You paused in the flickering torchlight of the tower of the hand, the snap of parchment breaking the hush. Before you lay three letters: one from the Master of Whisperers reporting Blackfyre sympathizers among the Riverlords, one from the Guild of Alchemists pleading for coin to replenish their stores, and one from your brother-husband, King Aerys, asking—yet again—where he might find his lost favorite green silk cloak.

A soft footstep made you turn. Brynden Rivers stepped into the circle of light, his one good eye, red as blood, fixed on you. In his hand he bore a goblet of Arbor gold.

“You sent for me?” he murmured, voice low enough that the walls themselves would not repeat it.

“A whisper grew into a shout by morning,” you said, sliding the Blackfyre letter toward him. “They’ve raised their banners at Stonebridge. Lord Bracken claims it was under orders from some ‘illicit child of Daemon Blackfyre.’ He demands our justice.”

Brynden glanced at the missive, then set the wine gently upon the table. “A child, you say.” He let the word hang. “Daeron would twist in his grave if he knew how the House of Black found purchase once more.”

Your hand tightened on the edge of the table. “We will not suffer rebellion to smother the realm. Send the strongspear cavalry to patrol the Green Fork. And have the golden cloaks search every trader’s cart leaving the city. If there’s a rogue Blackfyre—”

“—he will be found,” Brynden finished for you. He leaned closer, lowering his voice. “And what of Lord Norcross? He’s ripe for bribery. A few bars of gold might secure his support against the rest.”

You allowed yourself a half-smile. “Leave Norcross to me. I’ve a plan that involves a certain jeweled brooch—one his lady wife would die to own.”

Brynden’s lips curved into something not quite a smile. “Ever the mercenary diplomat.” He reached out, brushing your knuckles with his finger. “You tread a dangerous path, niece.”

“Dangerous paths suit me,” you replied softly, meeting his gaze. “My husband can barely tie his own cloak, let alone hold a realm. It falls to us.”

A distant clang echoed through the hall—the sounding of the great portcullis. The golden cloaks were coming to escort Aerys I for his morning walk in the gardens. You straightened, smoothing your skirts.

“Night’s work done before dawn,” Brynden whispered, pressing the goblet into your hand. “Drink. You’ll need your wits.”