The banners of war had risen like thunderclouds.
In the Riverlands, black dragons bloomed like plagueflowers across towers and keeps. From the tumbling walls of Harrenhal, a great banner snapped in the wind: a black wyvern with red eyes, the arms of House Lothston, now entwined with the sigil of Daemon Blackfyre.
The defection shook the realm. Harrenhal, largest and most terrible of the crown's castles, straddled the heart of Westeros. To lose it to the rebels was a wound King Daeron could not ignore.
But not all wounds bleed.
Some fester in silence.
In the solar atop the Tower of Ghosts, Lord Manfryd Lothston drank spiced wine and read his letters by candlelight. The seals had already been broken—Bloodraven's spies saw to that—but Manfryd was too pleased with his own cunning to notice. His daughter Alys danced with the rebel knights below, and his second son trained with Gormon Peake's squires.
Outside, the sky had turned iron-grey. Snow flurried early that year, an ill omen.
A knock sounded at the door. Manfryd frowned. "Enter."
The chamberlain stepped in, face pale, eyes uncertain. "A rider, my lord. Come from King's Landing."
Manfryd's hand froze over his goblet. "A raven?"
"No, my lord. A man. Cloaked in grey."
Manfryd rose sharply. "Bring him."
They met in the godswood, beneath a withered weirwood whose face had long been hacked away by old kings.
The man who waited there was cloaked in storm-grey, with a hood drawn low. He was not armed, save for a knife at his hip, bone-handled and plain.
Manfryd approached alone, boots crunching frost.
"You come from King Daeron?" he asked.
"No," said the stranger. "I come from your future."
The voice was cold, low, and unmistakable.
Brynden Rivers pulled back his hood.
The sight of him gave Manfryd pause. That pallid face, that red stain across the cheek like a crow dipped in blood. The eyes, like twin coals. He had seen them once, years ago, at court. They had not warmed since.
"I… we declared for Daemon. What more is there to say?"
"There is always more," said Brynden.
He stepped closer. "You hold the greatest stronghold in the Riverlands. With it, Daemon has a path to the Trident, and from the Trident to the capital. You will not keep it. The river lords loyal to the crown mass behind Lord Tully. Soon, Lord Arryn will descend from the Vale, and from the west comes Red Lion Lannister."
Manfryd scoffed. "And what of that? Let them come. Harrenhal does not fall so easy."
"No," Brynden said. "It falls hard. And it falls in flame. How many of your sons do you wish to see burned?"
The lord faltered. "You threaten—"
"I offer," Brynden cut in. "You switch sides. Quietly. You give Daemon false hope, draw his forces near. Then, when the time is right, you close your gates. You betray him. And you live."
Manfryd's voice was hollow. "He will know. Bittersteel will cut my heart out."
"Not if I keep his knife in my hand."
Brynden reached into his cloak and withdrew a small chest. It was plain oak, bound in iron. He opened it with a click.
Gold. Jewels. A sealed royal pardon. And a letter—bearing King Daeron's own signature.
"You are not the first traitor in your line," Brynden whispered. "Do not be the last."
The Lothston lord looked at the contents of the chest, then at the pale man before him. The cold in the godswood deepened.
"What do you want in return?"
"Names," said Brynden. "Movements. Secrets. And when the day comes… Harrenhal."
He turned and left without another word, vanishing into the mist like a ghost of the old kings.
Later That Year
The Blackfyre host advanced on Harrenhal in strength—Daemon himself at its head. He had expected banners and cheers. He found locked gates and arrow slits.
Atop the walls, Manfryd Lothston raised the red dragon of House Targaryen. And beside it, a new banner: a white dragon with red eyes breathing red flame on a black field. Bloodraven's personal sigil.
The rebels were thrown into chaos. Ambushes followed. Peake's second son was captured; Black Tom Heddle slain. Roads closed behind them. Bloodraven's trap had been sprung.
It was said that when Daemon learned of the betrayal, he broke his sword on a stone wall.
But Blackfyre was Valyrian steel. It did not break.
Not yet.