Chapter 47: Witch's Warning, Vale Bandits
The Butterwell feast had drawn a strange assortment of guests — minor lords, merchants, hedge knights, and one woman whose beauty had survived both time and grief: Lady Beatrice Butterwell, sister to Lord Diego and once a familiar face at the Red Keep.
When Daemon had been a boy, Beatrice had served as a lady-in-waiting to Queen Alysanne's daughters. He remembered her laughter echoing through the crimson halls, a shadow always at the side of Princess Visenya Targaryen — headstrong, sharp-tongued, and doomed.
Those were the days when the Red Keep still rang with music, before tragedy and whispers smothered it.
Daemon recalled the scandal vividly: how Beatrice and her companions had encouraged young Princess Visenya to seduce Baelon the Brave after his wife's death — a cruel jest that ended in ruin. When Baelon rejected her, Visenya fled into madness, and in one drunken night of despair, broke her neck in a fall that shook the realm.
The Queen wept. The King turned silent. And Beatrice was sent home in shame.
Years passed. She had married Lord Joseph Umber's widowed brother in the cold North, borne him three daughters, and when he perished fighting wildlings, she was cast out by his sons — driven south once more, back to the Riverlands.
Now, Beatrice Butterwell stood before them again, veiled in mourning black, her beauty tempered by sorrow but not yet dimmed.
"Prince Baelon," she said tearfully, "you are the King's Master of Laws. My late husband's sons drove me and my daughters from Last Hearth. That is against the Widow's Law, by the decree of Queen Alysanne herself!"
Baelon's voice was cool as winter steel. "The Widow's Law protects the wives of lords, Lady Beatrice. Your husband was not lord of Last Hearth — only its guest. The law does not apply."
The hall fell silent. Daemon's violet eyes lingered on the three young girls huddled at their mother's side, frightened and pale. "And do you still pine for the North, my lady?" he asked lightly. "Surely the Riverlands are kinder than that frozen wilderness."
Beatrice shuddered. "The North is a land of shadows. They kneel to trees, not to gods. I tried to bring them the Seven's light, but they cursed me for it."
From across the table, Alys Rivers' calm voice broke through. "And that, my lady, is why they cast you out. You cannot rebuke the old gods — not in the North, nor here. This is the land of the God's Eye. The Isle of Faces watches all."
Her words chilled the hall. The flickering firelight made her eyes glint like river glass — unreadable, knowing.
---
The feast continued, lavish and loud. The Butterwells prided themselves on their silver wine, claiming it rivaled even the Arbor's golden vintage. The tables overflowed with honey-glazed venison, peppered trout, onion tarts, and roasted peacocks stuffed with chestnuts.
Daemon drank deeply. "Sweet as a maiden's kiss," he said of the silver wine. "A taste worth remembering."
Lord Diego Butterwell beamed. "My daughter, Monica, oversees its making — and this soup you praise is hers as well."
Monica Butterwell curtsied gracefully. She was a striking woman, with brown hair streaked silver and eyes like molten gold. "If the Prince is pleased, my life's work is fulfilled."
Lord Diego chuckled, not missing his chance. "Monica loves reading and riding — but she loves the Red Keep most of all. If only she could serve there as a lady-in-waiting."
Baelon's face remained unreadable. He had long endured the ambitions of lords who sought to tie their daughters to the line of the dragon. He answered simply, "The Red Keep needs no more ladies. But perhaps Princess Gael or my son Daemon could use one."
Beatrice's daughters looked on in awe. Monica smiled shyly at Daemon, who returned her gaze with the effortless charm of a man used to being worshipped. "Then it is settled," he said. "You shall serve as my personal cook — and perhaps my companion on the road. I'll see you safe in King's Landing."
Her eyes lowered. "Then may the gods bless your sword, my prince."
---
By dawn, the royal progress rode north again, dragons in the sky and wagons full of Butterwell cheese and silver wine trundling below. The air grew colder, the wind sharper, as they approached the Crossroads of the Kingdom — where the King's Road, River Road, and Valley Road met.
The Two Crowns Inn stood there, a sturdy three-story inn with a black chimney and creaking signboard carved with a dragon crown and a queen's crown — for it had once hosted King Jaehaerys and Queen Alysanne on their royal progress.
Inside, the common hall roared with noise — farmers, fishermen, sellswords, and painted girls. Yet when the two princes entered, all rose in stunned silence.
The innkeeper, old Evans the Hunchback, hobbled forward, bowing so low his nose nearly brushed the floor. "My lords! The Two Crowns Inn is honored! Though every room is taken, my family will gladly sleep in the stables if you'll stay within our walls!"
Several travelers immediately offered their own rooms, eager to curry favor. Daemon rewarded them each with a silver stag and took the upper chambers.
Dinner was merry: roasted goose, berry pies, and peppered boar washed down with lemon beer. Daemon was laughing when the ground trembled.
A shadow loomed beyond the windows. The air turned hot enough to sting.
Vhagar crouched just outside — a living mountain of bronze and green scales, her open maw glowing like a furnace. The crowd screamed. Benches overturned. Alys Rivers alone did not flinch; she calmly lifted a lemon cake to her lips.
Baelon shouted a sharp word in High Valyrian. "Vhagar, ēdruta!" — "Back!"
The dragon snarled but obeyed, wings beating gusts that rattled the shutters. The Dragon Guard hurried to separate her from Caraxes, whose hunger and temper had sparked the commotion.
"Forgive us, my prince," the captain said. "Caraxes stole Vhagar's meal. The old girl came to reclaim it."
"Keep them apart," Baelon commanded coldly. "A single sweep of Vhagar's tail could flatten this inn."
When calm returned, Baelon turned to Alys Rivers. "You did not move. Were you not afraid? A dragon nearly brought fire down upon your head."
Alys looked up, her face untroubled. "Fear changes nothing. This is not my day to die. One day, Vhagar and Caraxes will fight — but not tonight."
Baelon frowned. "Impossible. Vhagar once flew beside Caraxes when he was my brother Aemon's mount. Dragons don't kill kin."
Her voice lowered. "It is not dragons who kill dragons, my prince. It is men."
Her words lingered long after they parted.
---
That night, Baelon summoned Daemon privately.
"She speaks like a witch," Baelon said, pacing the room. "You'd do well to keep your distance."
Daemon's tone was cool. "She is no witch. Only a healer."
Baelon's eyes narrowed. "That's what they said of Tyanna of the Tower before she led Maegor into ruin."
He spoke of the tales told by old knights — how Tyanna, a Pentoshi courtesan versed in sorcery, had seduced Maegor the Cruel, poisoned his queens, and conjured him back from death with forbidden blood rites.
"Some say," Baelon whispered, "that Maegor's dragons were tainted by her spells — that her curses made the eggs turn to stone."
Daemon smiled faintly. "And others say Maegor choked on his own sword. Every tale grows in the telling."
"Mock me if you wish," Baelon said, gripping the hilt of Blackfyre. "But heed my warning. Magic is a serpent — it bites even those who cradle it."
Daemon inclined his head. "As you command, father."
But when he left, he found Alys Rivers waiting in his chamber, her dark hair loose, her eyes lit by candlelight.
She bowed. "Shall I prepare your bed, my prince?"
He stepped close, his hand on her waist. "You've already prepared enough trouble for one night. Watch your tongue before my brother. He distrusts what he cannot understand."
Her lips curved faintly. "And you, Daemon? What is it you understand?"
He kissed her in answer.
---
By dawn, the royal progress resumed. At Saltpans, the harbor was alive with ships from Lord Corlys Velaryon's fleet, sails gleaming in the sunlight. The Trident estuary glittered beyond, calm and blue — for now.
They spoke of castles and legacy as they rode.
Ser Tully Cox, the one-legged knight, said quietly, "Even the greatest builders are buried beneath their stones. Casterly Rock, Storm's End, Harrenhal — their makers are dust."
Baelon nodded. "Wisdom, from a man who has known loss. Perhaps the court could use more like you."
Daemon only smiled. "The court fears wisdom, father. It prefers obedience."
Then came the thunder of hooves and the howl of war horns.
The Mountain Clans of the Vale struck from the mists, wild men clad in furs and bone, charging down upon the royal escort.
Daemon's blade flashed — Dark Sister, Valyrian steel, sang as it cleaved through flesh and sinew. Baelon's Blackfyre shone beside him like a dark flame.
The air filled with screams and dragonfire.
From the fog, Vhagar descended like judgment, her jaws closing around horse and rider both. Caraxes followed, his scream echoing like the shriek of a thousand tortured souls.
The earth burned. The mists turned red.
By morning, the field was strewn with charred corpses. Five knights and a Dragon Guard were dead — some by the enemy, others by their own dragons' fury.
Daemon stood spattered with blood, silent, watching the smoke drift upward. Alys Rivers bound wounds with calm precision, murmuring old words the maesters did not know.
When it was done, Vhagar and Caraxes feasted upon the fallen, and the ravens circled overhead.
The smell of burnt flesh hung over the camp long into the next day.
And far away, upon the wind, the whisper of the witch's voice seemed to echo still:
> "It is not dragons who destroy kings, Daemon.
It is the hearts of men."
---
End of Chapter 47: Witch's Warning, Vale Bandits
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