The bells of the city were still, but beyond the Red Keep, whispers moved like smoke. Somewhere leagues away, the soil of the Redgrass Field was being turned red. King Daeron II Targaryen stood at the narrow window of his bedchamber, staring out at the domes and towers of King's Landing. The sky had begun to darken with dusk, but no raven had yet come.
No word. Only waiting.
Behind him, the sound of gentle fabric brushing across stone heralded the approach of his queen. Myriah Martell of Dorne moved with the quiet grace of her house, her silken slippers making no noise, her dark eyes solemn beneath a mantle of pale orange silk. She had known war, as all of her kind did, but it never made waiting any easier.
"You should sit, my love," she said gently, laying a hand on his arm. "You have not rested."
"How can I rest?" the King murmured. "Men fight and die for me today. And he fights among them."
He did not need to say Daemon's name. She knew. The ghost of that boy still haunted them both.
Myriah followed his gaze. "The boy with the black hair and laughing eyes?"
Daeron's mouth twisted into a smile that held no mirth. "Yes. The same boy who climbed the Tower of the Hand on a dare, and broke his arm when he fell. He never cried. He just asked me to help him hide it from our father. Said he didn't want to make me look bad."
He turned from the window, his hands clasped behind his back. "Daemon had a good heart once. I would have given him lands, titles. I would have given him peace."
"But he wanted more." Myriah's voice was soft. "He wanted a crown."
"He had one," Daeron said bitterly. "Given to him by our father. Blackfyre. That damned sword. It poisoned everything."
A moment passed, filled with the rustling of silk as Myriah seated herself beside the hearth, her hands folded in her lap. "He was loved, your brother. Too much, perhaps. By the wrong men, at the wrong time."
Daeron stared into the fire a long while before he spoke again.
"Tell me, my lady… what do you think of him? Brynden."
The name hung in the air like a shadow. The Queen tilted her head slightly.
"Brynden Rivers is your brother," she said at last. "More loyal than any of your trueborn kin, I think."
"But not more kind, is he?"
"No," Myriah admitted. "He is sharp where others are soft. A knife, not a shield. He sees things too clearly, and wounds come easily to such men. He was never Daemon, nor Aegor. Never had their strength, or beauty, or charm. But he had wit—and anger. He serves you with both."
Daeron sat beside her, his voice low. "He serves with darkness, and it frightens me. There are days I wonder if he would slit my throat, were I to stray. Were I more like my father…"
"But you are not your father." Myriah touched his hand, warm and soft. "Brynden sees that. That is why he follows you, though he grates at every command. That is why he watches over your children as fiercely as any Kingsguard."
"He would betray his blood before he betrayed the Crown," Daeron said.
"And yet," Myriah murmured, "the Crown is made of blood. Your own, and his. Perhaps he will learn to love both."
They sat in silence. The fire crackled in the hearth, casting dancing shadows along the carved stone walls. Outside, twilight deepened into night, but still no raven had come.
Hope flickered in that quiet space between husband and wife, fragile but unbroken.
And far away, on the blood-soaked fields, that hope was being written in sword and flame.