The Red Keep — Small Council Chamber, 219 AC
The throne room of the Small Council chamber was colder than usual, despite the summer outside. Brynden Rivers, gaunt and pale beneath his dark crimson cloak, sat at the head of the table where the Hand's seat waited beneath the seven-pointed star. A faint drizzle fell outside, painting long trails down the tall windows and muting the city beyond.
The King, as often these days, was absent. Aerys I Targaryen, thin, solemn, and more fond of books than rule, remained cloistered in the library—poring over forgotten scrolls while war loomed just beyond the Narrow Sea.
Instead, it was Prince Maekar Targaryen, his brother, who joined the council today—grim and broad-shouldered, wearing mail beneath his royal surcoat. His eyes were hard and hooded, his silver-gold beard flecked with grey.
Brynden opened the session without preamble.
"It is certain now. The third Blackfyre rebellion is upon us."
A hush fell. The other councilors—Lord Raymond Harroway, Master of Laws; Lord Arryck Massey, Master of Ships; and Grand Maester Mellaen, bent with age—sat still, their expressions grim.
"Our agents in Myr and Lys confirm the Golden Company has departed Tyrosh under Bittersteel's command," Brynden continued. "They are led by the boy he crowned seven years ago—no longer a boy. Haegon Blackfyre, now a man grown, battle-tested, trained by his uncle's hand and armed with the loyalty of a thousand exiles."
He let that settle in.
"They sail for the Blackwater, with strength enough to threaten the city. Their banners fly with the three-headed dragon in black."
"Let them come," Prince Maekar said, voice deep and resolute. "They'll find the gates of King's Landing well defended. I will ride with the royal host—my sons at my side."
His eyes flicked to Brynden, challenging. "Aerion will command the vanguard. The boy needs discipline, and this will season him. And Aegon—he's a man grown now. Strange as ever, but no craven. He'll fight."
Grand Maester Mellaen coughed politely. "Surely, Your Highness, Prince Aegon is young yet—"
"He is old enough," Maekar said, steel in his voice. "I would not have it said that Maekar's sons shirked while bastards crossed our shores claiming crowns."
Brynden allowed a faint smile. "So be it. Let the Blackfyres come. We will not be unprepared."
"What of Daemon the Younger?" Lord Massey asked. "Still in the dungeons?"
"He remains a guest of the Red Keep," Brynden replied. "A living cautionary tale. Let the next usurper see what becomes of false dragons."
A murmur of uneasy agreement followed.
"This time," Brynden declared, rising to his feet, "we end it. No more exiles. No more pretenders. No more Blackfyres."
His pale eyes scanned the room, cold and unblinking.
"This time, we crush them."
The room fell silent, but for the rain on the windows. The shadow of war had fallen on the realm once more.
And at its heart stood two old rivals—Bloodraven and Bittersteel, poised to cross swords once again.