Tyrosh, 225 AC — The Blackfyre Estate
The air in Tyrosh was thick with sweet rot and sea salt, as it often was in the late afternoon, but the sounds that rang through the gardens of the Blackfyre estate were not the idle music of courtesans or the clamor of wine-soaked revelry, but the sharp, measured clang of steel against steel.
Daemon Blackfyre, barely nine, danced across the dusty sparring court in a flurry of quick footwork and determined strikes. The boy was lithe and strong for his age, his pale hair soaked with sweat, his violet eyes fierce. His wooden blade clashed against the sword of a seasoned Golden Company sergeant—a grizzled Volantene named Mero—who tutored the boy daily with the patience of a master sculptor shaping marble.
From the shaded loggia, Aegor Rivers watched the match with a stern but satisfied expression. He leaned against one of the carved marble pillars, his arms folded across his broad chest, his silver hair tied back and streaked now with strands of iron grey.
"He grows into the steel well," Aegor murmured. "His father's blood shows clear. And his grandfather's too, gods bless them both."
Aenys Blackfyre, lounging on a velvet-cushioned bench beneath a silk awning, took a slow sip of spiced wine and chuckled. "You've always measured worth in blades and battles, uncle," he said, using the title with a note of playful irony. "You should have been born in the Age of Heroes, swinging Valyrian steel against giants and grumkins."
Aegor's mouth twisted into a half-smile. "It was your father's sword that earned him the respect of a realm. It was his valor that had half the kingdom cry his name. Even the usurper Daeron and his lords knew the strength of Daemon's claim—one made not with parchment and prayers, but with fire and steel. A king should be feared before he is loved."
"And yet," Aenys said coolly, swirling his wine, "for all that strength, my father bathed in Bloodraven's arrows on Redgrass Field along with Aegon & Aemon. Daemon The Dreamer died in a cell. Haegon died on his knees. You call it strength, uncle. I call it a line of corpses."
Aegor's brow darkened. "Do not mock your kin."
"I mock no one," Aenys said, more gently. "Only the path that led us here."
He gestured toward young Daemon, who had just landed a solid blow against his opponent's flank. Mero barked a correction, and the boy fell back into stance, eager and panting.
"We have been lions charging a pit of snakes, over and over again," Aenys went on. "But it is the snakes who keep winning, uncle. Not with swords. With whispers. With ink. With patience. The sword is not enough."
"And what would you have us do? Buy the throne with coin and compliments?" Bittersteel spat, eyes still fixed on Daemon.
"No," said Aenys. "We'll take it with ink and whispers, and when the time comes—with swords sharpened in the dark. I've made contact with old allies across the Narrow Sea. House Peake has not forgotten the debt owed to our name. There are others as well. Lannisters who hate the King's levy. Lords who chafe beneath Maekar's mailed fist. Targaryen pride will doom them all in time… we need only be ready to strike when it falters."
Aegor was silent for a moment. Then: "You speak like a spider. Like Varys."
"I speak like a man who means to win," Aenys replied, raising his cup. "Let the next Blackfyre be crowned not in a field of blood, but on a floor of ash, after the whole house has collapsed upon itself."
At last, Aegor looked at him—not as a lord looks at a courtier, but as one soldier looks at another after a hard campaign. There was a fire in Aenys's eyes that was not his father's, nor Aegor's, but something colder, sharper.
"Daemon will be our blade," said Bittersteel at last. "But perhaps… you will be the poison in their cup."
Aenys smiled, and the wine glimmered in his goblet like blood.