In the scented halls of the Archon's palace in Tyrosh, where the air hung heavy with incense and the silk-draped walls whispered secrets of old, Aegor Rivers received the tidings.
Aenys Blackfyre was dead. Slain under the promise of safe conduct, his head paraded through the throne room of the Red Keep like a traitor's prize. Brynden Rivers, the blood-kin he hated more than any man alive, had fallen. Stripped of his titles, sent north to the Wall to live out his days in black.
And Aegon, the fourth son of Maekar, once a boy called Egg, had been crowned King Aegon V of House Targaryen.
Bittersteel read the letter thrice, then crumpled it in his hand. His face, long lined and storm-worn, bore no joy—only grim vindication. He stood tall still, despite his age, his swordarm unshaken and his will forged in unbreakable steel.
"Gone," he murmured, "all of them gone. Daemon. Haegon. Aenys. And Bloodraven... sent to freeze on the Wall." He looked up, his pale eyes burning, and called out, "Daemon. Come."
Daemon Blackfyre entered, tall and proud, his bearing like his grandfather's — the first Daemon, the King Who Bore the Sword. He was a warrior in the prime of his strength, with long dark hair and eyes like chips of obsidian. A greatsword hung at his back — not Blackfyre, the blade of kings, for that remained lost, but one forged in Valyria nonetheless, gifted by a wealthy Triarch of Volantis.
"You summoned me, uncle?" Daemon said, though the word uncle barely masked the truth of their bond — Bittersteel was the last surviving brother of Daemon I Blackfyre, and had become a father in all but name to every Blackfyre born after.
"They are finished," Bittersteel said. "Westeros is cracked, the throne sits a fool, and Brynden Rivers no longer waits to unmake our cause with shadows and whispers. There is no one left to stop us now."
Daemon frowned. "I've heard the same tales as you. The people love Aegon. He walked the land in his youth, slept in ditches, broke bread with hedge knights, healed the sick, defended the small. The smallfolk cheer for him still, and the lords know it."
Bittersteel turned sharply. "The lords care not for what peasants cheer. They'll play at loyalty while the realm is calm, but wait — let their purse strings tighten, let Aegon favor the smallfolk too much, challenge the old ways, undermine the rights of lords — then you will see how swiftly swords turn."
He crossed the room to the table where maps of Westeros were laid bare, worn with the weight of long years and many lost campaigns.
"They call him a king, but he is a peasant with a crown," Bittersteel said, spitting the words like venom. "That same crown, if worn poorly, will be his undoing. Mark me, Daemon — when the lords grow weary of his reforms, when the nobles of the Reach and the Vale and the Westerlands chafe at his justice, they will look for an alternative. And we shall be ready."
Daemon stood silent, his jaw tight. He was no fool, no romantic boy dreaming of crowns — he had lived through two failed rebellions, had seen kin die, had been taught the cost of claiming kingship. "We must be wise. Careful. If we strike again and fail... there may be no Blackfyres left to try again."
"We will not fail," Bittersteel snapped. "Three years from now, we march. We'll raise sellswords, ships, dragons of flesh if not fire. I will see Westeros bleed if I must, to put you on the throne that should have been your grandsire's."
He stepped close to Daemon, eyes fierce. "From this day forward, you are King Daemon of House Blackfyre. The Third of His Name. The one true king of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men. Do you accept your crown?"
Daemon hesitated only a heartbeat, then inclined his head. "I do."
"Then wear it well," Bittersteel said. "We have three years to make the world remember that flames of the Black Dragons still burn."