Chapter Text
Daeron liked the Godswood best just below the Heart Tree with his fingers in the dirt and his head tilted toward the sky. So many ravens in the sky. The wind rustled through the red leaves. Like hands. Like storming boots. Like blood.
Daeron squinted up at a high branch where some rot had set in. Maybe it would fall on his head.
Sometimes he fell asleep. Valarr didn’t ever nod off. Valarr listened to Septa Eustace.
“Prince Daeron, would you tell me what we have been discussing regarding the Field of Fire?” Septa asked.
“Princess Rhaenys,” he offered. Septa made a mad noise. Above, the leaf-hands moved. Red shadow puppets.
“House Lannister bent the knee,” Valarr said. This received a happier noise. Septa spoke in clucks like a chicken. When Daeron told that to Papa, he’d laughed.
He looked down to the ground to find a rolly poly inching across his hand. Daeron held it up to his eyes, then set it back down. He watched it squirm along the ground, and he remembered he’d dreamt of insects being crushed by big tall –
Crck.
Boots.
“Father!” Valarr rose instantly, and bowed and then eagerly accepted Uncle Baelor’s embrace.
“Hello, dearest one.” Uncle Baelor bent down to kiss his son’s head. “I hope the boys are not giving you much trouble, Septa Eustace?”
“Prince Valarr is the picture of temperance, Your Grace.”
Those mismatched eyes turned down to Daeron. He had to squint up at his uncle. The sun was haloed behind his skull.
“You are not feeling temperate today, Daeron?”
“You smushed it,” Daeron said, and pointed. “The bug. Why?”
Uncle Baelor lifted up his boot a bit, but he was too tall to see the remains of the little creature he’d killed.
“Ah. I apologize, I did not see it.”
“But I did.” Daeron sighed and crossed his arms. Septa was glaring at him. “I think a lot of bugs are going to die. Bugs made of steel.”
Exoskeleton, Mama said. That’s what it’s called when men put their skeletons outside of their bodies, but their skeletons are armor. It still doesn’t protect them from being crushed.
“That is the way of life, sad as it may be,” Uncle Baelor said, and then ruffled Valarr’s hair again. “I was just passing through. I will leave you to your studies. Listen carefully to your Septa, boys. You still have many great things to learn.”
Daeron slumped back against the tree, Valarr at his side once more. The septa droned on and on. It was not his fault that his eyes slipped closed, and not his fault that he dreamt of bugs and bugs and bugs.
One of them was gold and fierce. That one lost its whole head while Daeron watched, and he couldn’t do a thing.
He could never do a thing.
—
Aerion was in love with Lady Shiera. Dyanna would have found it amusing if it weren’t for the current state of King’s Landing — or the current state of the Seven Kingdoms for that matter.
“Do let me know if he bothers you,” Dyanna said. The Queen’s Ballroom was full of respectable ladies in splendid colors all milling about with tea and crackers. She had a brief and awful envy of Jena, removed from public life as she awaited her babe.
“Nonsense. Prince Aerion is far more charming than the other men who darken my doorsteps,” Shiera said. Several girls laughed. The beautiful bastard was an odd duck, in Dyanna’s view, but she was nothing if not charismatic.
Aerion, sitting on the girl’s lap, leaned happily into her chest and blinked up at her. Three and a half and already wooing women. He was not supposed to be here at all, but Maekar had cancelled their long-promised first sword session, and their son had been inconsolable.
“Dyanna,” Queen Myriah’s voice cut above the chatter. She instantly swept to her lady’s side at the grand table. Myriah crooked a finger to beckon her face close and whispered, “Is all of this laughter fake or does some of my pomp stick?”
“A sticky pomp, for certain, Your Highness, but I wager it will not linger in their throats. They will step outside, and some arsehole on a soap box will ring them new news to fuss over.” Dyanna received a light swat on the wrist for that. No matter.
“Your smiles are not convincing,” Myriah said.
“My apologies. I do wonder if you might consider indulging in a fool. I find them a strange practice as well, but some ladies are easily amused,” Dyanna whispered. “And easily distracted.”
Myriah waved her hand in gentle dismissal. “My company should be amusement enough. And look at that — Aerion is doing the work of ten jesters.”
Shiera was tickling his sides and making him shriek with laughter, garnering coos and claps from all of the ladies crowding them. He was an exceptionally cute child, and she an exceptionally beautiful lady. And both so strikingly Valyrian.
Dyanna crossed back to them before she had quite sorted out her thoughts, or what made her chest tighten so. She scooped Aerion up and balanced him on a hip.
“You spoil my littlest prince,” she said lightly. “Whatever will he do when he is grown, and no ladies look at him with half as much affection as you lot? He is being set up for disappointment.”
“With those sweet eyes? Never, Princess,” Lady Carol winked.
“You may be right. But these sweet eyes are rather tired just now. Thank you for watching him, Lady Shiera.”
“I am at your service, Princess,” she nodded. Dyanna felt her mouth pinch.
She left the hall before she could cause any sort of scene, though she felt her good mother’s attention on her all the while. She should not have left. She sighed mightily.
“Mama?” Aerion kicked his feet in the air. “I’m not tired. Not at all.”
“I know, love, me neither. I’m not taking you to bed, I’m taking you to get jam pastries.”
Aerion did not mention that they had just left a room full of jam pastries — or perhaps he still did not have such a sense of object permanence. Either way, he was quite delighted for a sojourn to the kitchen. Everything was an adventure with him.
Dyanna split the pilfered treat with her son on a shady bench in the gardens. She brushed away the sugar dusted across his cheeks and then wiped his hands on her skirts.
“When will Papa come?”
She knew what he was after and did not want him to set himself up for more disappointment. “When your father returns this evening, he will be quite tired and extremely smelly. He will be in no fit state for sword lessons.”
“Aw.” Aerion pouted out his lip. “When?”
“That is a question for him. But do not fret, I will badger him about it so you do not have to. You will be putting fear into the hearts of straw dummies before you know it.” Aerion laughed a quieter laugh, a small giggle, and grinned up at her. Dyanna kissed his hair. “Oh, you are the best.”
“Better than Daeron?” It was asked with such wide-eyed innocence, no sly mischief. Dyanna faltered.
“Why would you say such a thing? Did someone tell you that?”
Aerion shrugged and looked away. “Papa says I’m strong.”
Dyanna shut her eyes briefly. Oh, Maekar. His big fat stupid mouth was going to be the death of her. He was lucky that she adored him so.
“You and your brother are both the strongest and best boys I know,” Dyanna said sternly. “I will fight anyone who says otherwise.”
“You’ll win.”
She pinched his cheek. “You know it.”
It was a pleasant autumn day. Old Town had announced an end to summer, but it would be many weeks yet until any chill could be felt. Both of her sons were summer souls, and Dyanna could not help but feel the season’s change was an ill omen.
The afternoon would have passed in relaxation if Aerion and Daeron did not get into such an awful fight. When the elder was finished with his lessons for the day, she took them both back up to their apartments. She attempted to make progress on her sorry needlework while the boys played.
“Swords!” Aerion stomped his foot, holding his wooden toy aloft. “Come on!”
Daeron was splayed over a settee, staring at the ceiling and chewing on his fingers. It was a bad habit of his. “No.”
“Why? I want to play.”
“No.”
Dyanna looked up, but did not intervene. What Aerion truly wanted was the promised sword lesson with his father.
“You’re not fun!” Aerion stomped again. “You’re a girl. A bad girl.”
And then Aerion whacked his big brother over the head with his toy sword and kept going at it until Dyanna forcibly separated them. By the end, both boys were wailing and refused to speak to each other. Daeron had a welt on his brow the size of an egg. They passed out from exhaustion on opposite ends of the bedroom with Dyanna not far behind. When supper came along, none of them were speaking much at all.
It was all made better by Queen Myriah’s gift. Her good mother solicited the services of a popular Dornish puppeteer troupe who had been gaining much positive attention in King’s Landing. All of the courtly children would be treated to a show in the Queen’s Ballroom.
Dyanna was pleasantly surprised to find Jena in attendance. She was not yet ginormous with child, but had preferred to stay isolated and still as of late.
“I am happy to see you, good sister,” Dyanna greeted as she took the chair on the Princess’ left and kissed her cheek. All of the children were jockeying for seats on the floor. A stage had been set with an ornate awning. Queen Myriah sat nearby with Princess Elaena. Alys and Aelinor were not far behind. “Are you well?”
“Well enough, today,” Jena said. Some kind soul had propped a pillow under her feet. “The babe allowed me to keep my oats and toast down.”
Jena was the color of pale milk. She had lost weight just as she gained it, burdened with a babe who forced up any food she consumed.
Dyanna wanted another, and had for some time now. Daeron seemed to grow steadier with every year he gained. But the political situation was too fraught, and Maekar had not mentioned the thought of another babe. Dyanna missed pregnancy. No moons blood, eating as much as she wanted and more, and spending long hours doing nothing in bed. It was also easy to forget that for as pleasant as her second pregnancy had been, her first was just as nightmarish.
“I thought Baelor might come,” Dyanna said, brushing off her thoughts. The ballroom was all a-chatter as they waited for the show to begin. The twenty or so gathered children were all giggling together.
“So did I. But duty calls. I believe the king wished to come as well, but…” Jena shrugged one shoulder, then quickly became distracted. A young girl had appeared at the arm of her seat, shyly curtsying. “Oh, hello, Kiera, darling.”
Kiera of Tyrosh was a little beam of light. She was a demure and sweet child, just a bit older than Valarr. She came with a retinue of attendees from her home and many important military and trade agreements upon her betrothal to the prince. Valarr and Kiera had yet to be told of their engagement, but Dyanna had a feeling someone had let it slip from how cute they were around one another.
Her presence at court as Baelor’s ward, though, was yet another sign that all was not as it should be. Neither parent had wished to betroth Valarr at all, and not so very young. But desperate times called for desperate measures.
“Princess,” Kiera said. She was only six, and still had an accent from her native Tyroshi and Low Valyrian. Her cloud of light pink curls was braided back. “May I ask a question?”
“You do not have to ask to ask a question, Kiera.” Jenna was plainly fond of the child, and had done all in her power to assure King’s Landing was a kind home.
The girl cast a shy glance at Dyanna. “Prince Daeron told me that the puppets will come to life. Is that true? I said it couldn’t happen.”
“No, dear, you have the right of it. The puppets are only puppets,” Jena said.
“What else did Daeron say?” Dyanna asked. She cast a glance at her eldest, sitting next to Valarr at the front, but he seemed just fine. “Was he upset?”
“No, Princess,” Kiera said. “He just kept saying that ‘he knew it’.”
A stone sank in her chest, but she nodded. “Thank you.”
She watched the girl trot back to her place among the other tiny ladies. So many times, she had told Daeron that his dreams were only dreams, a horrid lie that stuck in her throat every time. Every time a snippet of the storm inside his head rose to the surface, though, Dyanna was confronted with a thousand questions. Was this a prophecy or a night terror? An omen of tomorrow or yesteryear or a millennium to pass? A warning for them or for some fisherman on the other side of the world? There was no way to tell.
“Dyanna?” Jena asked. She tried to shake herself from her stupor.
“Beg pardon. My son says the strangest things at times. He has a strong imagination.”
“Perhaps he will make a great storyteller one day,” Jena said kindly. “I always think that children are predisposed to greater creativity than any adults can manage. Of course, we have skill, but they are tapped into something else.”
If only she knew.
The candles began to be blown out, then, one by one, from the back of the hall to the front. A hush fell over all. The small group of musicians half-hidden by a screen began to warble their strings. The curtain stirred.
At the last moment before the show began, Daeron’s head turned back toward her. It was too dim to see the look on his face, but Dyanna knew. Mama watch. Don’t you see?
Can’t you see it too?
~~
Maekar had known the day meant trouble from the moment he crossed the threshold of the pyromancer’s guildhall.
18 jars of wildfire were missing.
Dom Westerling, the Lord Commander of the City Watch, was visibly rankled. Maekar was sure he’d never seen the man so tense. All day, he sent Maekar and the first regiment on a wild goose chase around King’s Landing.
They checked the gates first, and then the docks, all major points of commercial exit. Then the slums, the seedy black markets, the brothels — bed women always knew things others did not. Men boasted stupidly in the throes of passion. But no one had heard even a whisper of useful information.
“Whoever did this could not have done it alone,” Ser Gyles Drake said, and Maekar was inclined to agree. The most telling aspect was that the thieves had apparently snuck into the bowels of the guild using tunnels unexplored since they were built by Maegor the Cruel. Only someone powerful or well informed or most likely both could have pulled off such a stunt.
Maekar’s thoughts wheeled about as he searched high and low with his men. The realm was tensed tight, a loaded spring ready to fire. All it needed was a bit of tinder, and he had the horrible inkling that this was it. For months, and truly for years, their people bristled with unhappiness.
It was pure foolishness for the small folk to blame King Daeron for their plights, but they were fools, the lot of them. A drought here, a blight there, a series of bad storms, a bout of plague in the riverlands. Small folk rallied against nobles who turned to the crown for impossible answers. Even the fucking Night’s Watch was all a tizzy, begging them for more men to fill their rotting, useless castles. A series of wildling raids had left their numbers shattered.
Every day, his father grew all the wearier, and more and more Baelor chose to keep his family in the citadel rather than away at Dragonstone where their armies were being kept and held in high form. One could smell it in the air: the stink of anger and bitter, bitter rebellion. To Maekar’s nose, the stink seemed to drift from Daemon Blackfyre’s manse across Blackwater Rush.
“We should search them out,” said Bold Dick, living up to his name as they gazed out across the murky river currents. Maekar wished he could give the order.
Instead, as the hours bounded on, they halted the usual squabbles, petty thefts, and attempted rapes. Any day that Maekar could order for some foul letch’s manhood to be cut off was usually a fair one.
By afternoon, Maekar returned to the garrison to report that they had found -
“Nothing?” Dom Westerling looked up from his ledgers in disgust. The man did not suffer incompetence, and Maekar rarely disappointed him in his role as vice commander. “18 jars of wildfire. That is enough to kill hundreds and more.”
“Then it is both fair and ill news that the stuff has not gone far. Our men have spoken to all, high and low. No one saw the thieves leaving.”
“Just as no one saw them coming,” Westerling said darkly. His gaze moved to the single high window in his office, and the grated bars that covered it. “You know I had half the urge to go to the sept this morning. I cannot remember the last time I had the urge to go to the sept. Must I assist you in your duties, Prince? I assure you, I have more than enough work to do from this desk.”
Maekar raised his chin. The words hit his pride, as they were meant to. “Lord Commander, I find this matter as dire as you. The jars will be found.”
“Oh, one way or another, I am certain that they will. They say the light from such explosions can make the sky turn to day.”
So Maekar returned to his men and to his dutiful search. He had hoped, when he set out that morning, that he would be home to his wife and sons in the evening. He could not remember the last time they had been allowed to share a peaceful, solitary meal. Dyanna never once complained.
Their answer came from a motleyed fool by way of Ser Payne.
“This is Goldendoodle, Ser, in the employment of Lord Stokeworth,” Payne said when he brought the man to Maekar amongst the perfumes of the spice market. “Also known as Jermy Ledger of Saltpans. I found him in his cups at the Blind Duck.”
Jermy? No wonder the poor sot chose such a ridiculous fool’s name.
“For what reason does a fool need drink, sir?” Maekar asked. The man was swaying on his feet, sweat dripping down his tattooed face. His mop of yellow hair matched the ridiculous lace and gold of his robes, but he was all splattered with liquor. “Lord Stokeworth pays his staff well and keeps fine quarters.”
“That he does,” the fool nodded miserably. “But I was put out, see. Little Lady Mariam has taken to a new fool, so poor Goldendoodle is all on his lonesome. Your Grace.”
“What use is this one to me?” Maekar turned his gaze back to Payne. He was a young knight, eager to prove his worth in the city watch.
“Tell Prince Maekar what you told me, my friend. There is coin in it for you.” Payne gestured with encouragement.
Goldendoodle wiped his brow and licked his lips. “My Lady Mariam is an adventurous girl. She loves a secret passage. So I always have my eye out, you know, for secret passages. And last night I was thinking how dear it would be to find one, just to tell her about it. That new fool of hers doesn’t have eyes half as good as mine. But I saw one. I swear I did. I was out making my water by the stables, and I saw three men, I did, appear out of nowhere. They scared the filly in the stall they walked out of half to death. They did not see me lest they might have killed me.”
“A secret passage,” Maekar spoke slowly. If Payne had brought him a foolish fool to boot, the boy would regret it. “Who were these men?”
“I could not say, Your Grace. Two were masked in shadow. Each man held a great wooden box, so they were strong, but quiet. But the third…” Goldendoodle looked around and fumbled with his fingers. “Well, the third looked a great deal like a one-time guest of Lord Stokeworth’s. The man called Bittersteel.”
Fucking Mother above.
“Payne,” Maekar said, and did not recognize his own voice. “Send this man to a good respectable inn with enough coin for the week. And a guard.”
Goldendoodle was thanking him profusely, but Maekar had already turned away. He would not be surprised if the fool turned up murdered in a fortnight, but no one could say he had not tried to protect the man.
He ordered a team of men to explore this secret passage at the Blind Duck. The tavern was just on the banks of the Blackwater, with a small dock out front to ferry patrons across. Maekar would bet anything that was the thieves’ path of escape.
He was not surprised when his men reported that they had found the entrance to a winding, expansive labyrinth of tunnels. After two boys went missing for over an hour, Maekar called off the investigation, but they all knew the tunnels must eventually connect to the pyromancer’s guild.
He delivered this update to Ser Westerling upon the uppermost battlement of the God’s Gate.
“Aegor Rivers?”
Maekar nodded. “Aye.”
“The word of a fool is far too little to go off of for such an accusation.”
“A boat was seen traveling across the river at the hour of the wolf by a barmaid, just after the fool would have seen the thieves. The tavern keeps no one to man the dock at that time.”
“Clearly they should. I want those in charge questioned. But I’m going with you.”
“Do it then, Ser, but there is a better use for me. If what the fool says is true, then I must meet with the Master of Whispers before this is brought any further,” Maekar said. Westerling granted his mission with a gruff nod.
No one — least of all Maekar — fully understood why King Daeron had trusted his bastard half-brother Brynden Rivers to take the appointment of Master of Whispers. Maekar certainly did not trust the man, but his father did. And he trusted his father.
He found Bloodraven at the Whistling Pig, an alehouse for the middling wealthy on a hill overlooking the docks to the bay. It was a place he oft frequented, though Maekar could not hope to imagine why.
Bloodraven did not drink, and hardly ever seemed to eat. He sat in a gloomy back corner of the pub playing checkers with a captain from Volantis. Every time Maekar came across Brynden here, he had a different playing partner.
“Prince,” Brynden greeted without looking up when Maekar came to a halt at the foot of the table. “I have been expecting you.”
Oh, Seven save me. The bastard was always saying horrible trite mysterious things.
“Then you will know why I’ve come. Send off your companion.”
The Volantine gave him a shifty look as he left, but did not raise complaint. Brynden said some words to him in another tongue, and Maekar claimed the empty seat. He relayed his intelligence and suspicions efficiently. To his credit, the bastard was quick to the point.
“Aegor is many things, but a fool is not one of them,” he said as he leaned forward. “If this was indeed him, I cannot overstate the need to tread carefully. If this was not a reckless move, then it was a confident one.”
“So why is he suddenly confident?” Maekar nodded.
“Precisely. What advantage has been gained? What do we not see? I believe action will or must be taken by someone soon. We have always known this would spill over. Every day, I hear more grumbles in Flea Bottom that our King is the seed of Aemon the Dragonknight.”
“Have you said this to my father?”
“Yes. I have brought him enough information to seek Daemon out as a traitor, but he will not. Not until Daemon himself missteps.” Brynden’s mouth tightened. “Aegor is a thorn in all our sides. Deal with him today, and let us rest more easily tomorrow.”
“Where might I hope to find him and his bounty?” Maekar asked.
“If he crossed the river successfully, I suspect he’ll be at Sweetpenny Farms. Cross near the tourney grounds and travel just west and past a forked stream lined with birch trees. The barn has a purple roof. Aegor holes up there with a team of sell swords who fancy themselves protectors of the Kingswood.”
Maekar nodded curtly and made to stand. “Very well. Send a missive to my father and Baelor.”
“You will not wait for their assent?” The question was asked with a nearly demure tone that Maekar hated.
“We’re talking about wildfire. There is no time to lose. Do as I command.”
~~
It was the story of Princess Nymeria of Ny Sar.
It was a highly controversial choice, Dyanna thought as she settled into her seat. Nymeria and the Rhoynar, on their ten thousand ships, had only fled Essos to escape Valyrian conquerors. The puppet show was sprawling, covering the fleet’s cursed journey to the Basilisk Isles, Sothoryos, and the Summer Isles.
It ended when Nymeria finally wed Mors Martell, an unusual choice. Most times Dyanna had seen this story adapted, that event had been the beginning.
The audience was most receptive to the middle portion of the tale, when Nymeria’s forces were stranded in Zamettar and Yeen. Nymeria had famously called Yeen, “A city so evil that even the jungle will not enter.” So the children sitting at the front of the crowd gasped and squealed and clutched at each other as the Rhoynar were chased by ghouls, crocodile gods, and blood-sucking bat men.
According to this puppet troupe, the original inhabitants of Yeen had been embroiled in civil war and struck down for the sin of kinslaying.
Dyanna had never heard that part of the story. Perhaps these performers sought to give their royal hosts a warning. Either way, it left a bad taste in her mouth as she exited the hall with Daeron and Aerion.
“What did you think?” she asked them.
Aerion instantly began to babble about his wishes to travel to every far corner of the world and fight all kinds of monsters. He wanted to unlock strange mysteries and bring dragons back into the world.
Daeron was quieter. Dyanna held him back in the hall that led to the nursery as one of the maids gave Aerion a much-needed bath. That little boy got his hands into everything.
“Lady Kiera told me that you said the puppets would come to life,” she said as casually as she could. “What did you mean by that?”
Daeron itched his nose and yawned. His fine clothes were rumpled, and the collar of his blouse was stained with something green. “I dunno.”
“You don’t know. Remember your consonants.” She reached out to try and smooth down his hair. “Well, will you let me know if you remember?”
“Yes, Mama.” He gave her a big hug, then sighed. “Everyone’s just always fighting. Always, always, always.”
Dyanna kissed him on the head and watched him run along to the nursery, her heart in her throat.
~~
Maekar wasted no time in rallying a small group of his best fighters. They could not storm Aegor with three dozen men and risk blowing up the world. Small was best for this.
They met up with Ser Dom at the nearest docks to the tourney grounds. They would not risk taking steeds across the raised bridge over Blackwater Rush. If Aegor had spies, no doubt the Gold Cloaks would be seen, but a small boat was less conspicuous than a team of horses. Sweetpenny Farms was not so deep into the forest that it was awkward to walk on foot.
“By now, they know we are searching for them,” Don Westerling told their group of fourteen sternly. “Every minute counts before they attempt to move the wildfire again. If it is not there, expect aggression and denial from Bittersteel. If it is, God’s help us, I expect a fight. Do not flail your weapon recklessly. A single cask of wildfire could easily kill us all. Am I understood?”
“Yes, Ser,” they all repeated.
Maekar was very used to following Ser Dom. He was one of the only men that he did not bristle at taking orders from without question. When the Captain led a mission himself, all were put at ease.
And Maekar was itching for a fight, he thought as they trudged through a paved road in the Kingswood. He had never liked Bittersteel, even when they were children training together under Ser Quentyn Ball. He would not hesitate to draw blood.
If Aegor Rivers had indeed hatched this plot, it meant treason. It meant that the entire realm was about to go up in flames.
Sweetpenny Farms was entirely unassuming and entirely dilapidated. Obviously, decades of misuse and overgrowth had turned a small family business into a prime seat for outlaws. The residential building had been knocked down to its foundations, but the purple-roofed barn remained. The sky was just beginning to fade to evening overhead.
“Horses,” Dom said quietly on his right. Their group stood just on the treeline, taking stock. “Smoke. There’s a boy fetching water. They will have seen us by now. Shields raised, men, weapons lowered. We’ll walk to the well and stop. Prince, with me.”
By the time their formation stood within ten paces of the barn doors, any stragglers outside were openly staring at them. Maekar stood tall at his commander’s side.
“Aegor Rivers!” Ser Dom shouted. “In the name of His Grace King Daeron the Second, you are ordered to surrender yourself and any stolen property.”
The barn doors rattled open, revealing a murky gloom beyond. No torches were lit, but Maekar saw many men moving inside. No torches… Could they not risk firelight due to the wildfire in their possession?
Bittersteel swaggered out, a haughty curl to his lip. His dark hair was bound back from his face, and one gloved hand rested on the pommel of his weapon. He was a tall, muscular man, though he looked as if he’d had his face beaten in one too many times.
“Westerling,” his low, nasal voice greeted. “To what do I owe such a pleasure? Ah, and you’ve brought my nephew.”
The man was only a year older than Maekar. Nephew was an insult from his lips. Almost casually, half a dozen hard-faced sellswords trickled out to frame his back.
“Aegor Rivers, you must surrender yourself and any stolen property in your possession,” Ser Dom repeated sternly.
Aegor shifted on his feet, but he was almost smirking. “What property?”
“I have it on good authority that you are behind the theft of wildfire from the Pyromancer’s Guild,” he said. “If you would deny these charges, you will have no issue in answering my questions and allowing my men to have a look around this hovel.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Maekar noticed a few sellswords in the back of the barn, where the horses were saddled. They were easing a wagon out, but one of its wheels had gotten stuck in some mud. This conversation with Aegor was buying the sellswords time to move their spoils. Ser Dom had noticed, too, and gave a stiff nod without taking his eyes off Bittersteel.
Maekar gestured for half of the Gold Cloaks to peel away toward the back of the barn. They walked past Aegor and his cronies, who sneered and stood just a bit taller. But no one reached for steel yet.
The night was settling more darkly by the second, and crickets had begun to chirp in the cool grass. Fireflies twinkled in the treeline. He could still hear Ser Dom and Aegor going back and forth, talking each other in circles.
“What are you doing here?” Maekar asked the moment he approached the wagon and horses. A red-headed man with an eye-patch looked him up and down.
“Following orders.”
“I order you to provide more of an explanation.”
At that moment, two young men emerged from the back of the barn carrying a large wooden crate between them. It did not look so large or so heavy that one man couldn’t have handled it alone, but still the two sellswords stepped as if it were made of glass.
Or full of fucking wildfire.
Maekar did not have time to make a tactical decision, because on his left, his idiot friend Bold Dick drew his sword. Everything happened at once.
A sellsword lunged to meet Bold Dick’s steel with his own, and every man in sight drew his weapon. The men carrying the crate scrambled back through the doorway. Someone shouted, and someone shoved. Horses reared. Somewhere far behind, Maekar heard Ser Dom shout, “No!”, but give the order to fight anyway.
The entire yard exploded into violence.
Maekar’s sword rang against an axe before he had time to fully draw the thing from its damn scabbard.
“Get into that barn!” he shouted. A man stumbled backward directly into him, and Maekar kicked him sprawling across the ground before slitting his throat. “Get inside, and secure those crates! Three crates!”
He did not waste time seeing which of his men would follow. He trusted them to have his back as he charged through the barn doors and into the murky gloom. Any remaining sellswords were inside, and Maekar narrowly missed a crossbow bolt to the neck. He spied the wooden crates instantly, in a neat line.
It was not a pretty fight. The Gold Cloaks descended on the haphazard group of criminals before them. Maekar and his men quickly gained the advantage and managed to put themselves in a defensive position guarding the crates of wildfire. The air was thick with the scent of blood.
Maekar kept moving. He had to reach his commander.
He and Gyles Drake managed to reach the front end of the barn and burst through the doors, where they were instantly met with another wave of bloodshed. Aegor’s sellswords and the men that had remained with Ser Dom were locked in battle. The barn doors stayed open this time, allowing men to flow between outside and in.
“The crates!” Some man yelled. Aegor let out a growl. “They’ve taken the bloody crates!”
Bittersteel and Ser Dom were deep into a duel. Maekar caught only flashes between opponents as he let his sword sing, an extension of his arm against many opponents. He killed sellswords indiscriminately.
Ser Dom drove Bittersteel back three paces, and the cut of his sword swung down hard across Aegor’s arm, drawing blood. “Yield!”
There was a great crash from inside the barn and a scream. One of the wooden crates had tumbled onto its side. Every soul flinched, and just for an instant, Maekar saw Ser Dom’s head turn to see if they were all going to die.
But Aegor’s sword was already moving, and Maekar saw the bright silver arc of it swing before he understood what was happening.
Dom Westerling’s head left his shoulders.
It spun once through the air, his body remaining upright for the briefest heartbeat. A fountain of red hit Maekar before the corpse struck the ground.
It was hot and wet on his face, on his chest, in his mouth, in his eyes.
So much blood. A garbled and wordless cry tore from his throat as he lurched toward the body, and around him he felt the Gold Cloaks falter.
Aegor Rivers did not waste a moment. “Ride!”
The sellswords scattered instantly. Horses were loosed from paddocks, but the men knew to cause chaos. They overturned wagons and slashed the harnesses of the draft animals to send them stampeding.
Maekar lunged after his bastard uncle, but he only made it three strides before one of his own men shouted for him. He could still do it; he could still catch him.
But he saw the issue instantly. One of the crates’ lids had come off, and a jar had rolled free. A terrified Gold Cloak stood frozen above it.
Maekar was caught. Across the yard, Aegor looked back from horseback, smiled, and then disappeared into the trees. All of his instincts were screaming at him to pursue, but every lesson Dom Westerling had ever taught him said no.
Protect the city, not your pride.
Maekar swallowed the blood in his mouth that was not his own. “Recover every cask. Count the jars!”
His remaining men obeyed instantly. The living sellswords were able to scramble off, escaping bloody but triumphant. Aegor may not have managed to keep his wildfire, but he had still done grievous damage.
Dom Westerling lay where he had fallen, head several feet away from his body, his sightless eyes still fixed toward the barn. Maekar sank to one knee beside him.
~~
It was certainly not the first night that Dyanna found herself sleepless, thinking of her eldest son.
Daeron had grown into a sweet and clever young child. He was great friends with Valarr, and particularly adored by the grandfather he was named after. By all accounts except for his inattention to his lessons, he was thriving. Well, nor did he enjoy swordplay, to the great disappointment of his father.
But he was a good boy. He no longer ran to her bed every time he woke from terrible nightmares. It was rare that he ever firmly voiced a dream past vague references.
And still she was wracked with anxiety.
She was still tossing and turning and sighing when the door to the bedroom finally creaked open.
“Maekar, darling?” Dyanna asked, sitting up. He gave a grunt in response. “I have been thinking. Why not share Daeron’s plight with Baelor and Jena? They are both wise and fair. They may see the issue with some light we have not. I have oft wanted to ask my good sister’s counsel, and —”
A wash of moonlight illuminated Maekar as he moved to take off his armor. It caught in his long pretty braid, and showed that it was splattered with red red red.
“Maekar?” Dyanna was out of bed in an instant. When her husband did not answer, she went to the desk and fumbled for a match to strike. The candle sprang to life. “Good Gods. Are you hurt?!”
Maekar gingerly removed his half plate and set it down on the ground. He was splattered with gore, a whole spray of it. His eyes were… dead. Just flat and dead.
“Ser Dom,” he had to clear his throat twice before the name got out. He would not look at her, and she did not dare approach more than she already had. “Is dead. Aegor Rivers. Wildfire.”
Dom Westerling was dead? It was a horrible tragedy for the city and for Maekar personally. She knew just how much he looked up to the man. Was all of this his blood?
“You aren’t making sense.”
“Aegor fled,” Maekar continued mutely. He sank down to the settee and started working at his boots. Dyanna quickly sank to her knees to help him, swatting his shaking hands away. “We recovered the wildfire, but… Dyanna.”
She looked up from his boots and met his eyes, gilded with a sheen of tears. “Tell me how to help you. Have you seen a maester? Spoken with Baelor?”
“The King is awake with Baelor. Somewhere. And the small council. I was told to … go away.” Maekar bent forward to help her with the buckles on his shin plates. His knuckles were chafed with bruises. “Dyanna…”
He was fighting to get something out, she could tell, and all of the nerves in her body had flown up to her head to make her dizzy.
“What has happened tonight?” She asked again.
“Bittersteel hatched a plot and killed the Captain of the City Watch. There will be blood for this,” Maekar said. “And if Daemon had anything to do with it…”
Dyanna thought of the puppets. Of ten thousand ships burning, of men consumed by blood and fire in search of home. Of Daeron’s eyes on hers.
War.
Death.