Chapter 7
Present, the Bay of Crabs
Any semblance of warmth seeped away under the quiet assault of the morning's light rain. Despite the din of battle ahead, most of the soldiers kept their heads down, eyes focused on the narrow pathway snaking through the steep cliffs to Dyre Den. To those unfamiliar with the precipitous landscape, the slick stone offered little traction. A certain but prolonged death awaited those unfortunate few who had tumbled down the cliffside either due to their own misstep or propelled by a missile from above.
The hail of arrows originating from atop the ancient walls had been replaced with chunks of falling rock, haphazardly breaking away at random intervals after the foundation had been compromised by dragonflame.
After clearing the outer fortifications of defenders, the king had focused on eliminating those atop the three, crooked towers. Sunfyre made quick work of those brave enough to remain on the offensive after the dragonrider had made his presence known.
The courtyard was much too small to safely land a dragon, or at least too small to safely maneuver within the throng of enemy knights, so Aegon had been forced to delegate that task to his soldiers attacking by land. For their part, the sundered gate and punctured walls gave little resistance to the influx of crownlander attackers, and soon the courtyard was overrun with green banners.
Leaving the sack to the capable hands of Ser Willis Fell, Aegon directed his flight back towards their host's encampment along the bay road. Or encampments. The uneven landscape offered precious little room for some ten thousand men and certainly not enough high ground to protect all from the dangers of the bog.
From his position in the clouds, the campfires of a few dozen clusters outlined the meandering road. Thankfully, Vhagar's sprawling, bronze and green mass offered a natural landmark for the command hub. With a quick word in Valyrian, Sunfyre began a steep descent.
A thousand "Your Grace" awaited Aegon's return along with the peculiar feeling stemming from everyone stopping in their tracts to note his arrival. The experience was exhilarating and unnerving all in one. With a wave of his hand, the troops, his troops, returned to their duties.
A hundred pleasantries later, the king found himself staring at a very familiar map. After the countless hours spent pouring over the unrolled parchment, Aegon had come to hate the wretched thing. Somewhere to his left, a lesser lord droned on regarding troop advancements and the like, but the valyrian royal couldn't find it in himself to focus on the details.
His mind wandered towards Kings Landing. Towards the soft allure of silk sheets and bared bodies underneath them until he mentally checked himself. There was now a lady, his lady, waiting for him back at the Red Keep. By now, Cerelle would have begun to show. If the maesters were right that was.
Aegon swallowed hard, tightening his grip on the oaken table until his knuckles turned white. With Viserys as a parent, marriage and fatherhood had once seemed more of a formality than a passion, and the young royal had resigned himself to a similar, disinterested fate.
Damn Maelys to the seven hells for convincing him otherwise. The more Aegon wanted the little hellions, the more the prospect terrified him. After years of paternal neglect, the fear of stepping into the role of a father seemed so foreign to him.
Aegon found solace in the fact that he could lean on Maelys when the time came. In all matters of war and family, his twin's support had never wavered.
A flicker of movement across the table caught the king's attention. He lifted his eyes towards the raised brow of Aemond and the subtle question it conveyed.
The king gave a slight nod of his head, indicating all was well.
The remainder of the meeting passed dreadfully slow without a glass of wine to dull the senses. The Lords and commanders always found some new petty detail to squabble over, but in the end little changed. Another black stronghold had fallen, and their march continued.
A small speech of congratulations to commemorate a well-earned victory and promise of more to come spilled from the king's lips. Aegon had always been the most sociable of his brothers, and he knew how to work a room. With each passing day, the orations became easier.
The lickspittles were always the last to file out, and Aegon savored the growing frustration blooming on his brother's face as they lingered with their empty praiss. A hiss of annoyance escaped Aemond's lips when Lord Stokeworth had finally departed.
"One pass on Vhagar, and we could be rid of them," the prince groused. "Accidents happen in war, and then Stokeworth's lady wife wouldn't have to hide the lover she's taken in his absence."
Aegon shook his head, chuckling, and settled into a chair. After a day of dragonriding, the absence of rocking was sweet relief to his weary bones.
"And miss out on his insightful comments at war councils?" Aegon offered with a mocking rebuke. "Nay, I fear we're stuck with him until the war ends it seems."
"And after?" Aemond inquired.
"I'm sure my twin has strong opinions on which lords will remain in Kings Landing as advisors. Given the initial reluctance Lord Stokeworth had in joining our cause, something tells me he won't make the cut," Aegon replied, emphasizing the final word. His younger brother gave a biting laugh at the implication.
After reclining into the adjoining seat, Aemond poured himself a glass of summerwine and offered the bottle. The prince snorted when Aegon refused.
"Shame. Maelys gave me permission to beat the sobriety into you should you relapse." The King rolled his eyes, taking a sip of lemoned water.
"You would have had better luck before we reached Hayford," the king mused. "My hands stopped shaking by the second night in the keep." He took a deep sick to mask the grimace brought on by the memories of withdrawal.
"Besides, it's a crime to attack a king," Aegon replied with a wry smile, trying to dispel the unpleasant thoughts. "And poor sense to try against one twice your size," he continued, stretching out his wide frame. Aemond rolled his remaining eye.
"Shall I bring Vhagar into this?"
"She is quite the large beast," Aegon agreed with a wicked grin. "Compensating?"
Aemond swatted his arm as the king snickered. Their laughter eventually descended into a comfortable silence. Aegon savored the moment. There had been precious few since the war began.
Aemond snatched a black dragon statuette off the table, twirling it between his deft fingers.
"It's nearly time," the prince commented without betraying any emotion. "And you're certain you would rather not leave on the morrow and be done with the matter?" Their gazes were drawn towards the rocky island dotted along the eastern coast of Westeros.
Dragonstone, their ancestral home.
Long silver locks flowed to and fro as Aegon shook his head, eliciting a frown from his younger brother. The expression made his angular features appear even sharper.
"She's not going anywhere," the king spoke with confidence. "The bitch has her pride before all else. Were she to surrender her seat, she burns what little is left of her legitimacy."
Whereas the one-eyed prince wanted to leave the host to the command of trusted lords and leave posthaste for Dragonstone, Aegon bid them stay until they finished their objective in securing the northeast corner of the Crownlands. Which, if Lord Bartimos was true to his word, would include an oath of fealty along with a thousand armed men in exchange for high lordship over the Claw.
Not that they would simply hand over the half a dozen ransacked keeps to the Celtigars. The peninsula still needed local oversight, and there were many, many loyal greens to reward for services rendered.
Maelys had put in a great deal of effort to secure the secret arrangement between the greens and Claw Isle. Personally, Aegon believed it was more to secure a contingent of native clawmen amongst the Crab Lord's troops. The natural defenses of the bog-covered peninsula made it notoriously difficult to conquer, and, as his twin succinctly put it, one needed native men to conquer native peoples.
In response, Aemond hummed noncommitally and chose not to restart their prior argument.
Despite the prince's typically cold and calculating approach to warfare, and truly towards most aspect of life, Aegon had a gnawing suspicion his brother's desire to act was fueled by the anxiety and fear brought on by this morning's raven.
Daemon Targaryen was en route to the Riverlands.
His path must have been deep enough into the remote reaches of the Eyrie's southern coast as to delay notice of his departure. The message had only been dispatched after their uncle had turned southwest and was glimpsed flying over Harroway Town.
The Rogue Prince was headed towards Riverrun, and the warning was much too late for Aegon or Aemond to assist their brother.
Maelys would be fighting alone.
In fact, there was a chance their clash had already concluded, and the brothers was simply awaiting grim words carried by feathered wings.
We always knew it was a possibility, Aegon thought, remembering back to their many nights spent in preparation for the coming war. There had been so many ways to approach the campaign, but they had long decided the best means of a decisive victory was to attack quickly, without warning, and with overwhelming power.
That meant dragons spread across Westeros. Effective but not without risk.
"Should Maelys…" Aemond hesitated with his words, "fall, how do we proceed?" The prince's gaze was piercing but behind it, Aegon noticed a layer of fear. It had been years since he'd seen the emotion adorn his younger brother's features.
"Unchanged," the king's answer was firm, masking his own inner turmoil behind it. "A sword is only dangerous when wielded. Our uncle cannot remain mounted indefinitely. Should the Rogue Prince emerge victorious, he'll still have to land and demand fealty."
Aegon took a long draw from his cup, wishing it were stronger as if to dispel the grim prospect of events unfolding farther west. His twin spent more time in the air than any of them as if a man possessed. Training. Honing the skills of rider and dragon until they operated as a single unit, maneuvering through the wind with an almost supernatural finesse.
But the Grey Ghost is no Blood Wyrm, a traitorous part of his mind whispered. As much faith as the king had in his twin's ability, at some point size and power were simply too much to overcome. If his brother weren't the opponent, the rational part of Aegon would bet on Caraxes every time.
From his grim expression, Aemond harbored a similar mindset.
"The Riverlords, or those which remain, are well aware their newfound power and wealth is dependent upon a green victory, "Aegon continued. "Maelys," he said in a strained voice, "has prepared contingencies hidden amongst the rank in file men."
Aemond nodded slowly before taking a long draw from his goblet. A few moments of silence passed before he opened his mouth to ask another question. The sound of murmuring outside of the tent interrupted his next words.
"My king," an armored knight addressed in a hurried voice, dropping to one knee. "There are reports of ships entering the bay. They bear the banner of House Celtigar."
Aegon gave his brother a sideways glance as they both stood.
"Perhaps you'll get your wish for tomorrow," he said with a humorless laugh. "I hope our next visit to Dragonstone goes more smoothly than the first."
Almost subconsciously, the one-eyed prince traced a finger along the scar running down his cheek.
"I've been looking forward to it."
Present, Outside the Gates of Riverrun
Maelys advanced quickly, closing the ten or so paces between them in a few moments. A low growl emanating through gritted teeth accompanied the diagonal arc of his weapon.
A metallic clang reverberated through the air and up the prince's arm from the impact against Elmo's shield. A glancing blow against the trout who with a quick backstep avoided the full power of the attack.
Mud spattered under the shifting weight of sabatons as his foe quickly pivoted to the left, whipping his sword in a horizontal counterattack.
Triceps burning against the force, the prince pushed his shield upwards, shifting the momentum of the swing along with it. Next attack already chambered, the head of his mace thudded and screeched against the rust-red paint of Tully's shield, defacing the sigil emblazoned upon it.
If the older man was affected by the power of his swings, he hid it well. With a low grunt and planted foot, Ser Elmo surged forward.
The deafening ring of two shields impacting one another drowned out all else in Maelys ears. The hairs of his neck stood on end as his feet slid backwards in the mud, and it took all of the royal's strength to regain his balance while maintaining his footing.
For a moment, the men strained against each other, and then Maelys moved. Hissing through clenched teeth from the effort, the prince took a step backwards, pushing his opponent in the opposite direction.
The Riverlander's footing betrayed him as the sudden loss of opposing force sent Ser Elmo stumbling forward. He whipped his sword arm up between them in an attempt to thwart the inevitable follow up.
Rather than shy away from the blade, the prince stepped into the clumsy counter, trusting his black plate to buffet any real danger.
The shrill shriek of steel sliding over steel served as a crescendo for the prince's blow.
Maelys' follow through was brutal and driven straight into the arm just below his opponent's shoulder pauldron. The high-pitched screech of buckling metal contrasted the dull reverberation of leather and flesh.
Heated murmurs and gasps rang out from those around them, but in the heat of combat, Maelys paid them no mind.
Capitalizing on his success, the prince surged towards the haggard trout and brought his mace down like a hammer. The heir of Riverrun managed to bring up his shield in time, but the force of the blow still drove him down onto one knee.
The painted fish adorning the shield transformed into a messy ruin of red and navy.
The assault was relentless. A second and then third blow in quick succession drew a strained groan from Ser Elmo before a fourth tore it from his hands. Mud and clay spattered from its wet slap against the ground.
Amazingly, the Riverlander had managed to keep ahold of his weapon, but he made no move to raise it between them when the prince held his spiked mace aloft once more. From the way the arm dangled freely from his shoulder, Maelys idly wondered if the man's humerus was fractured.
The sudden shift from the din of combat to the quiet panting of two men was jarring. The entire exchanged had lasted under a minute. The prince swallowed hard.
Truly, he'd expected more of a challenge, but perhaps his early death in the war in the previous version was more reflective of skill than war's misfortune.
"Yield," Maelys commanded in a hushed tone. Behind him, the royal could hear the sharp inhale of the man's sons.
Tired, wrinkled eyes stared up at him with an almost unreadable expression. The prince could identify hate and, perhaps, an element of fear. After another beat of silence, Maelys raised his mace a touch higher to emphasize his point.
"You not only rob me of my inheritance, but my boys of their future," the defeated knight spoke in a low tone. His blue orbs were looking past the prince now.
The man's sword fell onto the ground with a wet thud, and his hands fell to his sides. He made no move to rise from his position kneeling in the rocky mud.
"My blood is strong; we could endure and perhaps even make a new life for ourselves. But you and your camp, well, you don't strike me as the type to leave loose ends." The Tully's tone was subdued. Almost resigned.
A much more recognizable expression flitted across the former heir's face.
Desperation.
"Ser Elmo-" The prince warned.
With the hiss and flash of drawn steel, the Riverlander surged upward, dagger aimed for gap between Maelys' helm and breastplate.
The brief crunch of crumpling metal heralded the clamor of an armored body impacting the ground.
For a moment, the gathering was completely silent save for the gurgling river as Elmo Tully's brain matter slowly trickled from the new crack in his helm. The mixture of blood and grey matter pooled briefly before arcing downhill as if a new tributary for the Tumblestone.
The quiet didn't last long.
A scream of pure malice erupted from Maelys' right. Whipping his head towards the newfound chaos, the prince was met by the sight of Ser Elmo's sons charging straight towards him unhindered by fear or logic. As the pair drew their swords and advanced, a chill ran down the prince's spine at the realization of his current situation.
Both remaining Tullys were mounted.
As if the single string holding aloft the group's shacky accord were suddenly cut, the gathered knights and lords erupted into a deadly melee.
Instincts kicked in, and rather than flee with the prospect of being run down from behind, Maelys advanced, helping to close the few meters between them before either horse could pick up meaningful speed.
Armored knights meant little to oncoming warhorses, but the prince didn't need to stop the animals, simply divert them.
Raising his weapon, he hurled his mace towards the leftmost animal, the short distance and large target making up for the lack of accuracy. Rather than strike the face where he'd been aiming, the impromptu projectile impacted the beast's shoulder. While the beast didn't slow, it did deviate just enough for Maelys to charge around the outside.
"Die you sister-fucking cunt!"
The rider's downward swing nearly took his head off.
Maelys left arm burned from the force with which the blade impacted his hastily raised shield, screeching along the front in a ragged diagonal pattern. Already unsteady from the mad dash, the blow nearly sent him spinning towards the mud.
Seizing the brief opportunity before the teen thundered out of reach, the prince's free hand shot upward, seeking purchase. For a moment, his gauntleted hand slid along the smooth surface of a breastplate before his fingers caught the edges of a shoulder pauldron.
Maelys pulled.
Voice cracking, the teen screamed as he was torn off the saddle. With a sickening crunch, the boy's foot caught in the stirrup, and he was dragged along the rocky earth. The runaway animal briefly forced apart the clash of Hugo Vance and Osgood Vypren. Roland Darry used the brief distraction to drive his Warhammer into the face of Osgood's destrier, unceremoniously dropping beast and rider into the mud.
"Oscar!" The remaining boy, who must have been Kermit, yelled, pulling the reigns of his warhorse to turn back around towards the fight.
Come here you slimy brat, Maelys groused, charging the rider while he was fighting to bring the beast into a 180-degree turn.
Still weaponless save for the dagger at his waist, the muddy royal took inspiration from Roland by slamming his shield into the horse's face. The beast cried out in pain, rearing back. The move placed Kermit in a precarious position, threatening to dump the rider onto the ground.
Facing an imminent fall, Kermit abandoned the reigns and leapt towards his target.
Plate impacted plate in a horrible cacophony of cracks and high-pitched screeches. Maelys' world spun in a nauseating sequence of blue sky and ruddy brown earth. The air was ripped out of his chest, preventing him from screaming from the reverberation assaulting his bones.
Even when gravity settled out, the chaos continued as both men found themselves in a grapple wearing full amor. Unfortunately for the prince, the nature of their fall left him at a significant disadvantage under Tully's full weight.
Desperate hands strained to reach the blade on his waist which was currently blocked by the brat's leg. Kermit had no such difficulties, ripping the rondel dagger from its sheath and plunging it towards his opponent's wide, amethyst orbs.
The tip dangled a mere few centimeters from the gap between his bevor and cuirass as Maelys strained to push Kermit's arm away. With a wild look in his eyes, the young trout placed his other hand on the pommel and put all of his weight behind the effort.
"Just die you dragon fuck!" The young knight screamed, straining to lever the weapon down. The prince could see tears streaming down the young man's face.
Hands shaking and mind a frantic mess, Maelys reached his other arm out, scrambling over the rocky ground for any means to defend himself as the blade inched closer towards his throat.
His fingers brushed against something hard, and he tightened his grip.
The rock smashed against the side of Kermit's helm with a wet crack, and for the first time since falling, Maelys took in a deep breath as the great weight on his chest was lifted.
The respite lasted but a moment.
The young riverlander scrambled to stand up and managed to plant one foot before the prince tackled him back onto the rocky bank. Resembling two savages in the dirt rather than the knights they were, the young men struggled for dominance in their grapple.
Using his larger weight to his advantage, Maelys slammed Kermit onto his back and scrambled into a straddling position. Gloved fingers pried off the riverlander's helm, exposing blue, terror-filled eyes.
"Please-"
Flesh and blood sprayed in all directions as the rock caved in Kermit Tully's face. Sounding more beast than man, Maelys roared and brought the rock down again.
And again.
And then again.
Faced coated in mud and gore, Maelys looked up at the chaos of mounted knights and imminent impact of two oncoming hordes, spurred into action by their leaders' melee.
The brief distraction was a mistake.
A heavy force impacted his side, screaming and crying. The Valyrian royal found himself rolling back into the dirt with Oscar who apparently had managed to cut himself loose and drag himself over to his brother's corpse in the interim.
With a growl of irritation at the third dagger aimed at his jugular, the prince backhanded the oncoming blow, allowing it to scrap harmlessly along his dark gauntlet.
Noticing the youth had also lost his helmet likely during his impromptu dismount, Maelys wrapped his free hand around the boy's shoulder and tugged Oscar forward.
The boy's nose exploded in a wet crunch from the unexpected headbutt. The royal dove forward, following Oscar as he fell backwards into the mud.
The boy grabbed the prince's wrist as he attempted to drive his own sidearm into the remaining Tully's exposed neck. Rather than allow Oscar time to search for his own rock, Maelys made a split-second decision.
The youth squealed as pearl white teeth sank into the soft flesh of his neck. Blood spurted with arterial pulsations as Maelys tore off a chunk of warm tissue from his opponent.
For a moment, the Targaryen prince was briefly blinded by the crimson spray.
Screaming quickly devolved into gurgles which then yielded to silence as the boy hemorrhaged to death on the banks of the Tumblestone.
Battle raged around the crimson-coated prince as he slowly rose to his feet. Osgood's pale, lifeless eyes stared at him from a few meters away. The green tabard was stained red from where the old man's chest had been caved in. Florian Greysteel stood over a disarmed Jorah Mallister, blade tickling the fallen man's neck.
In the background, a draconic roar of anger and bloodlust filled the air as if eager to join in the slaughter. Whether it was the endorphins circulating in his body or some bullshit magical draco-humanistic connection, the dragon's call resonated with Maelys in a way it never had before.
Feeling numb all over but more alive than ever, the prince retrieved his discarded mace, preparing to push back through the swarm of his oncoming host in search of his mount.
The Hour of the Wolf, Flea Bottom
Dark alleyways offered discretion to the quiet activities of hooded figures. Despite the mud and filth, their movements were precise, making only the minimal amount of noise with each step of their black leather boots.
In the daylight, the colorful silk adorning the buildings which gave the district its name created a vibrant, lively flair. In the dead of night, however, their lilting movements in the evening breeze fueled a more sinister atmosphere.
As singles and pairs, these figures streamed out onto the main street. The few drunks remaining this late at night were sent on their way either through words or force, depending upon the inclination of the aggressor.
There were no guards patrolling the area this time of night. Each of the regulars had been reassigned or paid off. Besides, higher authority had no business in a place such as this.
Singles formed pairs, and pairs formed packs until four individual groups of men congregated outside of four specific brothels. Their movements were efficient, professional, and nearly silent. There was little talking amidst men without tongues after all.
With a nod from each group's individual leader, the men stripped off their cloaks, forming a pile to retrieve upon their departure. In the darkened streets, very little could be seen of their black, boiled leather. Each figure was equipped for the occasion with daggers, hand axes, and other armaments best suited for close, interior engagements.
Locks were picked, doors were pried open, and with a cold, professional efficiency, each establishment was turned into a mass grave.
If any passerby was alarmed by the brief moments of screaming, they wisely chose not to intervene.
Later that evening, from his window in the Red Keep, Lord Larys watched as four closely packed fires lit up the city below. If one listened closely enough, the shouts of men and women rushing to put out the flames could be heard amidst the night breeze. If he felt anything in regard to the death below, the spymaster hid it well.
Truth be told, this unfolding game was very quickly becoming a favorite diversion of his. While there were many players in the game of thrones who, at times, operated in the shadows, very few could be considered true professionals.
Even fewer could not only avoid his grasp but directly challenge him from within the bounds of Kings Landing itself. The lame man would have to thank Prince Maelys for setting the spymaster up against such a peer.
In a way, war had finally come to the capitol just without the fanfare of beating drums.
"Now where else in the dirt could you be hiding, little worm."
Riverrun
Warm rays of sunlight filtered through the rising wisps of smoke, coating the room in a rippling pattern of reds and golds. The bubbling of a heated cauldron gave a deep undertone to the crackles of the fire below.
The merry atmosphere inside of Riverrun's kitchen contrasted sharply to the mass graves being dug outside.
As if completely unbothered by the touch of boiling water, Alys Rivers rang out another soaked cloth before dabbing at the multitude of minor wounds accumulated from the day's trials.
Maelys hissed, knuckles turning white from his grip on the table they had repurposed as an impromptu gurney. If it had been anyone else, he might have berated them for not letting the steaming cloth cool first, but when it came to Aly, he figured it was probably intentional.
Whether it was stable boys or Valyrian princes, the changeling's demeanor never shifted. In fact, the more Maelys got to know the mysterious sorcerous, the more she seemed to enjoy needling him.
Go figure.
"You know," the prince began wincing at the sight of his increasingly erythematous skin, "I'm fairly certain the patient is supposed to come out of this better off than when the appointment started." He could almost hear the roll of her eyes.
"I'm just trying to char the skin, my dear." She rebuked in a sickly-sweet voice. "If you're going to act like the cannibal dragon, you may as well look the part." Maelys snorted.
"As someone who dabbles in witchcraft, I would have assumed you were a strong proponent of alternative means of violence," Maelys countered. He grit his jaw as she smeared a salve over his bruised ribs.
"And it was an act of desperation," he defended, trying to distract himself by recalling the warm, metallic taste. "I'd much rather leave biting to the professionals," he continued, thinking back to Ghostfyre glutting herself on the remains of the fallen riverlanders.
Depending upon how much longer the war dragged on, Maelys errantly wondered if his dragon's next opponent would be obesity.
Sharp pain drew him back to the matter at hand. He fought the urge to writhe on the table as the mixture elicited the sensation of ants crawling over his skin before slowly abating into a numbing coolness. Aly's grin was wicked.
"The ends justify the means as far as I'm concerned," she replied, helping the bruised prince into a wine-red tunic. "I just typically don't need to go to such lengths when dealing with children," the witch teased, letting her hands wander slightly as she slipped the fabric over his shoulders.
Maelys rolled his eyes, slowly rising to his feet careful not to further irritate his bruised body. The royal idly wondered in what timeframe medieval warriors developed osteoarthritis. At 22, his joints certainly ached more than he remembered the first time around.
"Cut me a break," he groused, pulling a bottle of wine from a nearby rack. He grimaced at the taste never having been a fan of the racy whites coming out of Lorath. "Those children were fully-fledged knights."
Alys shot him a flat look.
"String up one of their corpses next to Ser Raylon Rivers and say that again."
Point taken, he mentally conceded, taking a long draw from the bottle rather than argue further. At the very least, the outcome offered a definitive solution to the possibility of the Tullys, and any house following their lead, turning on them later had they simply yielded instead.
While Seaguard and the Twins were still technically outside of green control, having Lords Mallister and Frey as prisoners, who had now sworn fealty, certainly helped. The fact that each of their keeps had already suffered early in the war under Ironborn raiders and Ghostfyre's wrath, respectively, went a long way as well.
With the war in the Riverlands effectively over, it was a shame Lord Reyne's forces hadn't rendezvoused with them in time to take Riverrun. Maelys' couldn't afford to delay his departure solely to meet Janei Hill, Lord Jason Lannister's baseborn daughter. Taelerys would no doubt have a thousand questions about his betrothed when his squire was informed of the recently arranged union.
Finishing his draw on the bottle, the prince turned to offer Alys a drink when he noticed the far away expression adorning her features as she stared into the crackling hearth.
The change in atmosphere was instantaneous, and he subconsciously pulled at the crimson collar as if the kitchen were suddenly stifling.
There were no images awaiting him when he followed her gaze, but the flames did seem to glow with an otherworldly hue. Something about the flickering strands of orange and gold seemed more solid as if writhing tendrils stretching up from far below.
The moment passed quickly despite each second feeling like an eternity.
When the premonition was over, Maelys gave the woman a moment to collect herself before probing.
"Pray tell," he prompted, forcing his tone to sound casual. "Daemon?"
She let out a humorless laugh when she finally turned his way.
"Filled with enough black rage to fuel the seven hells," she confirmed. The witch placed a hand on his cheek, tilting his head down to stare deeply into his purple orbs.
"I hope you're a good dancer, kinslayer," Alys intoned, drawing out the word. "For it's not one dragon bearing down on you, but two."