Several moons before the Battle of Redgrass Field.
The Small Council chamber was quiet but for the faint crackle of the brazier fire and the soft rustling of parchment. Outside, King's Landing sweltered beneath the sun, yet within the Red Keep's stone heart, the air remained cool and close. King Daeron II Targaryen sat at the head of the table, his fingers steepled beneath his chin, his dark eyes watching Lord Ambrose Butterwell with a gaze more piercing than any knight's spear.
Lord Butterwell had grown softer of late, both in waist and will. His jowls wobbled slightly as he finished a long-winded report on troop levies from the Riverlands and the Crownlands. His voice was even, almost rehearsed, but there was no fire in it. None that King Daeron could see.
When the lord had finished speaking, silence reigned again for a time.
"You speak of preparations, my lord," Daeron said at last, "but I hear only numbers and names. I do not hear resolve."
Lord Butterwell blinked. "Your Grace, I assure you—"
"You assured me six months past, when rumors first stirred in the Stormlands. You assured me again when Lord Peake was seen riding to Bitterbridge to 'visit his kin'. And now Daemon Blackfyre is raising hosts on both sides of the Blackwater, and you sit here reciting names from parchments as if that alone will still the tide."
Butterwell's pale cheeks flushed with sudden color. "Your Grace, I act only with caution, so as not to provoke—"
"Provoke?" The word came like a blade's draw from scabbard. "The realm is provoked, Lord Ambrose. If this is caution, I fear what cowardice would look like."
The Hand of the King opened his mouth as if to protest, but Daeron raised a hand to silence him. He did not shout, nor allow fury to rule his tongue. But his voice held the quiet steel that had once united seven kingdoms.
"You may go now, Lord Butterwell. Rest well tonight. I shall send for you on the morrow."
Butterwell rose awkwardly, bowing deeply, then waddled from the chamber with as much dignity as he could summon. The door had not even fully shut when another figure emerged from the shadows near the hearth.
Brynden Rivers moved like smoke. The firelight caught the pale gleam of his long white hair, the faint shimmer of his dark, streaked cloak of smoke and scarlet. His red eyes, one slightly narrowed as if squinting at the truth the world tried to hide, lingered on the empty chair the Hand had left behind.
"You heard," said Daeron.
"I did," said Brynden. "I heard enough."
The King turned to look at his bastard half-brother. "And what say you of Lord Ambrose Butterwell?"
Brynden's answer was immediate, as if the thought had been long prepared. "A man who does not know which way the wind blows, yet builds his tent on high ground. Lord Butterwell waits to see who wears the crown when the swords stop singing. If Daemon wins, Ambrose will be quick to bend the knee and claim he always served the true king. If we prevail, he will speak of loyalty and sacrifice and beg for pardon. Either way, he means to keep his lands, his gold, and his coward's crown of comfort."
Daeron said nothing for a time. Then he rose and poured himself a goblet of wine from a slender amethyst decanter. He poured another and offered it to Brynden, who took it without word.
"The realm must not be ruled by men who wait," Daeron said softly. "It must be ruled by men who act."
"A truth I've long believed," Brynden replied.
The King stared into the dark red wine. "Tomorrow, I shall strip Lord Butterwell of the office of Hand. He shall be offered a quiet retirement to his lands. His honor, such as it is, shall remain intact… for now. And Lord Hayford shall be named in his stead."
Brynden nodded. "A loyal man. A dull one, perhaps, but unflinching in service."
"I would take dull loyalty over charming treachery," Daeron murmured. He sipped from his goblet, then met Brynden's gaze over the rim. "The realm is bleeding, though the wound is still inside. You, more than most, understand the depth of it."
Brynden said nothing, but his silence was answer enough.
Outside, the bells of the Great Sept tolled softly in the distance, as if mourning something not yet lost.