Aegor Rivers (195 A.C. Seventh Moon)
The Blackhold
Aegor rose happily from his bed as he was woken. It was final; there, Daemon had finally pushed past the point of no return, finalizing their alliance with a marriage between himself and Daemon's eldest daughter. Calla was a pretty girl even for her young age, and Aegor enjoyed the idea of becoming her husband. Yet it would not happen until the girl flowered, which at least would take a year, if not more. Still, the girl did have the appearance of Shiera, which was a bonus.
Still, it aligned him closely to the King himself, leaving Aegon and Aemon open for possible alliances, which they might need to consolidate the future realm, or offer as prizes to let major houses join their side.
House Peake, out of all their already confirmed alliances, was the largest, and second to them were the Ironwoods. Although smaller, lesser houses to their current liege lords were all itching to rebel, either to stamp out the joke of the Dornish or to gain advantage and rise in the ranks. Aegor didn't care. They needed all of them if they were to beat Daeron, his sons, and his hated rival Bloodraven.
After the war was done, and if Bloodraven wasn't dead, he would hunt the man down until the ends of the earth and take Shiera as his paramour, something he doubted Daemon would be angered by. Aegor knew very well he desired someone else as well instead of his Tyroshi wife.
Aegor knew how Daemon saw his wife, nothing more than someone to do his duty with and get sons and daughters from. It was Daenerys who held his heart, like Shiera held his. Aegor was sure that when he showed how pathetic Bloodraven was, Shiera would come to him and love him.
Aegor took a piss in his chamber pot before taking himself in hand and thinking of his Shiera, spilling himself into the pot as well.
Afterward he summoned a servant to help him dress, dressing himself in a red and yellow gambeson, with his personal sigil upon it: a red stallion with black wings snorting flame on gold upon his chest.
He walked to the great hall where Daemon and his family were eating. His two eldest sons sat beside him, though he did not see Rohanne.
"Is Lady Rohanne not joining us?"
"My wife has a period of morning sickness, I'm afraid. She has been in her chambers all morning," Daemon replied.
He gave a nod and took a seat beside his betrothed. He did know Calla, yet she would be his wife, the mother of his children, even if he wished it would be someone else.
"Good morning, Lady Calla," he added as he looked at her.
The girl looked wide-eyed and gave him a small smile.
"Good morning, Ser Aegor."
Aegor nodded, then turned his head to the table and picked up some bread and bacon, looking toward Daemon.
"How are Ser Quince's preparations for his journey west?"
"He should be almost finished," Daemon replied.
"Good. I do not know for how long it will be possible to hide our moves. Brynden's men came too close."
"No, it was something we all wanted, but I know now in my heart it is something we need to do," Daemon replied.
Aegor remembered the conversation they had had two years ago.
Flashback
"I have had a dream, Aegor," Daemon began, explaining why he had summoned him.
"That's why you have summoned me from Essos? For a dream?" he questioned. He had been fighting in the east with the Second Sons for a while to gain renown and gold.
Yet the urgent summons from Daemon had made him abandon that life. For years, ever since Daeron's descent to the throne and Brynden's rise to power, he had tried to persuade Daemon to take the throne and fight for his claim. Yet Daemon had always refused the idea.
Daemon did not want to attack his brother. Despite their father's words saying Daeron wasn't their brother, Daemon had never believed him. Even after Daeron married Daenerys off to Dorne, Daemon had told him he would have acted had he won that tourney, proclaiming his right to Daenerys and perhaps even the kingship. But the gods, he said, had other plans, and Daemon had fallen to Baelor's lance.
Now he was giving Aegor hope, and he had a dream?
"Indeed, not any dream. Dragon dreams, like the one Daenys had when our ancestors departed Valyria," Daemon replied, with vigor in his eyes that Aegor had seen often in his brother's gaze. He only truly saw it when Daemon spoke of Daenerys.
Aegor sighed.
"What kind of dream?"
"I saw a black dragon with a crown rise from the ashes of a battlefield with Blackfyre in his hands, roaring to a kneeling crowd, calling for the rise of the dragons," Daemon replied, his eyes wide with excitement.
"What does that have to do with anything?" Aegor questioned.
"That from the ashes of war, I will rise as King of the realm. King Daemon Blackfyre," Daemon added, taking Aegor by the shoulders and smiling.
Aegor's heart pounded in his chest, and he took a knee, drawing out his sword.
"I, Ser Aegor Bittersteel, do hereby pledge myself to the one true King, Daemon Blackfyre."
End Flash back
Now they were building their support carefully, piece by piece, promise by promise. Ravens had flown in secret, envoys had ridden by night, and old grievances had been quietly stirred back to life. Aegor knew that if they pushed hard enough, struck swiftly enough, they could overcome Daeron and proclaim Daemon King of the Seven Kingdoms.
He believed it.
He needed to believe it.
The conversation in the great hall was cut short when a guard entered and bowed deeply before Daemon.
"My lord," the guard began, waiting for permission.
Daemon inclined his head. "Speak."
"There is a rider at the gates. He asks to see you and claims urgent business that must be delivered in person. Both man and horse appear exhausted."
Daemon's eyes sharpened. "Who does he claim to be?"
"Ser Jaren, my lord."
"Only Ser Jaren?"
"Yes, my lord. He wears a plain surcoat without arms, though his armor beneath is well maintained."
Daemon frowned slightly and rose from his seat. "Very well. Offer the man bread and salt and give him refreshment. Then bring him to my solar under guard."
The guard bowed and withdrew.
"Ser Jaren?" Daemon asked, turning his gaze toward Aegor. "Have you heard of him?"
Aegor searched his memory. He had fought beside and against countless knights over the years. Names blurred together in his mind like banners in the wind.
"None come to mind," he replied.
Daemon nodded slowly. "Very well. Join me in my solar. A man does not ride a horse near to death without reason."
They left the hall together.
Daemon's Solar
Aegor sat in one of the carved wooden chairs and poured wine into two cups, handing one to Daemon. His brother took it but did not drink, his attention fixed on the door.
Soon enough, the guards returned with the rider.
The man bowed before Daemon and gave Aegor a brief nod. "Lord Blackfyre."
Ser Jaren was of average height, broad through the shoulders, with a round face, chestnut-brown hair, and a prominent nose. He looked like a man used to the saddle and to battle. Sweat still clung to his brow despite having been allowed to wash.
Aegor studied him carefully. The face stirred no recognition.
"So, Ser Jaren," Daemon began evenly, "from where do you hail? And whose arms do you serve, if not your own?"
Aegor noticed the knight swallow hard. Sweat beaded again at his temples.
"I bring a letter from my lord," Ser Jaren said, reaching to a pouch at his hip. His hands trembled slightly as he withdrew it and presented it to Daemon.
Aegor did not see the seal clearly from where he sat, but the change in Daemon's expression was immediate. A faint frown, a narrowing of the eyes.
"Why does Lord Butterwell send a letter by rider?" Daemon asked quietly. "Ravens are swifter. And this seal is that of Butterwell, not the Hand of the King."
At that, Aegor's own brow furrowed. Over the years, Butterwell's correspondence had come bearing the Hand's seal. This was different.
"It is important that you read it with urgency, my lord," Ser Jaren urged, bowing his head.
Daemon broke the seal and unfolded the parchment.
Aegor watched as Daemon's violet eyes moved across the page. At first there was only concentration. Then something else. A tightening. A flicker of anger.
"Read it," Daemon said at last, handing him the letter.
Aegor took it.
To Lord Daemon Blackfyre,
His Grace the King has been confronted with likely certainty of your betrayal and the plotting of your rebellion.
Aegor's heart stilled.
How?
How could they know?
Had someone betrayed them? Had Bloodraven's spies found proof? They had uncovered and dealt with one disloyal knight months ago. That had been contained. Or so he had believed.
He forced himself to read on.
His Grace has ordered the arrest of you, my lord, and Ser Aegor. On the morrow I am to ride out to arrest and bring you to the Red Keep to stand trial.
I urge you to flee the Blackhold.
In good conscience, I could not allow you to be arrested without certain proof.
Let this be known as my faith in justice.
Lord Ambrose Butterwell, Lord of Whitewalls, and Hand of the King.
Aegor was on his feet in an instant. Fury surged through him, hot and blinding. He seized Ser Jaren by the collar and slammed him hard against the stone wall.
"Is this true?" he snarled. "Does the King ride to arrest us?"
The knight paled. "Yes. I rode ahead under the guise of carrying orders to Whitewalls."
"Aegor, release him." Daemon's voice was calm but firm.
"He is doing his duty to his lord." Aegor held the man there for another heartbeat before letting go. Ser Jaren sagged but did not fall.
"When will they arrive?" Aegor demanded.
"Likely by the end of midday," Ser Jaren answered, still shaking. "They bring a sizeable party. My lord leads the force himself. Ser Justin Rosby rides with him."
Daemon's eyes narrowed. "How large?"
"Fifty Targaryen household guards. Ten Raventeeth. Twenty of Lord Ambrose's own men."
The mention of Raventeeth made Aegor's jaw tighten.
Daemon turned toward the door. "Ser Gaven. Enter."
The knight stepped inside at once, clad in Blackfyre surcoat with the proud badge of House Costayne pinned at his shoulder. "Lord Daemon."
"Summon Ser Quentyn." The man bowed and withdrew.
Daemon then looked back at Ser Jaren. "You have done your duty. Lord Ambrose has put his neck at risk for this warning. Take refreshment, then return and warn his household. Tell him his loyalty is remembered."
"As you command, my lord." Ser Jaren bowed deeply and departed.
Aegor watched him go, disbelief plain on his face. "You let him leave?"
"He was given bread and salt," Daemon replied. "And he acted bravely. He stood by his lord instead of seeking favor at court."
Aegor exhaled sharply. That was Daemon. Honor before advantage. Mercy before caution.
If not for the dream, Aegor sometimes wondered whether his brother would ever have chosen rebellion at all.
Ser Quentyn entered moments later.
"Your Grace," he said, bowing after closing the door.
Daemon handed him the letter.
Ser Quentyn read swiftly. His expression hardened. "If this is true, we could ambush them. It would buy us time to withdraw properly and burn what we cannot carry."
Daemon frowned. "You suggest abandoning my castle."
"I do," Ser Quentyn replied without hesitation. "Holding out for a siege would be futile. The castle is strong, but not built to withstand a royal host for long. If the King besieges us, we must hope for relief. Our allies are scattered. Waiting behind walls will not inspire confidence. But destroying a force sent to arrest you will send a message. We are not to be underestimated."
Aegor considered the words carefully.
Weakness would shatter their coalition before it truly formed. Many lords supported Daemon because they saw strength in him, the strength they believed Daeron lacked, especially in matters of Dorne.
"Ser Quentyn speaks truth," Aegor said. "If we do not show strength, our rebellion dies before it is born. Men follow you because you embody strength. Show them hesitation, and they will drift back to the Red Keep."
Daemon drew in a deep breath. The weight of decision hung heavily in the chamber.
"Yesterday," he said slowly, "I chose to claim what is mine. Today only confirms that choice."
His gaze hardened.
"We will not wait in chains."
He looked to both of them. "We will slay those sent to arrest us. But Lord Butterwell is not to be harmed. He has served us well."
"As you command, Your Grace," Ser Quentyn and Aegor answered together.
Daemon straightened. "Prepare the men. Aegon and Aemon will remain with me. The rest of my family will be sent to Tyrosh at once."
Aegor felt a fierce grin spread across his face.
It had begun.
No more shadows. No more whispers.
Steel would decide it now.
The name Aegor Bittersteel would be carved into the history of the realm in blood.
And when the dust settled, when Daemon wore a crown, he would take his revenge on Bloodraven.
And he would take Shiera.
At last, the world would hear his name.
Lord Ambrose Butterwell (195 A.C. Seventh Moon)
The road to the Blackhold
Lord Ambrose rode behind the Targaryen household guards. The land that Daeron had given Daemon was good, many pastures of sheep, castles filled with wheat and barley. Then again, Daemon was Daeron's eldest brother, and he had tried in vain to appease him, yet it seemed the Black Dragon thought to crown himself.
He wrote his letter in a way he could justify if the King ever found out about his betrayal. He placed his bets evenly and would make sure House Butterwell would survive the coming conflict.
As they rode on, his ass began to grow sore. Half a day of riding was not something he did often. He enjoyed the occasional hunt and ride, but these long marches he did not. He would rather be home, and especially not riding to where he was now headed. He hoped Ser Jaren had delivered his message, and that it had been believed.
If not, then well, he would go through with this, to arrest Daemon and bring him to court. He still had his duty to the king he had sworn to serve, even if he was placing his bets.
As they moved along, he hoped they would find an empty castle. That Daemon would have left. But were Daemon and Bittersteel men who would flee?
Then his heart stopped as he saw the glint of metal ahead. On the hill they were marching toward, he nervously looked around.
"My Lord Hand, Blackfyre banners ahead!"
The entire column became rigid and stopped.
To his dismay, the riders came down the hill with lances ready, at least fourty if not more. In front was Daemon himself in dark red armour, a great black dragon worked upon his breastplate. In his hand he held the sword Blackfyre, the blade catching the morning sun like dark fire.
To his side rode Bittersteel, clad in dark mail with a yellow cloak snapping behind him. His long blade was already drawn.
Daemon raised Blackfyre high.
"Forward!" he roared.
The riders thundered down the hill.
"Form lines!" Ambrose shouted.
The footmen tried their best, but it was too late. The line was not ready, and the crash of steel and flesh came together in a mighty crack. Horses slammed into shields, lances shattered, and men screamed.
The first impact threw soldiers aside like broken dolls. Horses fell in cries as spears pierced their chests. Riders were hurled from saddles. Men beneath the hooves vanished beneath iron and mud.
"Lord Hand, we must reform, kill Daemon, and take word back to the King," Ser Dunwal argued.
"Do it then."
Ambrose slapped his visor shut and drew his blade.
"Reform the line! Foot join them!" Ser Dunwal shouted.
But the line was a broken mess, and as the men join it became bigger mess. As they stepped between wounded, and dying men crawling through the mud. A Blackfyre rider slipt through his man went for him.
Ambrose took the first blow on his shield, and the another upon his sword.
Ambrose blocked the man's strikes but could not find a way to counter. His arm burned from the onslaught. The rider struck again and again with wild fury. Fuck, I warned you, and you are still trying to kill me?
Then BANG!
The rider's skull cracked open as the mace of Ser Justin smashed into his face.
The man collapsed like a sack of grain.
"Thank you, Ser."
"Form lines around the Hand!" Ser Dunwal ordered.
Men close by did as they were bid. A rough shield wall formed before him, spears braced outward. In front of them riders fought desperately, and the men caught in the first charge were slaughtered.
Ambrose looked across the field and saw Daemon cutting through men like a crimson storm.
Blackfyre rose and fell.
Each stroke killed.
A knight charged him, lance lowered. Daemon simply turned his horse and struck the lance aside, then split the knight from collar to chest in a single brutal blow.
Nearby Bittersteel fought like a man possessed.
His blade moved in quick brutal strikes, cutting a spearman across the throat before wheeling his horse and smashing another man aside with the pommel of his sword.
"Break them!" Bittersteel shouted.
His voice carried above the battle.
"Riders on the right, coming out of the trees!" someone shouted.
Ambrose looked toward the left. He saw another black banner and the fireball banner.
Fireball, one of the finest swordmen in the realm. The man Daeron past over to put a Myriah cousin upon the Kingsgaurd. Came bursting from the trees, with twenty riders at his back.
"Brace!" Ambrose shouted.
"To the left! Hold the left or be crushed!" Ser Dunwal added.
"Where are the Raven's Teeth?" Ambrose asked.
He did not see the mounted archers.
"I do not know," Ser Justin replied.
Ambrose realized then they had fallen back. They where ment for quick get in get out manveours not the brawl that fight was becoming. Yet he saw two fireball riders fall. He looked toward his back and toward their back waited the ten Raven's Teeth.
Then Fireball's riders crashed into the flank.
Lances punched through shields. Spears caught a horses in the chest, sending both horse and rider tumbling into the line. Another lance struck a soldier square in the chest and drove him backward.
Yet Daemon's men after falling down the men fought on.
"Hold!" Ambrose hollered.
He might have given Daemon warning, yet it did not seem like they would spare him if it came to blows.
His men fought bravely, yet the press of horses, and pressure Daemon men were now giving them, and Ambrose saw it then a cap in the wall.
Fireball himself came riding through the cap. His sword flashed in deadly arcs. One man lost an arm, another his head. A third he cut down through helm and skull.
He rode straight toward Ambrose.
Ser Justin spurred forward to meet him.
Steel rang as their blades met.
Ser Justin fought well, striking twice, forcing Fireball back. But Fireball was faster, stronger. Their swords locked, and Justin tried to twist free.
He missed a block.
Fireball's blade slid through the eye slit of his helm.
Blood poured from Ser Justin's face as the man screamed before slumping in his saddle.
That broke the line.
Men began to run.
Ambrose saw the end then, the fight was lossed.
In the rush of fleeing soldiers he wheeled his horse and rode, pursued by riders of Daemon who were now cutting down the broken remnants of his force.
A rider came close, almost able to slash the rider behind him, and then men fell form his horse.
Then a white arrow struck the rider in the neck.
Another arrow buried itself in his shoulder.
The rider tumbled from the saddle.
Another rider charged.
Three arrows struck him before he reached them.
Ambrose looked ahead.
Ten Raven's Teeth waited.
"My Lord Hand, we have to retreat. There is no winning here, the foot are being slaughtered."
"Fuck, this is treason. This will mean war," he growled.
He looked back once more.
Black banners rose above the battlefield.
Daemon Blackfyre still fought at the center, Blackfyre flashing red in the sun, while Bittersteel carved a bloody path beside him.
Some pockets of Ambrose's infantry still resisted, but they were surrounded.
There was no helping them.
Most of his own horsemen had fallen when Daemon's charge broke through.
Another rider came up then, wearing the Butterwell sigil.
"Lord Hand," the man panted.
"Anyone else remaining?" Ambrose asked, not recognizing the voice.
"No, my lord. It is done. I was just able to retreat."
"We have to go," Ambrose said.
"Indeed," one of the Raven's Teeth replied, nocking another arrow. "We will cover you, Lord Hand."
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