The raven arrived before the man.
It bore no words—only a single black feather, dipped in red wax, affixed with the royal seal.
By the time Lord Brynden Rivers stepped through the doors of the Red Keep's solar, the King already knew.
Daeron II Targaryen stood with his back to the hearth, hands clasped behind him, wrapped in a simple robe of red silk and sable trim. A book lay open on the table before him, forgotten. His hair, still touched with gold despite the years, caught the firelight. His face bore the tired grace of a man long used to the weight of peace—and now bracing for war.
"You've returned," said Daeron, without turning.
"I have," said Brynden.
"Is it done?"
"It is," he said. "The black dragon no longer flies over Harrenhal."
At that, the King turned.
"I had not thought Lord Manfryd so easily cowed."
"He was not," said Brynden. "But even a lion may kneel when surrounded by knives."
The King studied him. "And how many knives did you bring?"
Brynden met his brother's gaze, one red eye catching the light like a ruby. "Enough. And the promise of more."
He stepped forward and placed a sealed scroll upon the table—Manfryd Lothston's confession, signed and bound by blood. Alongside it, he laid a map of the Riverlands, marked with tiny black feathers across dozens of keeps, towers, and holdfasts.
"The traitors spread wide," Brynden said. "But not deep. Harrenhal has turned. Lady Rohanne of House Webber holds Coldmoat for the crown. The Brackens gather their strength in secret—more fool them—but Tully remains loyal, and so do the Darrys and the Smallwoods."
"And what of those who walk the line?" the King asked quietly. "The houses who bend to the wind? Speak to me of the Butterwells, the Oakhearts, the Tarbecks… and the Hightowers."
Brynden took his time before answering.
"House Butterwell has offered gold and grain to both sides. Their lord claims neutrality. I have sent men to Butterwell Keep to remind him that neutrality in rebellion is treason by another name."
"House Oakheart," he continued, "has sons in Daemon's camp and sons in yours. I have spoken with their aged lord, Ser Eldon. He will declare for the crown. If he does not, his banners will fall with him."
"And the Tarbecks?" asked Daeron.
"They bluster. But they are small, and their neighbors remember their debts. I've written to Lord Reyne." Brynden's smile was as thin as a drawn bowstring. "He remembers."
The King looked to the fire. "And the Hightowers?"
For a moment, Brynden said nothing.
Finally, he stepped closer.
"Oldtown sits behind its walls, counting its coins. Lord Leyton has not declared, but his youngest son was seen in Peake's company. I have written to the High Septon. He will remind them of the Faith's loyalty to the dragon kings."
Daeron sighed. "And if these assurances fail?"
Brynden's tone turned to stone.
"Then they shall burn with the Blackfyres."
The King did not answer at once. He looked down at the table, at the map, at the names marked with blood and ink. So many names. And behind each, a banner, a family, a legacy.
"You speak with great certainty, Brynden."
"I speak with eyes open, Your Grace."
"Your enemies say you see through a thousand eyes," the King said, lightly.
Brynden only bowed his head. "And one."
Daeron turned back to the fire. The flames crackled softly.
"This war will be the death of dragons," he murmured.
"No," said Brynden. "This war will be the death of pretenders."
The silence stretched between them.
At last, Daeron nodded. "Very well. Go. Tighten the noose. Let the world know the price of betrayal."
Brynden bowed, black cloak rippling behind him like smoke as he turned to leave.
Outside the solar, the Red Keep breathed with shadows. Spies moved like phantoms through its halls. Servants carried messages behind sewn sleeves. Guards listened, remembered, and passed whispers in the dark.
The war had begun.
And Lord Bloodraven—the spider in the heart of the web—was already pulling the threads.