The flames in the hearth cast long shadows across the stone floor of the old godswood hall in Stonehelm. The weirwood tree beyond the windows had died long ago, its bones black and bare, but the banners within still held their color—a black dragon on a red field, rippling in the breath of the fire.
Daemon Blackfyre stood at the head of the table, hands planted on the carved oak.
"My sister has gone back to her brother," he said. "She does not see the crown that should have been mine. But others do. And I will not wait forever."
Bittersteel leaned against the wall, arms crossed over his chest. His voice was colder than the wind off Shipbreaker Bay. "Every day we delay, Daeron's spies draw nearer. Bloodraven watches from behind his birthmark and spies through every raven's eye. If we do not strike soon, he will cut us apart before the swords are drawn."
Daemon looked to Ser Gormon Peake, who had three castles behind him and ten thousand rumors. "The Reach is ready," Gormon said. "Plum, Costayne, and Ambrose ride with us. Fossoway sits the fence. If the crown hesitates, they'll turn black."
"Dorne?" Daemon asked.
"Silent," said Bittersteel. "They will bleed for no dragon, red or black."
He nodded. That was expected. His old love, Daenerys, had returned to her brother with empty hands and wet eyes. Her heart may have still beat for him, but her blood had chosen Dorne. That wound ran deeper than the scars on Bittersteel's back.
"Then we raise the banners," Daemon said.
At that, Bittersteel stepped forward. "There is more," he said. "I have sent riders to the Golden Company."
Daemon raised an eyebrow. "They have not yet been founded."
"They will be," Aegor Rivers replied. "If we fail here—then we will have need of swords beyond the sea. But I do not intend to fail."
A hush fell. Outside the hall, the storm howled.
One by one, the lords knelt. Peake, Strickland, Whitewalls, Heddle, Longinch. Bastards and broken men, knights with dusty banners, exiles dreaming of return.
Blackfyre drew his sword. It shone like night and whispered when unsheathed, as if the steel remembered the kings it had slain.
"Let this be the sword that ends the dragon's false line," Daemon said. "Let it be the flame that calls the realm home."
"And let this be the moment," said Bittersteel, "when we tear the Red Keep down stone by stone, and salt the earth where Bloodraven walks."
The council roared.
War had come.