King's Landing
Word of the burning of Riverrun might reach the frightened and frustrated smallfolk of the capital a moon or so later. But for one Cersei Lannister, the news was already known—she had just returned from a small council meeting. Though "council" was hardly the right word now, with only two members left: herself and her loyal subject Qyburn, who served as both her Hand and Master of Whispers.
The small council needed to be filled with wise and strong men—men unlike her uncle, who had done nothing but rely on another weak-willed fool like himself. Cersei would suffer no such cowards in her council. But that could wait. It had only been a few days since her last child had taken his own life. Just thinking about Tommen—the sweetest and kindest of her three—brought a sharp grief to her chest. She blamed the Faith and its militant dogs. They had manipulated him, made him softer than he already was. And her poor, gentle boy, believing he was responsible for their deaths, had taken his own life.
If only she could have laid her hands on that wretched 'High Sparrow.' Qyburn would have made certain his death was slow and miserable, stretched across days of exquisite pain. At least she had gotten her hands on Unella. Oh, how satisfying it had been to return every ounce of torment the septa had inflicted on her.
Her thoughts shifted to her coronation, to the rebels prowling the realm like vultures. With the deaths of that fat oaf and the Tyrell harlot, the Reach would surely join the rebellion now. No matter. Once she was crowned, the ravens would fly. Many would flock to her banner, and with their armies and the gold of Casterly Rock, victory would come in time. Perhaps she would hire some sellswords as well. Given the latest reports from Riverrun, they might have to rely on the greedy Essosi sooner than she'd like.
She didn't want to believe that dragons were truly back—much less that one had torched Riverrun to the ground. But Qyburn was not a man to bring her idle rumors.
Daeron Targaryen. Cersei scoffed. A bastard with a dragon—that's all the boy was. Dragons could be killed, as a thousand damned Dornishmen had proven once before. And damn Littlefinger, too—not for betraying her once, but twice—joining that bastard with the Vale's army. He would pay for that. They all would.
But now was not the time for vengeance. First, she needed to invite the lords who would swear fealty to the true queen of Westeros—not these false usurpers who thought the crown weak.
"Get me some wine," she said.
Turning back, her gaze fell on the white cloak standing guard, and with it, thoughts of Jaime—her other half. He had been there when that bastard unleashed his beast on Riverrun. But Cersei knew Jaime was still alive—she just knew it. She had already sent two score Lannister men into the Riverlands to find him. Soon, he would return to her. And together, they would rule the Seven Kingdoms from the Iron Throne.
Meanwhile, at the Twins
Daeron POV
Daeron was back in the hall of the Twins, his gaze fixed on the maester who had accompanied the Vale army—Maester Helliweg of House Royce. The old man stood with several of his acolytes and a few other maesters. Though aged and scholarly in appearance, Daeron could've sworn by the gods he had seen this man trying to woo one of the whores brought in for the soldiers' enjoyment. He shook his head and kept the thought to himself. Yesterday had been a day of celebration, and he wasn't about to judge an old man seeking a moment of relief after days spent tending to the wounded and dying.
A week had flown by like a gust of wind, and the feasts—though modest—had done much to lift the spirits of the men. They enjoyed them, and that alone made them worthwhile. But as with all things, the revelry had come to an end. Now it was time for matters of consequence. Seven days ago, Daeron had sent ravens to every lord of the Riverlands, calling them to march with him to Harrenhal and to swear fealty. He had spent the intervening days feasting and familiarizing himself with the men in his host. Now, at last, it was time to hear if any had answered the call.
"Maester Helliweg," Daeron began, "I hope you partook in the feast outside the keep?"
"I wish I could have, Your Grace," the old man replied. "But these bones are not what they once were. Still, hearing the laughter and songs echoing even in the rookery above was a joy in itself. Ah, youth and its vigour."
Despite the wistful tone, Daeron could smell the lie. This old coot was one hell of a mummer.
"Most unfortunate that you couldn't join us," Daeron said with mock disappointment. "Mayhaps next time. Though we might have to do without whores if you're to grace us with your presence."
"What I believe, Your Grace," Maester Helliweg replied, hands clasped before him, "is that a lord should honour his vows to his lady wife. And not only lords—we all should strive to resist the pleasures of the flesh. That said, I will not deny that such pleasures help keep the morale of the men high. And high morale makes for better discipline."
He smiled kindly, but to Daeron, it was a performance. He still couldn't erase the image of the maester from that night's feast.
"Wise words, Maester Helliweg. But it is not the matter of whores and fleshly pleasures that I summoned you here for." Daeron's tone shifted as he moved the conversation to weightier matters. "What I want to know is whether the lords of the Riverlands have answered our ravens."
"Indeed, Your Grace," the old man said with a respectful nod. "The Riverlords swore their swords to your cousin Robb Stark, and now that you've revealed your true identity as his heir, they are bound by that oath to follow you. In these tumultuous times, they will flock to your banner."
With that, Maester Helliweg pulled out several rolled parchments, each bearing a noble seal. With slow, deliberate steps, he approached Daeron and bowed his head as he presented the messages—replies from the Riverlords.
Daeron sighed and opened each scroll one by one, reading them with the stone-faced expression Jon Snow had learned from his father, Eddard Stark. Many of the letters pledged loyalty, claiming they would happily bend the knee and swear fealty to him, just as they had to his brother Robb. But most lords confessed they could not muster large forces—either because their men were dead or had returned to their homes to protect their families from the bandits and outlaws growing in number across the Riverlands with each passing day.
Daeron raised an eyebrow when he saw the Bracken sigil, but the words within promised their support. However, their allegiance came with conditions—requests for aid from sworn swords to free captured lords in exchange for loyalty. One such letter came from Lord Mallister's men, though how it reached Daeron remained a mystery even to him.
With Dark Sister laid across the high seat and both hands resting on its cold steel, Daeron weighed his options. He could ignore the Riverlands and march straight to Harrenhal, then on to King's Landing. His army, already large, was more than enough to crush whatever few thousand men the Lannisters could muster. It would be the faster, cleaner path.
But these were his vassals. His subjects. They had called for his help.
After a few moments, the answer settled in his heart. Jon Snow's influence had left its mark on Daeron—he knew it well. He had felt the change. Once outgoing and prone to chatter, he had grown into a quieter soul, more observant, less eager to fill silence with words. Not quite a brooder, but no longer the man he used to be.
And now, Daeron felt honor-bound to answer the Riverlands' call.
With another sigh, thoughts swirling about how best to proceed, Daeron looked up at the maester still standing before him and commanded, "Would it be too much to ask of you, Maester Helliweg, to send word to your Lord Royce? I would have him visit me at once."
"Not at all, Your Grace. I shall see to it." The old man gave a respectful bow before hurrying off.
Daeron had made his decision. He would act for the sake of the Rivermen. And once he decided upon a path, he saw it through to the end.
But before anything else, one festering worm had to be removed.
Petyr Baelish's time was up.
Winter had caught up to him.
And he would pay for all the chaos he had sown—for what he had done to House Stark, and to the realm.
The update schedule will follow a three-day cycle each week: Mondays, Thursdays, and Sundays. Bye!