The Golden Company Encampment, Tyrosh — 212 AC
The sun had not yet risen when the rider arrived, weary and dust-covered, bearing grim tidings from Westeros. Within the training yard of the Golden Company, where the clang of steel often echoed like bells of war, Aegor Rivers, known across the Free Cities as Bittersteel, stood silent and unreadable as the missive was read aloud.
Haegon Blackfyre, young and solemn, stood beside his uncle, dressed in black and crimson, the silver-gold of his hair catching the torchlight like a Targaryen crown already. His violet eyes, so like his late father's, searched Bittersteel's face for some sign of emotion.
"Daemon has failed," Bittersteel said at last, voice flat and cold. "The tourney was a trap. Bloodraven sprung it before the boy could draw even a drop of glory."
Haegon did not speak. He clenched his jaw, his knuckles white against the hilt of his sword.
"They say he begged for single combat," Bittersteel went on. "No one stood with him. No one believed in him—not enough. His own squire spat in his name. Now he rots beneath the Red Keep. A fitting end."
The youth flinched, despite himself. "He was my brother."
"So was Daemon the First to me," Bittersteel said, finally turning to him. "So were your twin brothers, Aegon & Aemon, cut down at Redgrass Field. All dead. Their cause died with them—until now."
He placed a gauntleted hand on Haegon's shoulder, heavy with iron and intent.
"Daemon the Younger was weak. A fiddler, not a dragon. I told him so to his face, and he proved me right. But you… you have the fire."
From behind them, captains of the Golden Company had begun to gather—Ser Franklyn Flowers, the Bastard of Casterly Rock, Black Walder Staunton, and a dozen other exiles and swords-for-hire who had once knelt for Daemon the First beneath Blackfyre banners on the Redgrass.
"You are Daemon's true heir," Bittersteel said, loud enough for them all to hear now. "A dragon worthy of the sword."
He drew the ancient blade from its scabbard—Blackfyre, the Valyrian steel greatsword once wielded by Aegon the Conqueror and stolen from the Targaryens by Daemon the Pretender, forged black as night and etched with flames.
Kneeling before the boy, Bittersteel held the sword aloft.
"Kneel, Haegon, son of Daemon, blood of kings."
The boy dropped to one knee.
"Do you swear to take back what was stolen, to bear the sword of your forefathers, and to wear the crown by right of blood and fire?"
"I do," Haegon said, voice steady despite the tremor in his chest.
"Then rise, Haegon of House Blackfyre," Bittersteel intoned, "King Haegon, First of His Name, the One True King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm!"
He placed the flat of Blackfyre upon the boy's shoulders—once, twice—then raised it to the sky.
"All hail King Haegon!"
"LONG LIVE THE KING!" came the cry from a hundred throats.
The Golden Company roared, pounding blades to shields. From the tents to the walls, exiled knights and outlawed lords joined the chant.
"LONG LIVE THE KING!"
And Haegon, newly crowned, stood tall and proud among them, his eyes burning bright with the promise of vengeance, of legacy, of destiny.
From the shadows, Bittersteel watched him.
"Let Brynden keep Daemon," he muttered under his breath. "We need no fiddlers now. We have a dragon."