News from the Stepstones arrived in King's Landing—one piece grim, the other heartening.
The bad news was this:
The Hand of the King, the king's brother-in-law, Lord Ormund Baratheon of Storm's End, had been gravely wounded and fallen unconscious on the battlefield. Though never famed as a peerless warrior, Lord Ormund had charged like a true stag at the head of his men. For that alone, nobles and soldiers alike respected his courage and his oath.
The good news was far brighter.
On Bloodstone, a young hero had risen to legend.
Ser Barristan Selmy, fearless and unyielding, had slain Maelys Blackfyre in single combat. With the monstrous Blackfyre dead, the rebel line was severed in the open. No matter how many distant kin House Blackfyre still possessed, the extinction of its male line meant the threat had, for all practical purposes, ended.
Lord Ormund had been escorted from the battlefield by his son, Ser Steffon Baratheon—first back to Storm's End, and later to King's Landing for treatment. Though badly injured, his life was no longer in danger. His awakening was now only a matter of time.
Meanwhile, Prince Rhaegar's nickname—the Lucky One—spread ever farther.
The warrior whom the prince had honored survived. Lord Ormund had taken a crushing blow, yet lived—and even escaped Maelys Blackfyre's killing strike. Though witnesses spoke of a panicked warhorse turning at the critical moment, the nobility preferred another explanation.
They believed it was the prince's fortune.
Later came word of Ser Jason Lannister's death. Even so, nobles and commoners alike continued to insist upon Rhaegar's inborn luck. Jason, they said, had simply been cursed with dreadful fortune—so ill-starred that not even the prince's blessing could save him.
After all, House Lannister's luck had been waning for years. Heirs had died one after another, until at last the Laughing Lion, Lord Gerold Lannister, had inherited Casterly Rock. Many whispered that the curse of kinslaying still lingered over the old lion's line, and that the sins of the father were now being paid by the sons.
The fires of war still burned in the Stepstones, but Maelys Blackfyre's death had already sealed its fate.
The remaining Ninepenny Kings lost interest in Westeros once Maelys fell. The islands were no more than gristle—hard to swallow, easy to discard. They would abandon the Stepstones and return to the whirlpool of Essos. Unlike the Blackfyres, they held no deep attachment to Westeros.
Usurpation, after all, was business.
And if the market failed, one simply went elsewhere.
Back in the Seven Kingdoms, Ser Barristan Selmy's name thundered across the realm. From the noble daughters of King's Landing to miller's girls in distant villages, all had heard of him. To many, he had become the image of a perfect knight.
Young women envied his betrothed, believing such a glorious match to be a blessing beyond measure. Yet others shook their heads, convinced the engagement would not last.
For anyone with eyes could see it clearly.
Barristan Selmy loved honor—and he loved it too much.
When a knight loves honor more than a woman, the outcome is often inevitable.
Sooner or later, he would don the white cloak.
For Westeros, peace was finally in sight.
And so, the feasts of King's Landing resumed.
That evening, in the Queen Dowager's ballroom, King Jaehaerys II and his queen sat upon the raised dais, smiling as nobles and ladies filled the hall. Peaceful times were always the most beautiful.
The ballroom was far smaller than the Throne Room—no more than a tenth its size, and only half that of the Small Council chamber—but it was quiet, refined, and elegantly arranged. Seating a hundred guests posed no problem. Torch brackets and tall silvered mirrors lined the walls—luxuries only the royal family could afford.
The long tables held modest fare. With the treasury strained by war, there were lemon cakes and light pastries, but little in the way of roasted boar or heavy dishes. Still, flutes and viols filled the air, and even a simple meal felt warm and celebratory.
These women were mothers, wives, daughters, and sisters of soldiers. Yet Maelys Blackfyre was dead, victory was in sight, and the armies would soon return home. The shadow of war no longer weighed so heavily upon their hearts.
To keep the king from tiring, Prince Rhaegar sat freely between his parents. Nearby were Princess Rhaella, her companion Princess Elia of Dorne, Lady Joanna Lannister, and Ser Steffon Baratheon with his wife, Lady Cassana Estermont.
Though Ser Steffon still bore the weariness of wind and frost upon his face, his father's improving condition had brought warmth back to his expression. From Bloodstone to Storm's End, then onward to King's Landing, he had scarcely rested.
Watching him, Rhaegar understood that he had shifted a small cog in history's great machine.
Lord Ormund Baratheon had not died.
He had survived.
At that moment, the Tree of Life within Rhaegar stirred.
Rhaegar Targaryen
Identity: Last of the Dragonlords
Talent:
Knightly Aptitude (born warrior)
Sword and Song (strength and beauty in balance; growth through knowledge, battle, and art)
Slumbering Dragon (the dragon remains unawakened)
Charisma:
Beloved Dragon Child
Early Wisdom
Achievements:
The Game of Thrones (Minor Player)
Warrior (Minor Warrior)
The Lucky One (Your fortune has caused a subtle divergence in history. New branches grow from the tree of time. Right or wrong—the choice is yours.)
Collections: None
Rhaegar sensed the change clearly.
By saving Lord Ormund, history had grown new branches. This was the butterfly effect—its future consequences unknowable. For now, he asked only that his conscience remain clear.
"I must apologize, Steffon," King Jaehaerys II said gently. "Forgive my selfishness. If you stayed home every day to care for your father, you would sicken in spirit as well."
"Your Grace is most kind," Ser Steffon replied, rising to bow. "Grand Maester Pycelle has shown great concern for my father's condition. He searched the medical texts and even recommended other skilled maesters."
"Grand Maester Pycelle is in the prime of life," the king said approvingly. "Just the sort of man to shoulder real responsibility. Those old men before him were already halfway to meeting the Stranger—how could they serve the realm?"
Pycelle was only forty-three, young by the standards of the chain. After so many elderly grand maesters who died shortly after appointment, King Aegon V had demanded a younger man from the Citadel. Fate had cut that reign short, and Jaehaerys II had known little of Pycelle until now.
Seeing the grand maester's diligence—and his concern for Lord Ormund—the king felt genuinely pleased.
This was a man whose humility toward power far exceeded his devotion to faith or scholarship.
"Your Grace," Pycelle said, dressed plainly despite his rank, his large frame moving through the crowd. He approached the dais at a careful jog—steady yet awkward, like a lumbering bear.
Some of the younger girls giggled softly.
Rhaegar's heart tightened.
The roly-poly doll had finally taken the stage.