Prologue

It was an especially warm summer in the Westerlands; it was the fourth year of summer, and it showed no sign of diminishing.

For those westermen who lived close to the Sunset Sea, there was always salvation from the sun within its cool waters. Pirates had steadily become a rare threat, and there had not been an attack by Ironborn raiders since the Red Kraken.

Antario Hill was an accomplished swimmer, and he regularly plunged into the sea whenever the weather allowed. He had long ago grown accustomed to the waves' strong pull, taking note of how far he was taken along the shore. He knew where the reefs grew thickest, and was careful to avoid swimming over them.

The Crag loomed up above him where he swam. It had once been a ringfort which the First Men had erected on a cliff overlooking the beach. Any invaders from the sea would be forced to climb narrow goat tracks to reach the Crag, and House Westerling had always been careful to guard each one with stout watchtowers. The ringfort had expanded into a castle, especially after the Westerlings had mingled with the Andal invaders. The castle's stones were the colour of smoke, standing out against the white cliff and yellow sand.

Antario had spent most of his life under the fostership of Lord Gaul Westerling. Gaul was not a cruel man, but nor was he particularly loving either. Gaul had offered Lord Damon Lannister to exchange fosterlings. Lord Damon had agreed, but instead of sending one of his legitimate children, he sent his natural son instead. Antario did not know why his father had done so, but Lord Gaul had plainly taken it as an insult. Thus, Antario had lived with all the comforts that a foster son should have, but he had never felt truly welcome.

There was still a stretch of clear shoreline before the reefs began, and so Antario let himself drift. He kept his head above the water, wiping the salt water from his eyes so he could look up at the clear sky above him. Here, at least, he did not feel lonely.

As he often did when he swam, he thought about his future. He was only a year away from becoming a man grown, but he was still squiring for one of Lord Westerling's household knights. He hoped that he would earn his knighthood soon, but he was beginning to suspect that the old fool would never grant him his knighthood. He was not learning much about swordplay or horsemanship. Ser Joby only seemed interested in teaching Antario discipline, and he was quite keen to enforce it. Antario had lost count of how many times he had polished and cleaned the garrison's armour, brushed down the horses in the stable, all these menial tasks which was fit for servants, not knights. He had little interest in staying at the Crag, but nor was he in a hurry to return to Casterly Rock. His father had never inquired after him when he visited the Crag, and he seemed to have avoided Antario's presence entirely. He has two legitimate sons now, he has no time for a bastard.

Instead, he had a mind to leave the Westerlands entirely; he had no interest in mining, or supervising the miners. He had no trade which he wanted to do other than fighting as a knight. But knights did not earn land or honour by staying home and swimming in the sea. The Ironborn were not going to travel anywhere anytime soon. They were still recovering from the last time that they'd attacked the Westerlands. Antario still recalled the old fool in his father's court when he was a boy. Rodrik Greyjoy, his name had been, and he'd been taken prisoner during an invasion of the Iron Islands after the Red Kraken's demise. Rodrik had been gelded, and he'd utterly lost his wits in his autumn years. He'd yapped like a dog on command, eating from a silver bowl alongside the hounds, much to everyone's mirth. Antario had never laughed at Rodrik, but he'd known better than to object to Rodrik's treatment.

Eventually, Antario made his way back to shore, standing up in the shallows. He strode back to where his clothing lay in a crumpled heap on the sand. It did not take long before he'd dried in the sun, and he could get dressed without his clothes getting wet.

It was still quite some time before supper, but the swim had left him ravenous. He was well accustomed to sneaking into the kitchen for a morsel or two; the cooks pretended not to see him, for it was one of the only times that he could use his parentage to his own advantage.

He crossed the length of the Crag's great hall and made his way into the kitchen. The cooks were already at work, hanging several carcasses on spits to slowly roast over fire. Antario's mouth watered at the sight, but he had to satisfy himself with apples, nuts, and other such bites until the meat was fully cooked.

After darting out of the kitchen again, Antario made his way back into the hall, but he had no time to leave. The great doors began to open, and he could hear a number of men speaking together behind them.

He might have waited for them to enter and excused himself, but then he would have to explain his theft of food; Gaul would not approve of that, nor would he take kindly to Antario once again hiding away from his duties as a squire.

There were only precious few seconds left to him, and he used them to duck behind a heavy curtain which was stretched across one of the large windows. These windows were among the Crag's finest features; it had cost House Westerling a fortune to bring the heavy Myrish glass across the Narrow Sea intact, much less to set them in place in the windows of the hall. They had also been tinted yellow to preserve the warmth of the sun within the hall during the cooler seasons. At the height of summer, meanwhile, the curtains were drawn across the glass to keep the hall from getting too warm.

Keeping quiet, Antario watched through a tear in the curtain as Lord Westerling brought the others around the large table where his family ate their meals. He then sat in the large chair which he always used.

It was a remarkable assembly of western lords; close to a third of the noble houses in the Westerlands were represented in this hall. Antario had seen or met all of them over the years, both at the Rock and at the Crag. The lords were all dressed in clothes which were decorated with the sigils of their houses. The sigils ranged from a red lion, an erminois maunch, a seven-pointed star of blue and white, a prancing fool, a golden wreath, a black manticore, and three black crossbows, among others. Above them all, House Westerling's sigil was painted on the wall itself, gleaming from a fresh coat of paint with which Antario himself had been assigned to assist.

It was an ancient sigil for a noble house whose roots went all the way back to the Age of Heroes. Westerlings boasted several marriages to the Kings of the Rock, back when House Lannister still wore crowns. Later on, a Westerling had married into House Targaryen as well, though it had ended badly for her.

Lord Gillam Tarbeck was speaking. He was a tall man who had won renown in tourneys; though he was not yet forty, his hair was retreating and his stomach was advancing.

"Before we begin, I propose that we take an oath of silence on this matter. Any words we speak from hereon in will be... delicate, to say the least. Therefore, let us all swear by the gods to keep this discussion between ourselves and nobody else."

Several of the men seated at the table did not take kindly to this proposition. Lord Hawthorne, the oldest man at the large table by some twenty years, leaned forward and fixed a beady eye on Lord Tarbeck. "Does delicate talk frighten you, Tarbeck? Or do you call us faithless and untrustworthy?"

"That's enough, Pearse," Lord Heward Lorch intervened. He was a broad figure who seemed half man and half boar. "It is not cowardly to be cautious when men talk treason."

The word seemed to mollify those in attendance; one by one, they declared their names and swore the oath of silence.

"Good," Gaul Westerling declared when it was over. He was joined by his two eldest sons, both anointed knights and grown men.

The stout man stood up from his seashell-decorated chair and gestured to a tall and raw-boned man with a hook nose and long chestnut-coloured hair. "Ser Robb, if you will begin?"

Antario's eyes widened. Robb Reyne was one of the most celebrated knights in the realm. He had been one of the finalists in the great tourney of 189 AC in King's Landing, and he'd won the tourney at Lannisport three years later.

"My lords," Robb began, nodding at those in attendance. "We have all been remiss. We have all been idle. Our rightful king has been deprived of his throne, and we must needs do our part to restore him to his proper inheritance."

Antario forgot to breathe for a moment. Treason, indeed.

It was King Aegon who was to blame. Men had taken to calling him Aegon the Unworthy for all his sinful acts, but two of those loomed above all the others.

The first had been his gifting of the Targaryen sword Blackfyre to his favourite son when he was knighted at the unprecedented age of twelve. Daemon's father and mother had both been Targaryens, but he was a bastard. And yet, he had always drawn much admiration and support for his noble countenance, his exalted prowess as a warrior, and most of all, his wielding of a Targaryen heirloom. For many in the realm, though they only dared to whisper such a belief in public, the awarding of Blackfyre to Daemon over Daeron was as good a sign as any which boy Aegon had truly wanted to succeed him.

And yet, all the trouble might yet have been contained were it not for the second great misdeed of Aegon's reign, committed as his last spiteful act while on his deathbed. With his authority as King, he had legitimized all of his bastards. This presented a terrible challenge to Daeron II, the son whom Aegon had always hated yet had never dared to disinherit. Of course, for a man who had slept with nigh a thousand women, most of Aegon's bastards were unrecognised, and lived their lives blissfully unaware of their true heritage. But several bastards were acknowledged, and some even had a high position in the realm. Daemon Waters was the most recognised bastard, and he had lost little time in forming a new noble house which was named after his prized sword.

"If we have been remiss, then so has the Black Dragon," grumbled Lord Joffrey Drox.

Several men protested, glaring at Lord Drox, calling him a number of things.

Lord Westerling hit his fist against the table until all were silent; he turned to Lord Drox and folded his arms. "What makes you say that?"

"Where is he? Why has he been idle for all these years?" Lord Drox continued, casting a defiant glare at his colleagues.

"I heard that the Crown is watching his every move," Lord Androw Parren speculated.

"If that's so, then he's made it easy for them," one of Lord Jast's grown sons remarked with a sly tone. "I heard his wife is close friends with the Princess of Dragonstone."

The men dissolved into confused argument, talking over one another, even as Antario stared from behind the curtain, utterly enthralled. He barely noticed how warm the glass was against his back.

"Enough!" Gaul Westerling stood up again. "This is getting us nowhere!"

"Agreed!" Robb Reyne had sat down again, but now he raised his hand and spoke again. "We must be united in our loyalty to the true king. The man who wields the king's sword, given by the king himself!"

"Is it true, then?" Lord Hawthorne's son inquired of the knight. "Is that marcher woman in league with us behind her husband's back? Or is Daemon too weak to rule his wife?"

"Neither, Ser," Robb replied coldly, "I do not claim to know of what exactly is happening, but if it is true, then I count Daemon a clever man. What better way to lull the usurpers into a false sense of security?"

This was something that the others could not dispute. One by one, they voiced their agreement with Ser Robb's words, some grudgingly and others enthusiastically.

Lord Tarbeck raised his own hand, "Does that mean the Black Dragon is plotting?"

There was a moment's silence as the others turned back to Robb Reyne. It was clear that he was in Daemon Blackfyre's confidence, but the westerman said nothing for a moment.

"He is... reluctant to risk his family for what is not a sure thing," Robb admitted, "But-"

"You see?" Lord Drox spread his arms, "What good is this talk? Why should we risk our ourselves for a man who is not brave enough to take the risk?"

"There is risk and then there is folly." Lord Hamell snapped. He was the second-oldest man in the room, apart from Lord Hawthorne. "Need I remind you of Aegon the Uncrowned? He fought a usurper for his rightful throne too, did he not? What became of him when he flung out the flag of war into the wind?"

"Spare me the history lesson, Herrock," Lord Drox countered, "I know what became of that boy. Is Daemon so foolish? Does he have no allies?"

"He does, as well you should know," Robb admonished him. "I can name you houses in the Reach, the Vale, the Riverlands, the Crownlands, the Stormlands, even Dorne!"

"Dorne?" Lord Falwell was sitting upright, staring in surprise at Ser Robb, "What madness is that? What sort of Dornishman would fight against the half-breed prince?"

Such a term for Baelor would warrant the man's tongue to be removed with red-hot pincers. Antario did not know if the sweat on his back was due to heat or alarm.

"Not all Dornish agree with these changing times," Ser Robb answered confidently. "There are many who resent their prince for giving up Dornish independence, for they hate us as much as we hate them."

"And so now they will fight with us?" Lord Ruttiger laughed. "What strange bedfellows these times are making."

Ignoring Ruttiger's mirth, Lord Ryman Algood raised his hand for Ser Robb. "You counted many regions, Ser, but I note that one is missing. You did not mention that we have allies in the North."

"What of the North?" Lord Lorch called out, sneering. "Have you not heard? The Starks have their hands full with that rebellion of theirs."

Lord Jast leaned forward. "Rebellion? What rebellion is this?"

"Skagos," answered Lord Westerling. "It is an island full of cannibals, or so I've heard. Why the northmen wish to keep it is anyone's guess, but they are determined to keep it nonetheless. And it is not going well for them thus far."

"So be it," cried Lord Parren jubilantly. "Mayhaps we can even use this to our advantage! If that rebellion endures long enough, the Crown will need to intervene. That could be our opportunity!"

Many of the other westermen were nodding their heads, or else assenting with spoken word.

"All the same," Lord Westerling interrupted sternly, "it is important - nay, paramount - that Lord Daemon understands that he is not alone. He must know that men all across the realm want to fight for his rightful place on the Iron Throne."

Gods be good. Antario felt his legs shaking. He did not know what to do; should he flee and make for Casterly Rock? Should he right a letter? What if they catch me? What if the letter is intercepted?

Lord Westerling continued, "We have taken our bellyful of this false king and his foreign queen. I'll not stomach their mongrel son putting the crown on his head. Who's with me?"

He raised his fist in the air, gazing expectantly at the men sitting around his table.

His sons responded first, repeating his gesture and shouting "Aye". Others followed them, until every man's fist was in the air, and the "Aye"'s echoed in the large and spaceous hall.

"So be it," Ser Robb remarked proudly, "Lord Daemon will be pleased to know that his writ is respected by true men."

Antario half expected them to leave the hall as one, buckle on their swords, and go riding off to find Daemon Blackfyre. But such actions only belonged to the songs and ballads. Instead, they spoke and squabbled further about practicalities, such as how many men they could muster, who needed to borrow funds for arms and armour, how to train their troops for war before any declaration was made. It was thoroughly tedious, and these men found ways to prolong the conversation twice as long as was necessary. Lord Westerling also volunteered to mint coins for the Black Dragon's reign, once he finally took his throne.

Antario was growing restless; his legs were already sore from his long swim and his walk back up the cliffs. Now he uncomfortably shifted his weight from one foot to the other.

Suddenly, one of Lord Algood's sons glanced in his direction.

Quickly, Antario halted his movement, staying stock still as he forced himself not to breathe. The young man paused, then turned away again as Lord Tarbeck spoke again.

"Remember, my lords, it is imperative that we do not lose the element of surprise, or else all is lost."

The assembled men agreed. Algood's son leaned towards his father, and they spoke together in a lazy way. He saw nothing, Antario thought shakily. Else he would have reported me.

"Agreed," Robb replied to Lord Tarbeck, "and I will say it again; it is important that we do not act until the word is given. We must wait for word so that when Daemon Blackfyre declares himself, we shall rise up and take our enemies unawares."

Eventually, the lords began to leave the hall. Lord Westerling and his sons sat in place, presiding over the table with Robb Reyne as they bid the lords farewell. Antario breathed a sigh of relief as he saw an opportunity to escape once everyone had departed.

Lord Algood was one of the last ones remaining. He stood up and shook the hands of Robb and the Westerlings.

"My thanks to you," Lord Algood declared, "it was a great risk you took."

"None shall know of this," Lord Westerling assured him.

"Is that so?"

It was the second son of Lord Algood, the one who'd glanced at the curtain. He was not only looking at the curtain now, he was striding towards it, his hands balled into fists.

Antario was too shocked to react. He was still standing in place as a fist was swung towards the curtain and met his stomach.

The young man wanted to scream from the pain, but he had lost all air. He wheezed as he fell forward onto his knees, mouth and eyes wide open as the curtain was thrown aside, revealing him.

In a flash, Algood's three sons were on him. Two grabbed his arms and held them tightly behind his back. The third clamped a strong hand over Antario's mouth, preventing him from crying out.

"So," the young man declared loudly, "is this what passes for security in your castle, Westerling?"

"You should have kept moving," another of Algood's sons snarled into Antario's ear, "I might have thought it was the breeze."

Gaul Westerling rose from his seat, but he did naught else except stare. His mouth and eyes were wide open, but Antario could not glean what he was thinking.

"One of yours?" one of Algood's sons sneered at Gaul as he forced Antario's right arm even further behind his back. Antario cried out from the pain, but his shouts were smothered by the large hand.

"Mind yourself, Ser Hector! That is our ward of Lannister!"

It was not Gaul who spoke, but his eldest son. Ser Uric was so alike to his father in appearance that he could have passed for him as a young man. He had treated Antario kinder than the rest of his family, but that was more out of courtesy than affection.

Antario wanted to swear that he'd tell nobody what he'd seen and heard, but he could form no words. He could barely draw in any breath through his nose. Tears of pain and fear were falling down his face as he stared at Lord Westerling.

A look of loathing and disgust was on the older man's face. "So, that was what the Lion meant by sending you?"

Antario tried to shake his head, but that did little good.

"This is what it means to live in Daeron's realm. He has his lapdogs send spies into our homes," Ser Hector Algood shouted, twisting Antario's left arm so hard that Antario fell to his knees with pain.

"Hold!" Westerling's hands were balled into fists, and he turned away from Antario's gaze. "Spy or no, the lad is a guest beneath my roof. A ward. I cannot have his blood on my hands."

Relief washed over Antario like the cool seawater which he loved so much, but he was not released by Lord Algood's sons.

"There is no need for that, Gaul," Lord Algood answered. He was a haughty, finely dressed man. His nose had been broken, but his face was well-shaved and his curly hair was cropped close to his skull. "You have never done the lad any harm, no man here would suggest such a thing."

Lord Westerling threw Lord Algood a look of rage, but he said nothing else. He simply turned his back and loudly declared, "I will hang any man who commits violence beneath my roof, be he nobly born or baseborn!"

Westerling's sons were looking from their father to the Algoods to Antario, bewildered at this exchange.

"There will be no murder," Lord Algood declared loudly. "My sons would like to go for a swim before dinner. Perhaps this lad can show them the way?"

Algood's sons released him, and he gasped for air. But before he could catch is breath, they held him upright and began to frog-march him out of the hall, down the narrower and emptier corridors of the castle. Antario was too scared and too breathless to speak, nor did any of Algood's sons say a word to him or each other.

Time lost meaning to Antario, and soon he found himself outside the castle, still being led along by the strong hands holding onto him in a crude impression of a friendly embrace.

He noticed suddenly that they were walking past the watchtowers, where the goat tracks began. They were making their way to one of the isolated cliffs, where scanty scrub trees grew in defiance of the thin soil. Below, the sea surged in the bright sunlight, so clear that anyone who looked down could see the forest of reefs below the water.

Panic surged through Antario as he realised what was about to happen. He took a breath to scream for help, even though he knew that nobody would save him; Lord Westerling had known, but he would pretend that Antario had befallen a tragic accident. The approach of death made everything as clear to him as the sea water which swirled beneath him. None would deny that Antario was a passionate swimmer, that the tides were stronger than he'd expected, that the reefs were deadly to a foolish swimmer...

The wind was stronger now, and the cliffs made it noisier still. His high-pitched scream was easily drowned out, and no struggling could have gotten him free from his three captors. They did not laugh nor jeer, nor shout or even look at him. They simply stood at the edge of the cliff which stood right over the sea, and flung him forward as easily as if they were disposing of an animal carcass.

Once again, Antario could not breathe; he was falling too fast through the air, and he had screamed himself hoarse against the wind. He was left staring at his death, approaching him faster and faster, the reefs looming up towards him beneath the waves.