King's Landing, Tower of the Hand — 233 AC
The wind howled outside the high windows of the Tower of the Hand, carrying the scent of the sea and the faint echo of distant bells. The room was quiet save for the scratch of quill on parchment as Lord Brynden Rivers penned the final line of a ravenbound missive to Casterly Rock.
The heavy doors creaked open behind him, and in strode Lord Monford Velaryon, silver hair damp with sea spray, his cloak bearing the salt stains of battle.
"They're gone," the Sea Dragon declared, his voice edged with quiet pride. "The Tyroshi broke upon our prow like waves on driftwood. We sent the last of their galleys limping east, and left the bay littered with the wreckage of their ambitions."
Brynden stood, nodding. "You've done the realm a great service, Lord Velaryon. His Grace will know of your valor." He extended a hand, which the Velaryon clasped briefly before giving a stiff bow.
"I'll return to Driftmark on the next tide."
"Go with the gods," Brynden said.
The moment the door shut behind the Sea Dragon, it banged open again with a fury that startled even the stoic Hand. Shiera Seastar swept in like a stormcloud, skirts swirling, her pale face alight with fury—and something rarer still: fear.
"You returned?" she hissed, her violet eyes wild. "Why, Brynden?"
Brynden blinked. "Shiera?"
She didn't wait for an answer. "You were supposed to stay with the King. With Aegon. With the army. And yet you're here, hiding behind stone and scroll."
Brynden's mouth tightened. "I returned at the King's command. The Tyroshi threatened Blackwater Bay. Someone had to act. And the Lannisters—"
"Damn the Lannisters!" she snapped. "And damn the Tyroshi. You left Maekar to die!"
Brynden stiffened. "What are you talking about?"
Shiera stepped closer, her breath quick and shallow. "My eyes are longer than yours, Brynden. I have spies in the Dornish Marches, even in the rebel camp. They sent word—Peake has set a trap. Starpike is not a fortress. It's a slaughterhouse. He means to draw the royal army in, and bury them there."
A chill passed through Brynden's spine. "No word of that reached the ravens. Our scouts—"
"Were meant to see only what Peake wanted them to," she cut in. "He's been planning this for years. He doesn't want a battle, he wants a massacre."
Brynden turned away from her, clutching the back of his chair as if he might crush the wood to splinters.
Maekar. Aegon. The royal army.
He had seen the feints, the layered fortresses, the slow bleeding of strength across the Marches. He should have known.
Shiera's voice softened. "You know what he is, Brynden. You know what he's capable of."
He turned, grim-faced. "Then we'll give him something he never planned for."
He strode to the window, the sun now setting over the Red Keep, its light like blood on the stone.
"Send word to the Gold Cloaks to rouse every rider we can spare. I'll march by dawn with a host at my back."
Shiera nodded once, but did not smile. "Let us hope you're not too late."
Brynden looked out toward the south, where war still burned.
"Pray the Stranger hasn't yet taken Maekar."