The battle had turned, but the day was not yet done.
The cries of the wounded echoed across the Redgrass Field, mingling with the clash of steel and the pounding of war-drums. Corpses were strewn like autumn leaves, and banners fell, crimson with more than paint. Yet amidst the carnage, a single act of chivalry cut through the chaos like a ray of morning sun through storm clouds.
Daemon Blackfyre dismounted.
Blood spattered his armor, and a dent marred the jet-black breastplate that bore the crowned three-headed dragon of old Valyria. Yet he moved with purpose and calm, stepping through the melee toward the broken form of Ser Gwayne Corbray, who now lay still and blind, his face a mask of blood.
Men around Daemon called for him to return to his mount, to seize the moment, to push the crown's left flank. But Daemon raised a hand.
"No more," he said. "Not this one."
He knelt beside his fallen foe, and in a voice that carried somehow above the din, he said, "This man fought me with honor, and near bested me. He is no chattel to be trampled underfoot."
The Blackfyre host fell briefly silent, stunned by the gesture.
Then Daemon turned to a knight at his side, a red-bearded man with a tusk-shaped crest on his helm—Ser Redtusk of House Crakehall.
"See him safely from the field, Ser. And see that no man touches him, or you'll answer to me."
The order was obeyed.
And for a moment, for a heartbeat in time, some among the loyalists wavered. They saw not a usurper but a king, as regal as any Targaryen ever crowned.
But from the Weeping Ridge, there were other eyes.
Two red eyes, cold as ice and sharp as obsidian, narrowed upon Daemon and his sons.
Lord Brynden Rivers stood with the wind in his white hair, a pale shadow against the scarlet dusk. His black cloak whipped behind him like the wings of some terrible crow, and at his side stood the Raven's Teeth, quiet and deadly. Their bows were drawn, their strings taut.
Brynden's banner flapped in the rising breeze—a white dragon with red eyes breathing fire upon a black field.
Daemon looked up from the field.
His gaze found the ridge.
And he saw his brother.
Across the field, Daemon's face hardened. For a heartbeat, something like pain flickered in his eyes—but it died swiftly, burned away by fury, by defiance, by destiny.
He turned, placing himself before his twin sons, Aegon and Aemon, as though to shield them from the storm he knew was coming.
Brynden said no words.
He simply drew his weirwood bow—white and gnarled, as old as ancient trees, strung with the sinew of giants, it was said. His fingers curled around an arrow fletched with crow feathers. His breath was steady. His eye—his one red eye—unblinking.
He loosed.
Three hundred yards away, Prince Aegon Blackfyre, firstborn of Daemon and heir to his cause, jerked as the arrow struck home, piercing through his mail and deep into his heart.
Daemon cried out.
He whirled around, catching his son as he fell, cradling him with trembling arms. Blood pooled fast beneath them, dark and steaming on the grass. For one terrible instant, all the fire seemed to go out of the black dragon.
Then Brynden nocked another arrow.
Daemon saw. He saw where the next arrow would go.
"No," he breathed, turning to Aemon, his second son, who stood frozen in shock. "Get back. Aemon, GO!"
And he rushed forward—his sword half-raised, cloak flying behind him—straight into the storm of shafts that now fell like rain of steel.
It was what Brynden had foreseen.
As Daemon reached his son, as his arms went out to pull him down—the second arrow struck him low in the side, punching through plate, through flesh. The third struck his thigh. The fourth pierced his shoulder.
The fifth went through his neck.
Daemon Blackfyre collapsed to his knees beside his dying son, a trail of blood marking his path.
Yet still he lived.
Still he clung to life—until the sixth arrow, loosed by Brynden's own hand, struck him clean through the chest, piercing the breastplate that bore the Blackfyre sigil. The light in his violet eyes flickered. His sword slipped from his fingers.
He fell.
Aemon Blackfyre shrieked and dove toward his father, lifting the fallen blade—Blackfyre, the sword of kings—as if he might defend his father's dying breath.
But Brynden was not done.
The last arrow sang.
It caught Aemon through the throat before he could rise, before he could even scream.
Father and son fell as one, their blood mingling in the dirt, their banners fluttering low on the field.
On the Weeping Ridge, not a word was spoken. The Raven's Teeth lowered their bows in grim silence. The wind caught the feathers of the fallen shafts and sent them tumbling across the field like black snow.
Brynden turned from the ridge, and without a sound, led his men into shadow.
The Blackfyre Rebellion was not yet over—but it had been broken.
And the name Bloodraven would never again be whispered without dread.