The Pavillion of Lord Bloodraven, Outside the Ruins of Whitewalls — 212 AC
The wind tugged at the dark crimson pennant bearing the crowned raven clutching a skull—the personal sigil of Lord Brynden Rivers, the Hand of the King. Beneath its shadow, the tall pavilion flaps whispered like cloaks in a crypt, and within, the infamous sorcerer-knight of the realm sat upon a simple oaken chair, one black eye cold and unblinking, the other an empty socket that gazed upon the world unseen.
Before him stood Ser Duncan the Tall, still bruised from the tourney mêlées, armor scuffed and dented. At his side was Egg—Prince Aegon Targaryen, his bald scalp freshly scabbed from where he had shaved his silver hair to hide his identity. The boy looked up at Lord Rivers without flinching, his violet eyes bold and curious.
Guards stood posted like statues behind them, and to the side knelt Lord Ambrose Butterwell, pale as curdled milk and trembling.
"Whitewalls is forfeit to the crown," Brynden said in a voice thin and sharp as a dagger. "Its foundations will be torn stone by stone. Let the name of Butterwell be remembered only for treachery and cowardice."
The words landed like hammer blows on the old lord's shoulders. Butterwell whimpered something inaudible, but Bloodraven paid him no mind.
"Half your gold will be seized," he continued, "the rest left for your sons—if they grow into wiser men than you. You may keep your life. Barely."
A nod, and the guards dragged Butterwell away. Then came Lord Gormon Peake, shackled and sullen. Bloodraven's eye did not blink.
"You, ser, have no sons to inherit your folly."
Peake's curses were smothered as the guards hauled him away. He would swing before the day was out.
When the tent fell quiet, Brynden turned his gaze to the hedge knight and the Targaryen prince beside him. A faint smile curved his lips.
"Well met again, Ser Duncan. You've a habit of stumbling into dragons' lairs."
Dunk shifted uneasily, too humble to claim credit, yet too honest to deny it. Egg folded his arms.
"That dragon's lair was full of fools," the boy said. "And one who called himself a prince."
Bloodraven's smile lingered.
"He dreamt of a dragon hatching at Whitewalls. That dream was not his own—it was yours, Egg."
The boy blinked. "Mine?"
"You are the dragon who was born, though not from fire or egg. Fate hatched you today, in the midst of traitors and lies. And you did not flinch."
Egg puffed up a little, then caught himself and dropped his gaze.
Ser Duncan cleared his throat. "M'lord... my armor. I lost it. Had to ransom it to get us out of the lists."
Bloodraven tilted his head. "You fought for the realm. And you protected a prince of the blood. That buys back a hundred helms."
He gestured to a retainer, who brought forth a small chest of gold. "Take this. Fetch your mail. A knight should never be without his armor."
Dunk opened his mouth, then shut it, humbled. "Thank you, my lord."
As the pair turned to go, Duncan paused at the threshold. "M'lord... the boy. Daemon. What'll you do with him?"
"He is in a black cell beneath the Red Keep," Brynden replied. "And he will remain there until I decide if he is worth more dead or forgotten."
Egg asked, "And the dragon's egg? The one they meant for the tourney's prize?"
Brynden's pale lips thinned.
"Gone. Stolen, perhaps. Hidden. It matters not. The true dragon is standing beside you."
With that, he waved them away.
They departed under the fluttering banners and gray skies, two shadows on a long road.
Alone again, Brynden Rivers leaned back in his chair, watching the tent flap sway in the wind. He touched the brooch of the Hand at his breast and allowed himself a rare moment of reflection.
"Aegon..." he whispered. "A bold boy. There is steel in that spine. Fire in those eyes."
His smile returned, darker now.
"And you, Ser Duncan. You may yet be the greatest knight this realm will ever know."
The wind moaned low beyond the pavilion.
"We shall see," murmured Lord Bloodraven, "what fate has in store for them both."