The ravens flew by night.
Not the white birds of Oldtown nor the storm-black messengers of the Citadel. These were wild birds, bred in shadowed rookeries in forgotten towers—mute, swift, and trained to fly low over river and hill, unseen beneath the clouds.
They carried secrets in ciphered scripts, and they flew at Lord Bloodraven's command.
By the time Princess Daenerys returned to Sunspear, Brynden Rivers had already woven his web across half the realm. Gold cloaks had begun disappearing from their watch posts near the Dragonpit and reappearing in the Riverlands, their cloaks exchanged for drab brown surcoats and knives sheathed in secret places. Whispers rustled through inns in Maidenpool, prayers turned to riddles in the septs of Bitterbridge, and dead men's names were spoken again in the cells beneath the Red Keep.
In the bowels of that ancient fortress, Brynden held court not with lords and ladies but with whispers, letters, and dust.
"He meets with Lord Gormon Peake in secret," whispered a courier from Tumbleton, "and the bastard knights ride through the Kingswood in pairs."
"Daemon's boys have been seen in Dorne," said another, a hedge knight with one eye and a quiet voice. "Scouting. Or spreading word."
"The Heddles are mustering near the Blackwater," came another whisper. "One hundred men in secret, swearing to a black dragon."
Each night, Brynden compiled the names on slips of parchment: lords, knights, hedge lords, maesters, septons, sellswords. Those already pledged to Daemon—and those who would.
When the list grew long enough, he burned the parchment, but not before copying each name to memory.
"Words are wind," Brynden said once, "but wind can burn cities if you give it fire."
And fire he would give.