The dawn after the storm was ash-grey and silent, save for the distant cawing of carrion crows circling overhead.
Across the ridgelines and broken hills, the banners of the royal reinforcements unfurled in the cold wind—the crowned stag, the silver lion, and the bleeding star of House Reyne among them. At the vanguard rode Lord Brynden Rivers, known to the realm as Bloodraven, his pale eye fixed ahead, his dark cloak flaring behind him like a shadow. Beside him rode Ser Roger Reyne, heir to Castamere, the eldest son of the slain Lord Robert Reyne.
As they crested the hill overlooking Starpike, smoke still rose from the breached gate, mingling with dust stirred by the fallen boulders and scorched pitch. The once-proud seat of House Peake smoldered, its ramparts cracked, its banners torn, and the scent of ash and blood heavy upon the wind.
Brynden reined in his horse. "Too late," he murmured.
Without a word, Ser Roger spurred his destrier down the slope, galloping towards the gate, where royal soldiers—those who had survived the slaughter—parted to let him pass.
The Red Lion dismounted where the bodies lay heaviest.
There, amid the rubble and twisted forms, he found his father—Lord Robert Reyne, broken and unmoving, his face unrecognizable save for the crimson mane that spilled from his helm. The young knight fell to his knees beside the corpse, his face contorting not in grief alone, but with fury.
"Damn them," he spat through clenched teeth. "Damn the Peakes, damn their banners, damn their very name."
He buried his head in his father's breastplate, blood-soaked and dented, and wept.
Bloodraven followed at a slower pace, dismounting near the ruins. He walked with the limp he had carried since youth, his white hair matted to his brow. The red eye in his pale face shimmered faintly beneath the shadow of his hood. As the soldiers poured past them through the ruined gate, he moved slowly through the field of the dead, searching.
It did not take long to find him.
King Maekar of House Targaryen, First of his name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, lay crushed beneath the largest of the boulders, his once-magnificent warhelm twisted beyond recognition. A bloodied hand still clutched the haft of his great iron mace, though the weapon had split where it struck stone. His face was battered, his chest collapsed, and his purple cloak torn like a banner in a gale.
Brynden stood beside the fallen king, his mouth drawn in a hard line. He did not cry. He did not kneel. But his silence was heavier than weeping.
He gazed down at Maekar's ruined body, and in that moment, he was no longer the master of whispers, the ruthless Hand, nor the sorcerous shadow who haunted the halls of court.
He was simply Brynden, son of Aegon the Unworthy, and once the loyal servant to a better king.
"I told your father I would protect you," he murmured to no one. "And I failed."
The memory of Daeron the Good stirred behind his pale eye. Daeron, who had once embraced him as brother, even as their blood was half-shared and bitter. Daeron, whose sons he had sworn to defend. Baelor the Beloved, poisoned. Rhaegel the Broken, lost to madness. And now Maekar the Iron-willed, crushed beneath the stones of traitors.
Brynden looked up to the sky, to where the crows circled.
"Is this your vengeance, Daemon?" he whispered. "Or is this something darker still?"
He mounted his horse once more, his black cloak billowing like wings in the ash-laden wind.
Ahead, Ser Roger Reyne, red-eyed and livid, led the charge into the broken halls of Starpike, his sword drawn, screaming for vengeance, for blood, for fire.
Brynden followed.
The war was not yet done.