Bronze and Blood

The autumn day in King's Landing was uncharacteristically clear. In the gardens of the Red Keep, gorse and late-blooming roses vied for space, filling the air with a languid, sweet fragrance.

King Jaehaerys was in a rare mood to summon his family for afternoon tea in the open-air pavilion. Sunlight filtered through the grapevines, casting dappled shadows across the stone table. Rhaenyra, held in Queen Alysanne's arms, sucked on a honey-coated finger and let out a satisfied coo.

Prince Baelon set down his silver goblet of mead, his gaze sweeping over the two Daemons sitting opposite him with a hint of mischievous amusement. "Counting the days, it is time to prepare. The winter winds at the end of the year will not wait for a dawdling bridegroom." He looked at Daemon Targaryen, his tone carrying the teasing typical of an elder. "The bronze of Runestone is not easily warmed, big Daemon. I hear Lady Rhea of House Royce has a temperament as hard as her ancestral armor, but she is as durable as bronze, too. Do not disgrace House Targaryen."

Daemon Targaryen was toying with a fig, and he scoffed at the words, his silver hair shimmering in the sunlight. "Disgrace? Father, you underestimate me. I can tame Caraxes; surely I can tame a girl from the Vale?" He imagined his betrothed, his expression filled with the curiosity and desire for conquest typical of a young man. "I hear she has hair like ebony and eyes like the mountain streams of Runestone? I should like to see if her bronze armor is harder than my dragonfire." He curled his lip, already fantasizing about flying through the skies with his bride on Caraxes' back, drawing gasps of awe from the knights of the Vale.

Jaehaerys stroked his beard, his eyes filled with amusement, though beneath it lay the relief of a grandfather seeing his grandson prepare to shoulder responsibility. "Rhea Royce is the niece and heir of Lord Yorbert Royce of Runestone. She is of noble blood and firm character, worthy of the dragon's lineage. Treat her well, big Daemon. Marriage is both a duty and a bond." He turned to Daemon Blackfyre Targaryen, who sat a little further away, his expression softening with a touch of playfulness. "As for our newly crowned champion, little Daemon, your laurel wreath remains unclaimed. You are fierce in the lists, but do not be timid in the lists of love. Tell me, among all the ladies of King's Landing, has any made the heart of this 'warrior descended from the heavens' beat a little faster?"

The topic having turned to him, Daemon Blackfyre Targaryen's hand paused on his cup. His twelve-year-old frame looked somewhat slight beneath his heavy Targaryen purple robes, but his eyes held a composure beyond his years. He set down his cup and spoke calmly, "Grandfather, I am only twelve. The lists require skill, not brute force. As for the ladies..." He paused, his gaze sweeping the pavilion—Queen Alysanne watched him with affection, Rhaenyra cooed;

Princess Gael was looking down, focused on peeling a grape, her long lashes casting shadows on her fair face. Sensing his gaze, the tips of her ears turned slightly red, and she lowered her head even further;

Cousin Aemma wore a gentle, encouraging smile;

Alicent Hightower stood not far from the Queen, holding a silver pitcher. Her gaze met his briefly, her lapis-lazuli eyes brightening before she lowered her lids, a faint blush rising to her cheeks.

He withdrew his gaze, his tone carrying a trace of imperceptible helplessness and the bashfulness typical of a youth. "Is it not too early to discuss marriage? I only wish to build merit for the family for now."

Aemma chuckled, taking up the thread to ease his embarrassment. "Twelve is not so young; you can keep an eye out. We have many fine girls in the Vale—gentle, quiet, and well-read. In a couple of years, shall I keep an eye out for some suitable ones and introduce you?" Her eyes were gentle, genuinely looking out for her newly recognized cousin.

Viserys, holding his daughter, perked up at these words. He smiled at Daemon, then glanced at Alicent standing to the side, raising his voice intentionally. "Girls from the Vale are fine, of course, but I think only the roses of Oldtown are worthy of a true dragon! The ladies of House Hightower are learned and elegant, for instance, our Alicent..." He did not finish, but his meaning was clear, his gaze shifting between Daemon and Alicent with good-natured teasing.

Alicent's cheeks turned bright red, like a ripe apple. She lowered her head in a panic, her fingers gripping the handle of the silver pitcher so tightly she nearly buried her face in her chest.

Queen Alysanne watched this scene, the amusement in her eyes deepening. She leaned over and whispered a few words into Gael's ear that only the two of them could hear.

Gael jerked her head up, her pale purple eyes widening in disbelief as she looked at the Queen, then darted a quick glance at Daemon, her entire face and neck flushing a vibrant crimson. She looked as if she had been scalded, ducking her head so abruptly that the grape in her hand fell onto her skirt, leaving a dark stain. She was flustered, wishing she could find a hole to crawl into.

A ripple of good-natured laughter broke out in the pavilion, and even Baelon could not help but curl the corner of his mouth.

Jaehaerys watched his grandson's embarrassment and his attempts to maintain his composure, along with the shy reactions of the two girls, feeling a sense of pleasure that seemed to dissipate the frustrations of the Small Council meetings from the past few days.

"Alright, alright," Jaehaerys waved his hand, stopping the laughter. "Viserys, stop teasing Lady Alicent. Little Daemon is still young; there is no rush for marriage. However," he shifted his tone, a hint of mischief in his voice, "Gael, why are you blushing? Do you also think little Daemon is outstanding?" This teasing left Gael so mortified she nearly buried her face in Rhaenyra's swaddling clothes.

Just as this warm, slightly ambiguous, and boisterous atmosphere reached its peak, a series of hurried, heavy, and ominous footsteps approached from afar, shattering the garden's tranquility.

The Master of Coin rushed through the vine-covered archway, his face as pale as paper, his very breathing trembling. Behind him followed a travel-worn messenger, his armor caked in mud, his helmet tucked under his arm, his exposed face covered in sweat and an indescribable terror. The messenger clutched a roll of parchment stained with dark brown smudges.

The Master of Coin did not even have time to offer a full bow, his voice raspy as he shouted, "Your Grace! Your Highnesses! Terrible news... the Eyrie... Lord Arryn..."

The smile on Jaehaerys's face froze instantly. Baelon stood up abruptly, his chair legs scraping harshly against the stone floor.

The smile on Viserys's face stiffened, his arms tightening unconsciously around Rhaenyra.

Daemon Targaryen frowned, the fig in his hand rolling to the ground.

Daemon Blackfyre Targaryen's heart sank, a cold premonition gripping him—that futile warning had failed to change the iron wheels of fate after all.

The messenger fell to his knees with a thud, holding the scroll high with both hands, his voice filled with tears and terror. "Your Grace! Lord Arryn... my lady... and the young lords... on the road back to the Eyrie... in the Mountains of the Moon... ambushed by the Stone Crows! All... all are gone! The carriage was burned, no remains left... only this... brought back by a raven..."

A deathly silence descended upon the pavilion. The sun remained bright, the flowers remained fragrant, but the air seemed to have frozen into ice.

The color drained from Aemma Arryn's face instantly. She looked blankly at the stained scroll, then at her husband, Viserys, her lips moving silently as if trying to confirm she had heard wrong. The next second, her body swayed violently, the last spark of light in her eyes extinguished, and she collapsed backward, limp as if all her bones had been removed.

"Aemma!" Viserys cried out, scrambling to catch his wife, while Rhaenyra, startled by the sudden turn of events, began to wail.

"My Lady!" the handmaidens screamed as they rushed forward.

"Maester! Call the maester!" Queen Alysanne commanded sharply, though her voice trembled uncontrollably. She held the crying Rhaenyra tightly, her own face deathly pale.

The pavilion descended into chaos. The sound of clattering, breaking dishes, the screams of the ladies, Rhaenyra's piercing cries, and Viserys's desperate calls all intertwined.

King Jaehaerys sat where he was, his hands gripping the armrests of his oak chair so tightly his knuckles turned white. His deep purple eyes stared fixedly at the parchment held high by the messenger, the symbol of his kin's gruesome death, his mind churning with thunderous rage and bottomless grief. He opened his mouth, but no sound came out, as if an invisible giant hand had gripped his throat.

Prince Baelon's face was ashen. He stepped forward, snatched the scroll, and tore it open roughly. His gaze swept rapidly over the scrawled, desperate words; with every line, the muscles in his face tightened, eventually settling into a terrifying, grim darkness. He looked up abruptly, his gaze shooting like a sharp sword at the kneeling messenger, sweeping across the chaotic pavilion, and finally landing on the pale, complex, and unreadable face of Daemon Blackfyre Targaryen. In that look was shock, grief, and a hint of incredulous scrutiny.

Daemon Targaryen remained frozen, the vague, bronze-tinted image of his betrothed, Rhea Royce, shattered completely by the bloody tragedy before him. The Vale, the Royces, the marriage contract... all of it suddenly felt distant and cold.

And Daemon Blackfyre Targaryen stood on the edge of the chaos, watching Aemma's unconscious, pale face, listening to Rhaenyra's helpless wails, and feeling the rage and sorrow radiating from Jaehaerys and Baelon—enough to freeze a soul. He clenched his fists, his nails digging deep into his palms. The Stone Crows... the Mountains of the Moon... he had warned them, yet history had still ground its way along its cruel path.

The dream of the bronze marriage had barely risen before it was thoroughly stained red and shattered by the sudden blood. Above King's Landing, the once-languid autumn sun now seemed to be veiled in a layer of blood.