They met at dusk, beneath the shattered tower of Stonehelm.
The stormlords who held the keep had declared for Daemon, but the meeting had been arranged in secret—by letter, by whisper, by oath and coin. Only one guard accompanied the princess, a mute Lyseni with a curved dagger, and he waited far below, beyond the rose garden where she stood.
Princess Daenerys arrived, cloaked in the orange light of sunset, with a half-score of guards sworn to her name and one knight of the Kingsguard, Ser Willem Wylde ever close behind. Her husband's permission and her brother's reluctant consent weighed heavily on her shoulders, but the burden was hers to bear.
Daemon Blackfyre came without armor, clad in black and red with his sword sheathed. His hair was still damp from the sea breeze, and the golden dragon clasp at his shoulder gleamed in the fading light. When he saw her, he smiled, but it was a weary smile, and older than it had once been.
For a long moment, neither spoke.
"It's been many years, Dany," he said, breaking the silence. His voice was quieter than she remembered, tempered by time and burden.
"It has," Daenerys replied, her hands folded before her, trembling slightly. "And the years have not been kind."
"They never are," he said, his smile brief and bitter.
They walked together through the godswood, their guards giving them space, though Ser Meryn followed a few paces behind. As they passed under the red leaves, the scent of river mist and pine hung in the air.
"I heard rumors," Daenerys said, voice barely above a whisper. "That you intend to raise your banners."
"Rumors travel faster than armies," Daemon replied. "And sometimes do more damage."
"But are they true?" she asked, halting.
He turned to face her fully, and for a moment, he was not the man who had become the Black Dragon, the legitimized bastard who carried Blackfyre. He was the boy who once walked the gardens of the Red Keep beside her, who plucked roses for her from the castle walls and whispered dreams of dragons reborn.
"I never sought the crown," he said. "I never asked for Blackfyre. It was his doing—Aegon the Unworthy, Father to us both. He gave me a name, a sword, a legacy I never desired."
"But you kept it."
"I kept you in my heart," he said softly.
Daenerys's breath caught, and she looked away. "You married. Rohanne of Tyrosh."
"As you did," he countered, though not unkindly. "Maron is a good man, from what I hear."
"He is," she said. "He gave me children. Sons. And peace."
"I am glad," Daemon said. And though he smiled, there was sorrow in his gaze. "It should have been me."
"I came here to ask you not to go to war, Daemon," she said, her voice tightening. "For the sake of the realm. For the sake of everything we once shared."
He looked up toward the branches above, red against the darkening sky. "They whisper my name in the Stormlands, the Reach, the Riverlands. Lords send their sons to me, their swords, their coins. I could turn them away—but for how long? You think I want this rebellion?"
"You have the power to stop it before it begins."
"I have the power to be crushed beneath the weight of a crown I never asked for," he replied. "Do you know how many call me King? How many say Daeron is a bookish pretender, too Martell to be Targaryen? Did you know that Daeron had me arrested on account of baseless rumors that I will rebel several moons ago?"
"You know he is a good king," she said sharply. "You know he is trying to unite the realm without blood. That was always his dream. Peace through marriage, not fire."
"Then he should not have denied me you."
Those words cut her deeper than she had expected.
"Was that why?" she asked, almost choking. "Because he gave me to Dorne, and not to you?"
Daemon stepped forward, and for the briefest moment, their hands brushed.
"No," he said. "I loved you long before there was talk of crowns or causes. And I love you still. But this… this is no longer about you or me, Dany. It's bigger than us now. The future of my family and the hopes of the realm rest in my shoulder, and I will not fail them. I will sit upon the Iron Throne, and usher in a new era where true dragons reign once again"
Tears welled in her eyes, but she would not let them fall. "Then I have failed."
"No," he said. "You came. You tried. That is more than most have ever done for me."
He bowed his head, then turned away, back toward the stone halls of the manor.
And far above, in the crumbling belfry of the broken tower, a shadow had watched.
Brynden Rivers said nothing. His cloak of smoke and scarlet stirred in the sea-wind as he crouched beside the broken stone, still as a gargoyle. The longbow of pale weirwood lay at his side, unstrung. He had not come to kill. Not yet.
The bowman's red eyes watched as Daemon stood alone amid the overgrown roses. He watched him draw his sword at last—not in anger, but reverence—and stare at the blade Blackfyre beneath the bleeding sky.
Brynden turned away before the man could speak to the steel.
By the time the first stars appeared over the Bay of Shipbreaker's Sound, Lord Bloodraven was gone, vanishing into the mists like a shadow, unseen and unheard. The king's justice walked with quiet steps, and carried his secrets in silence.
The war had not yet begun—but it would.And when it did, no mercy would be given.