I knew what was coming. The wedding of Daenerys and Maron Martell was the moment the Blackfyre sentiment crystallized. Daemon Blackfyre reportedly loved Daenerys, and seeing her wed to a Dornish prince to seal a political pact was the final straw for his supporters.
I looked up at Bloodraven. "Do you like Great-Uncle Daemon?"
Brynden's red eye flickered. "I love my brother as the law demands. But I love the King more. Peace is a fragile thing, little prince. It is kept by men who are willing to do the things that 'Good' men like your grandfather cannot. Do you understand?"
"You mean the shadows," I said.
Bloodraven reached out with a pale hand, his fingers surprisingly cold as he brushed a lock of hair from my forehead. "I mean the truth. Remember this: a thousand eyes and one are needed to keep a throne. Perhaps one day, you will be one of those eyes."
He turned and vanished back into the stacks as silently as he had appeared. I stood there for a long time, the chill of his presence lingering. Bloodraven was a monster to some and a savior to others, but to me, he was a mirror. He saw the world as it was—a series of threats to be neutralized.
The Preparation for the Wedding
As the weeks passed, the Red Keep transformed. Banners of the Sun-and-Spear of Martell were hung alongside the Three-Headed Dragon. My grandfather, King Daeron, seemed rejuvenated, believing his dream of a united Westeros was finally coming to fruition.
My father, Baelor, was rarely seen without his armor. He was obsessed with the upcoming tourney. He knew that the lords of the Reach would be watching, looking for any sign of weakness to justify their secret loyalty to Daemon.
One afternoon, I found him in the armory, inspecting a new lance.
"Father?"
Baelor turned, his face softening as he saw me. "Valarr. Shouldn't you be with your septa? I heard she was looking for you to practice your letters."
"I finished them," I said, walking over to the rack of lances. I pointed to one with a heavy, reinforced tip. "Will you use this one?"
"Perhaps," he said, sitting on a bench and pulling me onto his knee. "The tourney will be crowded, son. Many great knights are coming from all around the realm."
"You're better than them," I said firmly.
Baelor sighed, looking at his calloused hands. "Daemon is... gifted. When he holds Blackfyre, he looks like the Warrior himself. Men want to follow that. They see the sword and they forget the man who gave it to him. They forget the peace your grandfather has built."
I leaned my head against his shoulder. "They won't forget if you win. If you break their spears, they'll see you're the strongest."
Baelor laughed, a rich, warm sound that filled the armory. "Is that what you want? To see your father break every spear in the Reach?"
"I want them to see the Crown is strong," I said.
The day the Dornish party arrived, the city was a riot of color. Prince Maron Martell rode at the head of a massive retinue, his golden-orange silks shimmering in the sun. Beside him rode my grandmother, Queen Myriah, who looked radiant to see her kin.
I stood on the dais beside my grandfather and the rest of the family. Even Rhaegel seemed focused, his eyes wide as he watched the exotic animals—elephants and sand-steeds—process up the Aegon's High Hill.
But my eyes were on the crowd. I saw the faces of the lords of the Reach: the Peakes, the Brackens. They were not cheering for the union.
They were whispering.
One of my primary goals before the rebellion is to reduce the number of House who supported Blackfyres in rebellion.
And then, I saw him.
Daemon Blackfyre had arrived, not with the royal party, but as a guest of honor. He rode a black stallion, and at his hip hung the sword Blackfyre. He looked every bit the king that the legends described—tall, powerful, with hair like silver-gold and a smile that seemed to promise glory to anyone who followed him.
Beside him rode Aegor "Bittersteel" Rivers. Bittersteel didn't smile. He looked at the Dornish prince with a hatred so pure it felt like a physical weight in the air.
As Daemon approached the dais, he dismounted with a grace that made my father's own movements look sluggish. He bowed to King Daeron, but his eyes drifted to Princess Daenerys. For a moment, the air in the courtyard seemed to thin. The tragedy of their love was written in the way they looked at each other—a silent "what if" that threatened to ignite the realm.
"Your Grace," Daemon said, his voice resonant. "A glorious day for House Targaryen."
"And for you, Daemon," Daeron said, though his voice was guarded. "I hope you have brought your best lances. My son Baelor has been eager for the contest."
Daemon looked at Baelor, and a predatory glint appeared in his eyes. "The Prince of Dragonstone. I look forward to it. It has been too long since dragons truly tested one another."
The courtyard felt like a pressure cooker, the air thick with the scent of roasted meats, horse dung, and the cloying perfume of the South. But beneath the celebratory facade, there was a secondary scent—the metallic tang of sharpening steel.
I watched Daemon Blackfyre. He didn't just walk; he commanded the space around him as if the very stones of the Red Keep owed him allegiance. When he looked at Princess Daenerys, the heartbreak wasn't a quiet thing. It was a roar. It was the kind of look that started fires in the dry brush of a man's soul. Beside me, I felt my father, Baelor, stiffen. His hand didn't go to his sword—he was too disciplined for that—but his thumb traced the line of his jaw, a nervous habit he only showed when the stakes were mortal.
"Peace is a lie we tell the smallfolk so they'll plant their crops," a voice whispered in my mind. It sounded like Bloodraven, though the Albino was nowhere to be seen, likely tucked away in some high window, counting the heartbeats of every traitor in the yard.
The Eve of the Tourney
That night, the Great Hall was a sea of orange and red. The Dornishmen brought their spicy wines and their even spicier reputations, but the Lords of the Reach sat like statues of salt. To them, every laugh from Prince Maron Martell was an insult to their ancestors who had bled in the Marches for centuries.
I sat at the high table, picking at a plate of lemon-crusted pike. My grandfather, King Daeron, was deep in conversation with Maron, his face lit by a hope that felt dangerously fragile. He looked like a man who had finally solved a puzzle, unaware that someone was standing behind him ready to smash the board.
"You aren't eating, Valarr," a soft voice said.
I turned to see my aunt, Daenerys. She was the most beautiful woman in the Seven Kingdoms, they said, but tonight she looked like a ghost draped in silk. Her eyes were red-rimmed, though she hid it well with powder and a practiced smile.
"I'm not hungry, Auntie," I confessed. "The room feels... heavy."
She reached out, her fingers trembling slightly as she squeezed my hand. "It is the weight of history, little dragon. It's a heavy thing for a boy to carry. Go. Find your father. He needs your light more than I do tonight."
I slipped away from the feast, moving through the shadows of the pillars. I didn't head for the dormitories. Instead, I found myself drawn toward the stables, where the air was cooler and the noise of the revelry was muffled by stone.
There, in the flickering torchlight, I saw a shadow silhouetted against the wall. It was Aegor Rivers—Bittersteel. He was whetting a dagger, the sound of stone on steel a rhythmic scritch-scritch-scritch that set my teeth on edge. He didn't look up as I approached.
"A Prince of the Blood shouldn't be skulking in the dark," Aegor said, his voice like grinding gravel. "Unless he's looking for the bastards."
"I was looking for the air," I replied, trying to keep my voice steady. "It's crowded inside."
Bittersteel stopped his sharpening and looked at me. His eyes were hard, devoid of the warmth Daemon possessed. He looked at me not as a child, but as a representative of the line he loathed. "It's crowded because your grandfather invited the vipers into our nest. He trades a sister for a peace that won't last the winter. Tell me, boy, does Baelor truly believe he can outride the King Who Bore the Sword?"
"My father is the Prince of Dragonstone," I said, my chest tightening. "He doesn't need a sword's name to be a king."
Aegor let out a short, bark-like laugh. "Loyalty is a fine coat, but it offers little protection against a lance. Tell Baelor to tighten his cinches. Daemon isn't coming for a trophy tomorrow. He's coming for a statement."