The raven arrived at dawn, bearing sand upon its wings.
Its plumage was ashen from long flight, and its claws clutched a scroll sealed with red wax, stamped with the sun-and-spear of House Martell. The parchment was scented faintly with myrrh and orange blossom, and the words within were written in a woman's hand—long, looping, elegant.
King Daeron II read the letter thrice.
When Brynden Rivers was summoned to the king's solar, he found his half-brother pacing before the tall windows, robe unfastened at the throat, the scroll clutched in his pale fingers. Outside, the towers of the Red Keep lay golden in the rising sun, but inside, the chamber was all gloom and shadow.
"She would go to him," Daeron said, without greeting. "My sister begs leave to meet Daemon in secret, to plead with him, to turn his heart from rebellion."
Brynden stood still, hands folded in the sleeves of his robe. "She remembers the boy he once was."
"She remembers more than that," said the king bitterly.
Indeed, they both knew. Princess Daenerys Targaryen, the king's only trueborn sister, had once been moon-eyed for Daemon Waters, the bastard prince with the sword and the smile. She had been sixteen when Aegon the Unworthy wed her to Maron Martell to bind Dorne to the realm, but before that—there had been a summer, and roses, and stolen glances in the gardens beneath Maidenpool's walls. Whispers had trailed behind them, soft as silk.
"She loved him," Daeron said. "Or believed she did. And now she thinks her voice might bring him back to reason."
Brynden moved closer to the hearth, where embers still pulsed from the night's fire. "What reason is there in Daemon's cause?" he said. "He rides beneath a black dragon and claims your crown by rights your father never granted. He calls you falseborn. He calls your queen a whore. He would burn the realm to crown his sons."
"She thinks she can reach him," Daeron murmured. "She asks for no retinue. No escort. Only a horse, and leave to go."
"She will find no boy in the Stormlands," Brynden said. "Only a rebel crowned in smoke and steel."
The king sighed and turned away. "Still. I cannot refuse her. If there is a hope, even the barest thread—"
"Then let her go," Brynden said. "Let her ride to him. Let her cry her tears and speak her peace. And while she rides, Your Grace, we gather our strength."
The king frowned. "You would use her."
"I would not waste the opportunity." Brynden's face was pale as milk, save for the red wine-stain birthmark that sprawled up the right side like a raven with bleeding wings. "Daemon still sees her as the maiden he lost. Let that illusion blind him a little longer. It may buy us the time we need."
Daeron fell silent.
"She may soften him," Brynden went on. "But she will not turn him. Not now. Bittersteel rides with him, and his sons bear his banners. A man who dreams of crowns does not wake for kisses."
"She is my sister."
"And you are her king."
The king looked out again, toward the city where bells were beginning to ring. Morning prayers, or mourning songs. It was hard to say. The light touched the domes of the Great Sept and turned them to fire.
"She may go," he said at last. "But the muster begins at once. Quietly. Summon Lord Arryn's levies, and call the Riverlords to Harrenhal. I want the gold from Rosby moved to Duskendale, and ravens sent to Lord Tully and Lord Hightower."
"I shall see it done."
"And Brynden…"
"Yes, Your Grace?"
"When this ends… I do not want Daemon butchered in the dirt like a dog."
"Then give me leave to bring him down with a single arrow."
There was no jest in it. Brynden's voice was calm and cold.
Daeron studied him long, and said nothing.
The birthmark on Brynden's cheek seemed to pulse in the flickering firelight as he turned to leave—red as blood, and shaped like wings.