King's Landing was enjoying a rare clear autumn day. In the Red Keep's gardens, golden broom and late roses bloomed in a riot of color, filling the air with a lazy sweetness.
King Jaehaerys was in an unusually good mood and had summoned his family to the open-air pavilion for afternoon tea. Sunlight filtered through the grape arbors, dappling the stone table. Queen Alysanne held Rhaenyra in her arms as the little girl sucked on her honey-smeared fingers, babbling contentedly.
Prince Baelon set down his silver cup of mead and glanced at the two Daemons across from him, a teasing smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "By my reckoning, it's about time to start making preparations. The year-end winds won't wait for a reluctant groom." He turned to Daemon Targaryen, his tone carrying the familiar ribbing of an elder. "The bronze of Runestone won't be easy to warm up, Big Daemon. I hear the Royce girl, Rhea, is as hard as the armor her family has forged for generations—but like bronze, she can take a good polish. Don't bring shame on House Targaryen."
Daemon Targaryen toyed with a fig and gave a scoffing laugh. His silver hair glimmered in the sunlight. "Bring shame? Father, you underestimate me. If I can tame Caraxes, surely I can handle a girl from the Vale." He imagined what his betrothed might look like, his boyish anticipation mingling curiosity with a desire to conquer. "I hear she has hair as black as ebony and eyes like the streams in the hills around Runestone. I'll see whether her bronze armor is harder, or my Dragonfire hotter." He smiled, apparently already picturing himself soaring through the skies on Caraxes with his new bride, while the knights of the Vale gazed up in wonder.
Jaehaerys stroked his beard, amusement in his eyes, along with a deeper satisfaction at the thought of his grandson taking on his responsibilities. "Rhea Royce is the niece and heir of Jeybert Royce, Earl of Runestone. She has noble blood and a resolute nature, worthy of the blood of dragons. Treat her well, Big Daemon. Marriage is a responsibility, and a bond." He turned to Daemon Blackfyre Targaryen, seated a little farther away, his expression softening with a hint of mischief. "As for our newly crowned champion knight, Little Daemon, your flower crown is still waiting. You fought bravely in the tournament; don't be timid in matters of the heart. Tell us, among all the fine ladies of King's Landing, is there anyone who makes the heart of our 'warrior descended from heaven' beat a little faster?"
The sudden shift in topic made Daemon Blackfyre Targaryen pause, cup in hand. His twelve-year-old frame looked rather slight beneath the heavy purple Targaryen robes, but his eyes held a composure beyond his years. He set down his cup and replied calmly, "Grandfather, I'm only twelve. In the tournament, I relied on skill, not brute force. As for the fine ladies..." He paused, glancing around the pavilion—Queen Alysanne was watching him fondly as Rhaenyra babbled;
Princess Gael was intently peeling a grape, her long lashes casting shadows across her fair face. When she noticed his gaze, the tips of her ears turned pink, and she lowered her head even farther;
His cousin-by-marriage, Aemma, smiled warmly, trying to encourage him;
Alicent Hightower stood not far from the queen, holding a silver pitcher. Their eyes met briefly, and her lapis-blue eyes brightened. Then she lowered her gaze, a faint blush rising in her cheeks.
He looked away, his voice tinged with barely concealed helplessness and a boyish shyness. "Isn't it a little early to talk about marriage? Right now, I only want to bring honor to my family."
Aemma chuckled and picked up the conversation, trying to ease his embarrassment. "Twelve isn't so young. You can start keeping an eye out. There are plenty of lovely girls in the Vale—gentle, quiet, and well-read. In a couple of years, I could look around for a few suitable matches and introduce you." Her expression was warm, and she was genuinely thinking of her newly acknowledged cousin.
Viserys was holding his daughter, and the moment he heard that, his spirits lifted. He grinned at Daemon, then glanced at Alicent standing nearby, deliberately raising his voice. "Girls from the Vale are lovely, of course, but I say the roses of Oldtown are the ones worthy of a true dragon! The ladies of House Hightower are learned and elegant, like our Alicent..." He didn't finish, but his meaning was clear. His gaze moved between Daemon and Alicent with good-natured teasing.
Alicent's cheeks turned bright red, like ripe apples. She hurriedly lowered her head, gripping the handle of the silver pitcher so tightly that she nearly buried her face in her chest.
Watching this, Queen Alysanne smiled even more broadly. She leaned over and whispered a few words in Gael's ear, too quietly for anyone else to hear.
Gael jerked her head up, her pale purple eyes widening in disbelief as she looked at the queen, then darted a glance at Daemon. A moment later, her face and neck flushed a vivid red. As if burned, she bowed her head sharply, and the grape in her hand fell onto her skirt, leaving a dark stain. She was so flustered she wished the ground would open up and swallow her.
Good-natured laughter rippled through the pavilion. Even Baelon couldn't help smiling.
Jaehaerys watched his grandson's embarrassed yet composed expression, along with the shy reactions of the two girls, and felt his mood lift. The troubles of the Small Council seemed to fade a little.
"Now, now," Jaehaerys said, waving a hand to stop the laughter. "Viserys, stop teasing Lady Hightower. Little Daemon is young; there's no need to hurry into marriage." Then he changed tack, his eyes glinting mischievously. "But Gael, why are you blushing? Do you think Little Daemon is quite handsome, too?" The teasing left Gael even more mortified. She nearly buried her face in Rhaenyra's swaddling clothes.
Just as the warm, playful atmosphere, with its hint of flirtation, reached its height, a series of hurried, heavy footsteps approached, carrying an ominous weight, and shattered the garden's peace.
The Master of Coin hurried through an archway wrapped in vines, his face white as paper and his breath trembling. A travel-stained messenger followed close behind, mud caked on his armor and helmet tucked beneath his arm. His face was slick with sweat and contorted with indescribable fear. He clutched a scroll of parchment marked with dark brown stains.
The Master of Coin didn't even have time to bow properly. His hoarse voice rang out: "Your Grace! Your Highness! Terrible news... the Eyrie... Lord Arryn..."
The smile froze on Jaehaerys's face. Baelon shot to his feet, the legs of his chair scraping harshly across the stone.
The smile on Viserys's face stiffened, and his arms tightened unconsciously around Rhaenyra.
Daemon Targaryen furrowed his brow. The fig in his hand slipped and fell to the ground.
Daemon Blackfyre Targaryen's heart sank. A cold dread gripped him—his futile warning had failed to change the iron wheel of fate.
The messenger dropped to his knees and raised the scroll high in both hands. His voice shook with fear and grief. "Your Grace! Lord Arryn... his lady... and the young princes... on the road back to the Eyrie... in the Mountains of the Moon... ambushed by Wildlings of the Stone Crows! They... they're all dead! The caravan was burned, and no bodies were left... This is all... the raven brought back..."
Deathly silence fell over the pavilion. The sun still shone, and the flowers still filled the air with their fragrance, but the atmosphere seemed to freeze into ice.
All color drained from Aemma Arryn's face. She stared blankly at the stained scroll, then at her husband, Viserys. Her lips moved soundlessly, as if trying to confirm that she had heard wrong. The next moment, her body lurched violently. The last light in her eyes went out, and she slumped backward, as if every bone had been pulled from her body.
"Aemma!" Viserys cried out, scrambling to catch his wife. Rhaenyra, startled by the sudden commotion in his arms, burst into tears.
"My lady!" the serving women screamed, rushing forward.
"Maester! Send for the maester!" Queen Alysanne ordered sharply, though her voice trembled uncontrollably. She held the frightened, crying Rhaenyra close, her own face just as pale.
The pavilion descended into chaos. Cups and plates clattered and shattered; the ladies cried out; Rhaenyra's shrill wails mingled with Viserys's desperate cries.
King Jaehaerys sat motionless, gripping the arms of his oak chair so tightly that his knuckles turned white. His deep purple eyes were fixed on the scroll raised by the messenger, the parchment that bore news of the horrific deaths of his kin by marriage. Thunderous rage and bottomless grief churned within him. He opened his mouth, but no sound came, as if an invisible hand had closed around his throat.
Prince Baelon's face turned ashen. He strode forward, snatched the scroll from the messenger, and roughly unfurled it. His eyes raced over the desperate, scrawled words. With each line, the muscles in his face tightened, until his expression settled into a dreadful gloom. He looked up sharply, his gaze like a sword as it struck the kneeling messenger, swept across the chaos in the pavilion, then settled on Daemon Blackfyre Targaryen, whose face was pale and whose expression was impossible to read. His eyes held shock and grief, along with a trace of incredulous scrutiny.
Daemon Targaryen remained frozen in place. The vague image in his mind of his betrothed, Rhea Royce, with her bronze sheen, had been shattered by the bloody tragedy before him. The Vale, the Royces, the betrothal... All of it suddenly felt distant and cold.
Daemon Blackfyre Targaryen stood at the edge of the chaos, looking at Aemma's unconscious, pallid face and listening to Rhaenyra's helpless cries. He felt the soul-freezing anger and grief radiating from Jaehaerys and Baelon. He clenched his fists, his nails digging deep into his palms. The Stone Crows... the Mountains of the Moon... He had warned them, but history had still ground forward along its cruel path.
The dream of a bronze betrothal had only just begun to rise when sudden bloodshed stained it red and shattered it. Above King's Landing, the once-lazy warmth of the autumn sun now seemed veiled in blood.
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