277 AC
House Tyrell
Olenna Pov
"And in the end, Lord Denys Darklyn was nailed to a cross amidst the corpses of his house," the herald's voice dripped with the macabre details of the Darklyn massacre, each word staining the air with dread.
"The prince shot a flaming arrow, igniting the wildfire that consumed the screaming Lord Darklyn and every Darklyn kin," he continued, the horror of the scene palpable even in the retelling. "And the bards played a haunting melody as Duskendale witnessed the annihilation of their overlords, the end of House Darklyn," the words echoed like a dirge, resonating through the chambers of Highgarden.
The moniker "The Pyre of Duskendale" hung heavy in the air, a testament to the brutality unleashed upon the once-proud house. My daughter-in-law's retching broke the silence, her body convulsing in response to the ghastly tale. Mace's hurried commands for aid underscored the gravity of the situation.
"I warned her not to join us," I murmured, regret lacing my words. The brutality of the events was not fit for the ears of a pregnant woman, nor for any soul with a shred of decency.
Even Mace, usually composed, was visibly shaken, his features contorted with disgust. The nauseating reality of Duskendale's fate churned in our stomachs, a vile reminder of the darkness that lurked in the hearts of men.
"You may leave," I dismissed the servant, the weight of the news demanding a private conversation between my son and me.
In the quiet aftermath, Mace voiced what lingered unspoken between us. "House Darklyn should not have taken the crown prince as a hostage," his words held a tinge of condemnation for the doomed lord.
Denys Darklyn's folly was apparent, his fate sealed from the moment he dared to challenge the crown. But the extent of Prince Daemon's retribution surpassed even my darkest expectations.
My network of spies had whispered of Prince Daemon's indulgences—his dalliances with whores, his revelries in wine, and the ruthless purging of the Goldcloaks. Disappointment clenched my heart at the revelation of his behavior. But alas, men are often slaves to their baser desires.
Yet, my disillusionment swiftly morphed into something far more sinister upon learning of his deeds in Duskendale.
In a single stroke, he obliterated a noble house entrenched since the age of heroes. The chilling echoes of "Fire and Blood" reverberated through my mind, casting a shadow over my thoughts.
Prince Daemon had become the very embodiment of those ominous words.
I closed my eyes, transported back to the last encounter I had with him.
In my mind's eye, he appeared as a young boy, possessing an intelligence far beyond his years. His demeanor was gentle, almost kind, yet there was a quiet bravery about him that belied his tender age.
"Madness and greatness are two sides of the same coin," he had said with a wisdom that seemed misplaced in one so young.
I couldn't help but ask him where that coin would fall.
"Only time will tell," came his cryptic reply.
A chill swept through me as I recalled those words, a foreboding sense of what was to come.
The devastation rivaled the ruin wrought upon House Reyne and House Tarbeck by Tywin Lannister's hand. Yet, even in his ruthlessness, Tywin spared the daughters of House Tarbeck, allowing them to join the Silent Sisters. Prince Daemon, however, showed no such mercy. He slaughtered every Darklyn descendant, regardless of age or innocence.
"We must tread carefully, Mace," I cautioned, my voice tinged with a grave solemnity. "The Targaryens may lack their dragons, but they have Daemon Targaryen."
In Prince Daemon, Westeros faced a new breed of menace—one driven by an unquenchable thirst for power, fueled by fire and blood. His actions spoke of a ruthlessness that surpassed even the darkest chapters of history.
"Westeros must come to terms with the monster Tywin Lannister unleashed," I proclaimed, my words laden with the somber realization of the truth.
There lingered no doubt in my mind that Tywin himself had shaped the prince from his youth. The threat emanating from Prince Daemon was formidable, casting a menacing shadow over the realm.
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House Martell
Doran Pov
Silent and still, I stood beside Mother and Elia, the weight of Oberyn's missive from Duskendale heavy in my hands.
"I don't know what to say," Elia's voice was a fragile whisper, her words hanging in the air like a delicate thread.
"Daemon was once kind and charming," she mused softly, her tone tinged with a hint of longing for the innocence of the past.
"People change, Elia," Mother interjected, her voice carrying the weight of wisdom and experience. I glanced at her, noting the toll that time had taken. Her once vibrant spirit now waned, her frail form a testament to the inevitability of mortality.
"Doran," her voice beckoned, drawing me into her gaze. "I won't be in this world for many more years. The future of House Martell will soon rest upon your shoulders," she spoke with a solemnity that pierced through the quietude of the room.
I nodded solemnly, accepting the mantle that awaited me, knowing that the path ahead would be fraught with challenges and sacrifices.
"The relations between House Targaryen and House Martell are strong," she asserted with a hint of conviction.
"Elia will marry Jaime Lannister, while Cersei will be wed to Prince Daemon Targaryen," she continued, laying out the carefully orchestrated alliances.
"But that alone is not sufficient," she mused aloud, her gaze distant as she pondered the future.
"We must seek a match for my granddaughter within House Targaryen," she declared firmly, her voice betraying no hint of doubt.
"Oberyn has cultivated a close friendship with Prince Daemon," she reminded me, emphasizing the importance of these connections in securing our house's future.
I nodded in silent agreement, understanding the gravity of her words and the weight of the decisions ahead.
"I must rest now," she announced, her fatigue evident as attendants moved forward to assist her. Elia and I remained behind in the quiet chamber, contemplative in the wake of our conversation.
"Oberyn believes that what Daemon did was justified," she revealed, her voice tinged with a mixture of concern and perplexity.
"The letter he penned holds no remorse for the fate of the Darklyns," she continued, her brows furrowing with worry. "He even went so far as to claim that if someone had captured you or me, he would have acted in the same manner."
"I fear for him," I confided in my sister, the weight of uncertainty pressing upon me like a heavy cloak. "The way he speaks of the prince is... different," I admitted, struggling to find the right words to convey the complexity of Oberyn's sentiments.
Elia's gentle smile was both reassuring and disconcerting. "It appears our brother has developed feelings for the prince," she remarked casually, though her words struck me like a bolt of lightning.
I was not as intimately acquainted with Oberyn as Elia was, and the revelation left me reeling. "Do not be surprised, Doran," she urged, her tone softened by understanding. "I know Oberyn and how he behaves around both men and women."
"But when he speaks of Daemon, there's an admiration that runs deeper," she explained, her words carrying a weight of certainty. "Something more, perhaps."
"Does the prince reciprocate his feelings?" I ventured, though I already knew the answer deep down.
Elia laughed lightly at my naivety. "Much to Oberyn's dismay, Daemon's affections lie solely with women," she revealed, her tone tinged with sympathy. "However, he values Oberyn's friendship deeply."
Relief washed over me like a cool breeze on a hot summer's day. "That is a relief," I murmured softly, grateful for the assurance that our house's standing remained unchallenged.
Yet, as the sun dipped below the horizon, casting hues of gold and crimson across the sky, I couldn't shake the feeling of unease that lingered within me. "The future seems uncertain," I confessed quietly to Elia, the weight of responsibility settling heavily upon my shoulders as I gazed out at the setting sun.
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House Tully
Brynden Pov
I turned to my niece, her tear-streaked face a reflection of the horror we all felt. "Catelyn," I murmured softly, drawing her into a comforting embrace as she trembled with emotion. Beside us, Hoster remained silent, his gaze fixed upon the scroll that had brought such grim tidings.
"What a terrible thing has happened, Uncle Brynden," she choked out, her voice quivering with anguish. "No one should ever endure such horrors," she continued, her words a lament for the innocent lives lost.
"He spared neither women nor children," she uttered, her tone laced with disbelief and outrage. "What kind of man is he? Where is his honor as a knight?" she spat out bitterly, her anguish boiling over into anger.
"Catelyn, go and rest," Hoster's voice broke through the tense atmosphere, his tone gentle yet firm. Reluctantly, I released her from my embrace, watching as she retreated, her troubled thoughts weighing heavily upon her.
A heavy silence enveloped us as Hoster and I sat in somber contemplation.
"He is far more dangerous than I ever imagined," Hoster's voice broke the stillness, laden with a weight of realization. "I had thought of him as a boy playing at knighthood, indulging in wine and women," he confessed, his tone tinged with regret.
"I had warned you, brother, of the true nature of Prince Daemon," I reminded him, recalling the unease I had sensed in the prince during our encounter at Casterly Rock.
"He is aware of the alliances you seek to forge," I continued, my voice tinged with concern. "And he was displeased with the betrothal of Catelyn to the heir of the North," I added, noting the prince's disdain for our plans.
"But if you were to betroth Lysa to the heir of the Vale, who knows what he might do," I cautioned, the implications weighing heavily upon us both.
"He will not defy the king's wishes and the king has no grievances with House Tully," Hoster countered, his faith in the crown evident in his words.
"I doubt the king desired the eradication of House Darklyn," I argued, my doubts about the king's intentions gnawing at my conscience.
"From what I have heard, Prince Rhaegar is level-headed and would make a good king," Hoster offered, seeking solace in the hope of a stable future.
"We must tread carefully, brother," I reiterated, the gravity of our situation pressing upon us like a leaden cloak. With the shadow of uncertainty looming over us, cautious steps were our only recourse.
"I will send a raven to King's Landing," he declared firmly, his resolve unwavering.
"So that the Queen takes Lysa as her lady-in-waiting," he continued, his tone resolute.
"Are you mad?" I exclaimed, unable to contain my disbelief. "Lysa is far too young," I protested vehemently.
"She has barely seen eleven namedays," I reminded him, my concern for my niece palpable.
"And you are sending her into the dragons' lair," I added, my apprehension growing with each word.
"House Tully must maintain a presence in King's Landing," he countered, his tone brooking no argument.
"She has a duty to fulfill, Brynden, or have you forgotten our words?" he growled, his frustration evident.
"I know our house words very well," I retorted sharply. "Family duty and honor," I emphasized, the words ringing with the weight of tradition.
"Family always comes first, Hoster," I reminded him, my voice edged with disappointment. "Or did you forget it?" I challenged, my gaze unwavering.
"Do not question me, brother. I am your lord," he thundered, his authority asserting itself with force.
"Go to the Seven Hells, Hoster," I snapped, my anger boiling over as I stormed out of the solar, leaving him behind in a cloud of frustration and discord.
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House Stark
Rickard Pov
I sat in my solar, listening quietly as Maester Walys recounted the contents of the letter. The events unfolding in the south were troubling, particularly the tragic death of Lord Steffon Baratheon and the turmoil in Duskendale.
"What does Lord Arryn say?" I inquired, my words simple and to the point.
"Lord Arryn advises that the betrothal between Lady Lyanna and Lord Robert Baratheon should be announced after a year, once the tensions in the south have subsided and Lord Robert finishes grieving for his parents," the maester replied.
"Very well," was all I said in response, my tone reflecting a sense of acceptance rather than enthusiasm.
"And what of Ned?" I asked, my curiosity piqued.
"Lord Arryn reports that young Lord Ned is shocked by Prince Daemon's actions in Duskendale. He once considered the prince a friend, but now he is dismayed by his deeds," the maester informed me.
The Targaryens had been faltering ever since their dragons perished, or perhaps they had already lost their minds when they first set foot on our shores.
I held no sympathy for the demise of Lord Darklyn; his defiance warranted punishment. However, the manner in which hime and his house met their end left a bitter taste in my mouth, a sentiment shared by many lords.
"The realm cannot afford another Maegor," Maester Walys remarked bitterly, and I nodded in agreement.
"Prince Rhaegar seems to have a level head," I remarked, recalling favorable reports from Lord Wyman Manderly.
"You never know the Targaryens' state of mind," the maester interjected, bitterness coloring his tone.
I arched an eyebrow in response. Maester Walys rarely spoke of the Targaryens without a trace of bitterness in his voice.
"We received another raven, my lord," Maester Walys spoke, his voice breaking the stillness of the solar.
"What of it?" I responded, my attention piqued by the interruption.
"It was from the Night's Watch," he explained, handing me the letter with a sense of urgency.
I quickly unfurled the parchment, my heart racing with anticipation, hoping it was not news of another wildling raid.
As I read the contents, a sense of disbelief washed over me.
"What is it, my lord?" Maester Walys inquired, sensing my reaction.
"Lord Commander Qorgyle reports that one of the ranger groups he dispatched has discovered a Valyrian steel sword north of the Wall," I relayed, the significance of the find dawning upon us both.
"Darksister has been found," I declared, the words hanging heavy in the air as we contemplated the implications of such a discovery.
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House Arryn
Jon Pov
I gazed out from the Eyrie, taking in the breathtaking view that stretched before me. The majesty of the landscape was a stark contrast to the weight of the matter at hand.
"Prince Daemon," I murmured softly, the name heavy on my lips.
From what my informants had told me, he was once regarded as a promising lad—intelligent, honorable for his age. Even Robert and Ned spoke favorably of him, which brought me some reassurance.
But as time passed, the boy grew into a man. Knighted at the tender age of twelve, he swiftly rose to prominence, becoming the commander of the Goldcloaks. Yet, his ascent was marred by a bloody purge, and his demeanor shifted, indulging in vices of drink and debauchery.
However, it was the chilling ruthlessness displayed in the massacre of House Darklyn that truly unsettled me. Men, women, and children perished at his command, their lives snuffed out in a cold-blooded manner. The madness that seemed to infect the Targaryens had taken root within him, amplifying their eccentricities into something far more sinister.
That was why I sought to forge alliances across the great houses, to bring stability and order to Westeros amidst the growing chaos.
I turned to my ward, observing the anger simmering beneath his surface. "Ned, it's all right," I reassured him, placing a comforting hand on his shoulder.
"Why would he do such a thing?" he questioned, his voice tinged with disbelief and outrage. "The women and children were innocent. They had done nothing wrong," he continued, his fists clenched in frustration.
"Where is his honor?" he demanded, his tone laced with anger. It was a rare display of emotion from my ward, and it spoke volumes of the severity of the situation.
"The Targaryens believe themselves to be above all," I explained, a note of concern creeping into my voice.
What truly unsettled me, however, was the impunity with which Prince Daemon carried out his atrocities. He considered himself above reproach, indifferent to the lives he extinguished. It was a chilling reminder to all the nobles of Westeros that rebellion against House Targaryen would be met with nothing but fire and blood.
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House Baratheon
Stannis Pov
I stood on the battlements of Storm's End, the wind whipping around us as a storm brewed overhead. Beside me stood Robert, my brother, though we had barely exchanged words since the deaths of our parents. I noticed the wineskin in his hand, and the way he took a long, deep swig from it.
"They died for nothing," Robert's voice boomed, heavy with bitterness and sorrow. "Our parents are dead because of that fool who calls himself the king," he spat out, his anger palpable.
I turned to him sharply. "Robert," I interjected, my voice stern. "Mind your tongue. He is still the king," I reminded him, though my own doubts about the king's leadership lingered in the back of my mind.
"It wasn't the king's fault for the death of our parents," I asserted, trying to reason with him.
"Mother was with child," Robert continued, his voice raw with emotion. "And she perished," he added, the pain evident in his words.
"The king is grieving too," I offered solemnly, attempting to temper Robert's anger with reason.
"Oh, is that so?" Robert retorted mockingly. "All the sadness vanished from his face the moment the news from King's Landing came," he scoffed bitterly.
I fell silent, unable to find the words to counter Robert's accusations. When the raven arrived from King's Landing, bearing news of Prince Rhaegar's rescue and the subsequent massacre of the Darklyns at the hands of Daemon, the king's elation was palpable.
"The bastard is overjoyed that his son slaughtered women and children, while we never even got to bury our parents, let alone say goodbye to them," Robert seethed, his anger boiling over.
With that, he turned and left, leaving me alone with my thoughts. As the rain began to fall and tears stung my eyes, I gripped the stone wall tightly, feeling a mix of grief, anger, and helplessness wash over me.
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House Lannister
Cersei Pov
As news spread of Rhaegar's survival and impending return to King's Landing, a wave of triumph surged through me. Daemon had kept his promise, and it filled me with an intoxicating sense of satisfaction. I watched as Rhaegar was escorted to Maegor's Holdfast, his form wrapped in bandages, a testament to his resilience. He was a man of strength, enduring whatever trials came his way.
Then came the reports of House Draklyn's downfall at the hands of Daemon, and I couldn't contain my joy. They deserved their fate for daring to lay hands on Rhaegar. But the reaction of the other nobles puzzled me. They looked aghast, as if Daemon's actions were somehow dishonorable.
"It is not honorable," Jaime, my twin, had dared to admonish me. I scoffed at his words. What did these fools know of honor? Everyone trembled before Father, just as they had when he dealt with House Reyne and House Tarbeck. Daemon merely followed in his footsteps.
The nobles were nothing but spineless sheep, too afraid to defy Father's will.
Grandmaester Pycelle, that old fool, dared to restrict my time by Rhaegar's side. But with a mere word from Father, he would swiftly bend to my will.
Standing outside Father's solar, I bristled as I was stopped from entering.
"Apologies, my lady, but your father is occupied," one of his knights interjected.
"Who is he talking to?" I inquired, confusion tainting my voice.
"The queen, my lady," he responded, and I was taken aback.
"Why would Father do that?" I pondered silently.
"Very well," I conceded, turning away.
"There's not only one entry to Father's solar," I reminded myself smugly. Jamie and I were privy to a secret entrance, stumbled upon by chance one day.
Slipping through the concealed doorway, I beheld Father's figure and the queen's obscured by shadows.
Their voices reached me, muffled yet charged with emotion. Queen Rhaella's anger was palpable, a stark departure from her usual calm demeanor.
"You ruined him!" she accused, the sound of a vase shattering punctuating her words.
"Calm down, Rhaella," Father's voice remained steady, though tinged with defensiveness.
"He was such a loving child, but you made him a monster, just like you," she spat out bitterly.
"Daemon did nothing wrong," Father retorted curtly. "Rather, I am proud of what he did. It's a lesson for all those grasping nobles who believe House Targaryen is weak."
"You stay away from him, you monster!" the queen's anguish reverberated through the chamber.
"I will not," Father's declaration was firm. "I love him, for he is as much my son as he is yours."
"What did Father just say?" I murmured to myself, stunned into silence.
"No, he is my son and mine alone!" the queen's anguish rang out, raw and unbridled.
Whatever else was said, I scarcely registered, my heart racing with realization.
"It all makes sense," I realized with a jolt.
Daemon's hair, slightly more golden than silver, his emerald green eye... The memory of our conversation in the Godswood flooded back.
"I will always protect you," his vow echoed in my mind.
"Daemon is my brother," I whispered softly, a flood of emotions overwhelming me.
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House Blackfyre
Varys Pov
I sat within Illyrio's opulent manse, the weight of recent events heavy upon us both. "At least she kept her silence," Illyrio mused, breaking the stillness.
"Prince Daemon never anticipated anyone being the guiding force behind her," I remarked, my voice reflecting a sense of resignation.
"It is a tragedy what befell Serala," I lamented.
"She was fated to meet such an end, old friend," Illyrio replied solemnly, and I nodded in agreement.
"Yet, through her sacrifice, I've gleaned a deeper understanding of House Targaryen's inner workings," I noted.
"The only one capable seems to be a deranged psychopath, not as cunning as he fancies himself," I continued, my gaze fixed on the map of Westeros before me.
"He believes his actions in Duskendale have bolstered his house's standing, yet fails to grasp how he's alienated the nobility with the utter obliteration of House Darklyn," I explained, tracing a line on the map.
"What news of your sister", Illyrio asked me .
Illyrio's inquiry about my sister tugged at the frayed edges of my heart. "Serra resides in Lys," I replied, the words heavy with both longing and determination.
"That is what my little birds tell me," I added, drawing upon the vast network of informants at my disposal.
"We will reunite her with us, my friend," Illyrio declared with unwavering resolve, and a flicker of hope danced in his eyes. His words were a soothing balm to my troubled soul, and a faint smile graced my lips.
"I cannot recall how many years have passed since I last saw her, Illyrio," I confessed softly, a pang of regret echoing in my voice. After Father's demise at the hands of Meleys the Monstrous, we fled, seeking refuge in the shadows. But the cruel hand of fate tore us apart, leaving me haunted by memories of our separation.
I shook my head, banishing the ghosts of the past. Now, the present held a different promise. With real power at my fingertips, the knowledge amassed through years of careful manipulation, I would steer House Blackfyre towards its rightful destiny. The Iron Throne, the birthright of House Blackfyre, would soon be within our grasp.