The royal banquet in King's Landing continued, dazzling and loud with splendor.
Laughter echoed through the ballroom, and for the moment, everyone felt at ease—happy, even.
Many noble ladies watched the figures seated upon the dais: the king and queen, Ser Steffon Baratheon's family, Princess Rhaella, the Princess of Dorne, and Prince Rhaegar. Envy stirred quietly in their hearts. They were all nobles—but some nobles shone brighter, and spoke with greater authority.
Yet King Jaehaerys II was already aging, and Prince Rhaegar still far too young. The royal line appeared thin. More than a few eyes had already turned toward the absent Prince Aerys, the heir who had not yet returned from the war.
Even without dragons, a dalliance with the blood of dragonlords remained alluring. A brush with royal power—however slight—was enough to quicken the pulse. And the Targaryens, with their silver hair and violet eyes, looked almost divine. Few truly resisted the temptation of drawing closer to them.
But after the tragedy at Summerhall, the dragon's blood had grown scarce. Only two or three remained—hardly enough suitable matches to go around.
Westeros upheld monogamy in law, yet the great lords were still ruled by desire, passion, and flesh. Lovers were sought discreetly, if not openly.
The most infamous example was King Aegon IV, remembered as the Unworthy. He had indulged his lust without restraint, chasing women and pleasure throughout his life. In the end, he gifted Blackfyre to Daemon Blackfyre, cursing the realm with generations of war.
And yet—even that excess bore unintended fruit. From Aegon IV's indulgence came Bloodraven, one of the realm's most loyal, if terrifying, servants.
Rhaegar noticed the looks exchanged among the noble ladies—ambition and hunger thinly veiled behind polite smiles. To many of them, the Red Keep was a gateway, a ladder to climb for their houses.
These same ambitions, Rhaegar thought, will only widen the cracks between Prince Aerys and his future queen.
But how to stop it—he had no answer yet.
The war still raged.
Men forged peace with swords and spears so their wives and children might live without fear. Turning swords into plowshares remained a beautiful fantasy. Lasting peace was never easily won.
Even after Maelys Blackfyre was slain, the fighting in the Stepstones continued.
The flames of war did not die with him. The Golden Company—hardened sellswords—refused to scatter, still clinging to their contracts and positions. Blood and fire continued to soak the islands.
In the west, the Lannister host suffered a heavy blow.
Ser Jason Lannister, commander of the Westerlands' forces, was killed in battle. Command passed into the hands of Lord Roger Reyne, the Red Lion of Castamere.
Neither Tywin Lannister nor his younger brother Kevan raised objections. In age and reputation, they were far inferior to Lord Reyne—and the decision had already been agreed upon before Ser Jason's death. After all, Lord Tytos Lannister was no warrior, nor a man of commanding presence.
But once invested with command, Lord Roger grew increasingly arrogant.
He barked orders at Lannister men as if they were his own, treating Tywin and Kevan with open disdain. In his own mind, the Westerlands could not function without him. Perhaps—just perhaps—even the Rock itself was not beyond his reach.
Tywin and Kevan noticed the swelling pride and quietly stored their resentment. Kevan, serving as Lord Roger's cupbearer, endured it for now, obeying his brother's counsel.
Endure, Tywin had said. Watch him.
Meanwhile, in the riverlands, Lord Hoster Tully met a moment of grave peril.
While sweeping the battlefield on Bloodstone, Lord Hoster rode ahead—too far ahead—and was drawn into an ambush.
Tall and broad, with unmistakable red hair, he was impossible to miss. Golden Company sellswords feigned a retreat, luring him toward a barren hill. Hoster spurred his horse forward in fury, outpacing his attendants and riding straight into a trap.
Spears rose. Faces twisted with cruelty.
Hoster raised his sword. His skill was unremarkable—certainly inferior to that of his younger brother, Ser Brynden Tully, known as the Blackfish. Sharp-tongued and distant by nature, Hoster had never forged deep bonds with common soldiers. Older than men like Tywin Lannister or Prince Aerys, he fought alone more often than not.
Though he parried desperately, the sellswords came in waves. The circle tightened. Without bows among them, he survived only by inches.
Is this where my luck ends? he thought grimly.
Then—horses screamed.
From two directions, riders charged in.
One was Ser Brynden the Blackfish, sword already drawn.
The other was a plainly dressed knight in worn armor. He raised a longbow and loosed—thrum, thrum—two shafts in quick succession.
The sellswords closest to Hoster fell before they even realized help had come.
The Blackfish plunged into the fray, blade flashing like a darting fish through water. His brother had mocked him with that name all his life—now he would show him what the Blackfish could do.
Together, the three cut the remaining sellswords down. Moments later, Tully retainers arrived, raising the trout banner high as it snapped in the wind.
The unknown knight stared, mouth agape.
I've just saved a very big fish, he realized.
"Stranger," Lord Hoster said, catching his breath, "you have saved the life of Hoster Tully. Tell me your name."
The knight flushed. "Petyr Baelish, my lord. Of the Fingers—not a notable place."
He had never imagined the man he saved would be a great lord. His house was among the smallest on the Five Fingers peninsula.
Hoster took in the knight's plain armor, the absence of ornament, the quiet signs of poverty. The Fingers were barren, wind-lashed, and poor—no land fit to enrich a house.
"No gold or jewels," Hoster said softly. "Yet you are a true knight."
Without Baelish's intervention, he would already be dead.
"You honor me too greatly, my lord," Petyr said, overwhelmed.
"This is no excess," Hoster replied. "You have earned my gratitude."
Nearby, the Blackfish clicked his tongue, irritation flashing across his face.
I bled too, he thought.
And yet he still resents me—just because I refused that damned marriage.