
His son took the letter and began to read.
"In the name of King Daemon, the first of his name of House Blackfyre."
His son muttered something under his breath before continuing.
"I declare by this letter my intent to lay claim to the Iron Throne by right of birth and blood.
"My father, in his wisdom, proclaimed me and all his children not born to his marriage to Queen Naerys to be legitimized. He did so with sole reason: to declare the usurper illegitimate. As Daeron Waters is not my brother; he is my cousin, born to Queen Naerys and my uncle Prince Aemon the Dragonknight."
His son looked at him with anger, as did Brynden and Matthew.
"He can't be serious, can he, father?"
Daeron sighed. "Read on."
"I also declare my claim because Daeron Waters ordered the unjust arrest of myself and my brother Aegor Bittersteel. I was able to stop this attempt and have been able to defeat the party sent to arrest us. My loyal knight and Lord Commander of my future Kingsguard slew the false knight Ser Dunwal Rosby and sent the Hand of the King fleeing.
"So I ask the lords to rally to my banner, to take down the pretender and reclaim the realm from Daeron Waters and his Dornish supporters.
Signed, King Daemon, First of House Blackfyre."
His son finished and cursed, something Baelor rarely did, something his son had gained from him.
"Lies, of course, Your Grace," Grand Maester Matthew stated immediately. "The claims of Queen Naerys's adultery were proven false by the Trial of Seven your uncle fought. Prince Aemon himself was a knight of paramount virtue and honor, dying in King Aegon's service to protect him."
"I know. The letter is what it is, and with it war will come. Send word around the realm for the realm to rally and crush the pretender. I tried to work with Daemon. Since my coronation I have tried. Yet it seems because of my father we will have to go to war and fight it out with steel to decide who is to rule."
"As you command. If you write your proclamation, I shall send copies throughout the realm. All that remains will be your seal," Grand Maester Matthew stated.
"Good. Now summon the council. Brynden and Baelor, you both will inform them of the situation and begin to plan. I will summon Lord Hayford. I have something to discuss with him."
"As you command," they all noted, and left the chamber.
Daeron sighed and sat down in his chair. He poured some wine and drank deeply. The wine was good, especially now.
"Damn you, father," he muttered toward the ground. "I hope you rot somewhere in the seven hells."
A few moments later.
"Your Grace, Lord Daven Hayford," Ser Gwayne noted as he opened the door.
"Your Grace," the man said as he came in and gave a quick bow.
"Lord Hayford, please have a seat," Daeron said. "May I offer you some wine?"
"If you please, Your Grace."
He poured them both a cup.
"Lord Hayford, I summoned you as I have just received grave news," he began. "My brother, Prince Daemon, has declared himself a pretender and has declared war upon me."
"Surely not. Prince Daemon has been a loyal servant of Your Grace for the last eleven years. What made him act now?" Lord Hayford asked, his voice surprised.
"I do not know," he replied, and it was the one thing he did not know for sure. Was it the constant urging of Bittersteel, disgruntled lords, and opportunists? Or was it something else? Was Daemon not content with his life and did he want more? Or did he even now still desire Daenerys.
It was an answer he was not sure he wanted to know, or expected to ever receive. "Indeed. Last night I ordered the arrest of Prince Daemon and Prince Aegor. They were both plotting treason. We wished to arrest them before it could spark into open war."
"Ah, the reason for the retinue departing this morning," Lord Hayford noted.
"Indeed. Sadly, they were ambushed by Daemon himself, and the Lord Hand barely escaped with his life. Sadly, Ser Dunwal Rosby was slain in the battle."
"They must have been warned, to plan an ambush in such a short time," Lord Hayford noted.
"Indeed, that is true. And it was the Lord Hand, who has now been stripped of his title and received other punishments. All I wished was to take his head, but what would that say if my own Hand plots against me?"
"Butterwell a traitor? True, the man's rise to power is not something to admire, but committing treason is not something I suspected of him," Lord Hayford noted, his face full of surprise.
"Yes, and that is why you are here. Ever since the departure of Ser Quentyn Ball, you have taken the role of Master of Arms with vigor and honor. My sons and the men speak admirably of you. They speak mostly of your knowledge of battle, your prowess with arms, and your sternness when justified. Something we need in the time that is to come."
He paused for a moment.
"I am grateful for your praise. It has been an honor to serve, and it gave my son a chance to learn to rule while I am still around," Lord Hayford replied, smiling.
"Good. Then, Lord Hayford, will you take up the Handship and stand beside me and my sons against the pretender?" he asked.
Lord Hayford's eyes widened. He stood up from his chair and went to one knee.
"I, Lord Daven Hayford, Lord of Hayford, do accept the honor to become your Hand. I shall serve you loyally until my death or until you bid me step down from my post," the man proclaimed with great fervor in his voice.
Daeron rose from his seat and took the pin.
"Lord Hand, rise."
Lord Hayford did so.
Daeron placed the pin upon the man's green and yellow gambeson, then went back and took the Hand's chain.
"May you serve me well."
"I will, Your Grace," Lord Hayford replied.
"Come then, my Lord. We have a war to plan," he added as he walked to the door.
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