Daemon Blackfyre lay sprawled among the corpses of sons and bannermen, his blood soaking the torn earth of Redgrass Field.
The sky was bruised now, touched by dusk. Smoke curled across the ridges, dark and acrid, as the battle still raged in places. But around the fallen Black Dragon, there was quiet.
Daemon's breaths came shallow, wet and gurgling. His once-glorious armor, black with red trim, was now a ruin of dents and rents. Arrows jutted from his body like the quills of a porcupine, but still, somehow, he breathed.
His fingers trembled.
He reached for something not there—not his sword, not his sons.
A memory.
He saw her.
Daenerys.
Her hair like moonlight, her voice a summer song. She had danced with him once at Summerhall, her laughter ringing clearer than bells. She had loved him, and he her, before duty dragged them apart.
"We might've ruled together," he rasped, a thin trail of blood on his lips.
Then he saw Daeron, his half-brother—no crown on his head in those days, just ink on his fingers and books under his arms, full of dreams and reason. They'd sparred in the yard. Daeron had bled, laughed, bled again.
Daemon had helped him to his feet once.
He remembered his father, Aegon the Unworthy, fat and foul but smiling wide the day he gifted Daemon the sword. Blackfyre, the sword of kings, in Daemon's hands. "Aegon the Conqueror's blade," the king had said, "meant for a true dragon."
Daemon had believed him.
He had believed.
Now his sons lay dead, and the sword was gone.
And so was he, nearly.
Above him, on the ridge, a pale figure stood—motionless, watching.
A bow in his hands.
The weirwood bow, now bloodstained, not with sap.
Brynden.
Daemon coughed, blinking blood from his eyes. He tried to sit, but his body betrayed him. His arms no longer obeyed.
The pale specter atop the ridge did not waver.
Daemon bared his teeth. Not in defiance. Not in fear.
In understanding.
"Brother," he whispered. "...do it."
And from the ridge, one last arrow flew.
It struck through Daemon's heart with a final, cold whisper. His head tilted back. His body twitched once.
And Daemon Blackfyre, son of a king, bearer of Blackfyre, died.
The death of the Black Dragon broke the back of the rebellion.
Men screamed in panic. Some fled, throwing down arms. Others turned on one another. Banners were burned, trampled beneath horse and heel.
But not Aegor Rivers.
Not Bittersteel.
At the far wing of the Blackfyre host, Aegor fought like a man possessed, his sword carving a path of blood and smoke through the chaos. His armor gleamed black and red, his golden eyes wild, his long braid soaked in gore.
When news reached him that Daemon had fallen, Aegor did not flinch.
He roared, a raw, animal cry.
He cut down three men in moments, then galloped through the fray, shoving aside those who blocked his path. In moments, he was upon Daemon's body. A single glance was all he gave his fallen half-brother, before he stooped and took the sword from his cold hands.
Blackfyre.
Its blade shone red in the dusk light.
Bittersteel raised it high, screaming for vengeance.
"With me! With me, you bastards! To the Ridge! Kill the pale devil!"
And like wolves rallying to the alpha, the remnants of Daemon's guard and those still loyal enough to die followed him.
Straight toward the Weeping Ridge.
Lord Brynden Rivers stood like a statue.
He had not moved since loosing that final arrow.
But now he saw the storm coming.
Bittersteel.
Aegor Rivers, the bastard of Barba Bracken. His rival in blood, in ambition, and in love.
Shiera.
Always Shiera.
And now Aegor charged up the ridge astride a warhorse foaming at the mouth, cutting down Brynden's men left and right.
"Form ranks! Teeth, with me!" Brynden shouted.
The Raven's Teeth closed around their lord, bows discarded for longswords and spears. Their line wavered but held.
But Bittersteel broke through.
He slammed into their line like a hammer of fire and fury, the sword Blackfyre cutting men in half, his shouts echoing.
And then he was on Brynden.
Their blades met with a clash like thunder—Blackfyre against Dark Sister, bastard against bastard.
Steel rang. Sparks flew.
They fought in silence, save for the grunts of exertion and the screams of the dying around them. Bittersteel was broader, stronger, fueled by grief and rage. But Bloodraven was swift, cunning—all shadow and precision.
Twice he cut Aegor across the thigh. Once he nearly drove Dark Sister into his gut.
But Aegor would not fall.
"You killed him," Aegor snarled. "You slaughtered your own kin!"
"He raised a sword against the King," Brynden hissed.
Their swords crossed again.
Then Aegor feinted—and slashed low, up into Brynden's face.
Brynden twisted, but not fast enough.
The edge of Blackfyre bit into his left eye, carving it open in a red spray. He screamed, staggered, blood pouring down his cheek.
The Raven's Teeth surged forward then, pushing Bittersteel back with spears and blades.
Brynden fell to one knee, clutching his face, gasping. But he did not drop Dark Sister.
Through the haze of pain, he saw Bittersteel retreating, pulled away by his few remaining men.
"Kill him—kill them all!" Aegor raged as he was dragged off the ridge, bloodied but unbroken.
The battle raged on.
But the tide had turned.
And Brynden Rivers, now half-blind and drenched in his own blood, stood slowly to his feet.
The screams of the dying faded.
And a whisper began, passed from man to man on bloodied lips.
"How many eyes does Lord Bloodraven have?"
The answer, born this day on the Redgrass Field:
"A thousand eyes, and one."