Ronnel Cafferen, Lord of Fawnton, stood on the balcony of the mansion he had rented, gazing out over King's Landing. The city had changed much since his last visit nearly a year and a half ago, when he had been forced to kneel and swear fealty to the bastard king.
Gone was the wretched slum of Flea Bottom. In its place, a vast construction site sprawled across the lower city, with scaffolding and strange buildings rising in styles unfamiliar to Ronnel. The streets were cleaner, the markets more organized, and trade—damn trade—flourished. Merchants from the Free Cities, even from distant Yi Ti and Leng, had flooded the city, granted liberties by the king that made Ronnel's stomach churn. A king lowering himself to deal with copper-counters. Unthinkable.
His scowl deepened as he sipped at his wine.
"Nice mansion you have here, Lord Ronnel," came a voice behind him, smooth yet laced with cynicism.
Ronnel turned to find two figures standing just inside the chamber, both clad in dark riding cloaks. Ser Aeron Vance, lean and sharp-eyed, offered a smirk, while beside him, his distant cousin Ser Tommard Vance stood with arms crossed.
Ronnel gave a bitter chuckle. "It belonged to an old friend of mine," he said, swirling the wine in his goblet. "The first victim of our glorious king."
Tommard narrowed his eyes. "Lord Commander Hayford?"
Ronnel nodded. "Yes. A good man. A loyal man. And yet his life was ruined by the bastard's thirst for power."
Aeron stepped forward, his expression darkening. "As were ours. We should have been lords of Atranta and Wayfarer's Rest after the war. And yet the bastard took our families' lands for himself."
Ronnel sneered. "And what of me? He gave three-quarters of mine to the Swanns. The fucking Swanns! And what little remained, he took for himself." His grip tightened around the goblet. His lands were near Summerhall, and they had been stripped from him the moment he sided with the true king, Aegon. Now, he was little more than a lord in name, a pauper at the mercy of the usurper.
"And the Stormlands," he continued, voice thick with resentment, "the noble kingdom of the Stormlands, gone. Erased."
"Yes, yes," Aeron said, waving a hand dismissively. "And the Riverlands as well." His tone was impatient, but his eyes burned with barely contained fury. "We all know what we have lost, my lord. Now, what is this plan of yours?"
Ronnel took a long sip of his wine, letting the bitterness coat his tongue. Then he set the goblet down and straightened, his gaze hardening.
"I will explain once the others arrive."
The others arrived an hour later, and Ronnel found himself surrounded by them. Their faces were taut with anger, their gazes filled with purpose. This was their moment—perhaps their only moment.
"The king must die this week," Ronnel stated firmly. "This is the most optimal time to carry it out."
The others listened intently.
"All of the realm is here," Ronnel continued. "Every great house, every powerful lord has gathered. If we kill him now, there will be no debate. The lords will name Viserys king—his claim is legitimate. No war, no bloodshed, just a clean succession."
Peake scoffed. "Or we could simply kill all the dragons," he sneered. "What do we have to lose?"
Ronnel exhaled sharply. "Gawen, please," he said, his tone warning the man to calm himself.
Peake's nostrils flared, but he leaned forward, eyes burning with hatred. "If nothing else, I must be the one to kill the bastard," he growled. "I want to plunge the knife into his heart and watch the light leave his eyes. I want to watch as the Stranger pulls him into the Seven Hells."
Ronnel shook his head. "That is dangerous. If you do this yourself, your death is guaranteed."
Peake smirked. "I don't care. As long as he dies."
Theomore Meadows, who had remained silent for much of the meeting, finally spoke. His voice was quiet but unwavering. "Well then. Lord Gawen is to kill the bastard king."
A moment of silence passed between them.
Ronnel nodded, though there was hesitation in his eyes. "I have found a way," he admitted. "But I need three days. We will meet again then, and I will have everything in place."
The others exchanged glances before nodding in agreement. No more words were spoken. One by one, they began to filter out of the mansion, their cloaks drawn tightly against the cool night air.
As they stepped out into the open, the quiet of the city was shattered. A deep, reverberating roar echoed through the sky, sending a shiver down their spines. The unmistakable sound of beating wings followed, like thunder rolling over the Red Keep.
Ronnel froze, his breath catching in his throat.
Peake slowly turned his gaze skyward, his fists clenching at his sides.
"He's here," Ronnel murmured.
Above them, a massive shadow passed over the moonlit streets. He had returned.
.
.
.
Ronnel strode through the Red Keep alongside Ser Aeron. The capital was suffocating with lords and their entourages—every corner of the castle teemed with nobility from every kingdom except the North. The Stormlords, the Reachmen, the Riverlords, the Vale, the Westerlands, Dorne—even the Ironborn had come.
"So, what do you think all this is?" Aeron asked, adjusting his sword belt as they maneuvered through the throng.
Ronnel scoffed. "Who the fuck knows? Perhaps the bastard is simply showing his power over us, making sure we remember who holds the leash."
"As bastards do," Aeron muttered. "And he's a savage as well—his mother was one, and he was brought up in savage ways by his uncle. Who knows what madness he's planned?"
The closer they came to the Great Hall, the denser the crowd became. The Red Keep's guards stood at attention near the massive oaken doors, ushering the lords inside with little ceremony. When Ronnel stepped into the vast chamber, he found himself momentarily stunned.
The Great Hall of the Red Keep had always been an imposing sight—its cavernous space dominated by the Iron Throne at its head, its walls adorned with the banners of the realm's great houses. But today, something was different.
Above the chamber, suspended by heavy iron chains, was a massive shape shrouded in thick cloth. The cloth trembled—no, it moved, shifting unnaturally, as if whatever lay beneath it was alive.
"What the fuck is that?" Aeron whispered, his voice edged with unease.
Ronnel did not answer. He could only stare, his gut twisting with an unfamiliar sense of dread.
They found a place to stand near Lord Blackwood, a man who had gained much from the war. With the Brackens broken, his son now ruled his old enemy's lands, ending a blood feud that had lasted generations. Blackwood met Ronnel's gaze but said nothing. Like everyone else in the hall, he looked just as confused.
The murmurs in the room died away as the doors at the far end swung open.
The King entered.
He strode with the confidence of a conqueror, his dark red cloak billowing behind him. He wore the crown of the Conqueror himself, proving that the rumors of its return were true. His face was unreadable as he moved toward the Iron Throne, the lords parting in silent reverence. He ascended the steps, turning to face the gathered nobility.
The silence was absolute.
Then, as one, the lords of Westeros knelt.
Ronnel followed, but not without a sneer curling at the edges of his lips.
"Rise, rise, my lords," the king's voice rang out over the Great Hall.
The assembled nobility obeyed, rising to their feet, their eyes fixed on their king.
"You must be wondering why you are all here," he continued, his gaze sweeping over the lords of Westeros. "You must be wondering why the Northmen are absent."
"Aye! Aye!" a few voices called out in agreement.
The king nodded, his expression grave. "I stand before you not to bring good news, but ill tidings of the direst kind."
A murmur rippled through the hall. Lords exchanged wary glances. Even Ronnel, who had come here with nothing but resentment in his heart, found himself intrigued.
The King raised a hand, and the murmuring ceased.
"You may notice," Maekar continued, "that the High Septon is here, along with the Most Devout. That the most senior Archmaesters of the Citadel stand among us. This is no coincidence."
Ronnel turned his head, noticing for the first time the presence of the Faith's highest authority and the learned men of the Citadel. A strange gathering indeed.
"This is because we will all need to work together," Maekar declared, his voice steady but heavy with meaning, "for a doom that comes for us all."
The lords muttered again, confusion thick in the air.
"What is he on about?" Aeron whispered beside Ronnel.
The King continued, "Four hundred years ago, fire consumed Valyria in a great doom. Now, it seems an icy one seeks to do the same to us."
A silence hung over the hall as the weight of his words settled in.
"The Long Night returns, my lords," Maekar declared. "And the dead return with it."
Ronnel felt the scoff rise in his throat, a bitter laugh at the absurdity of it all. But before the words could leave his lips, the King raised a hand.
"Remove the cloth."
Chains rattled, and the massive shrouded object above the hall shifted as unseen hands pulled away the thick covering.
Then the Great Hall of the Red Keep erupted into chaos.
A collective gasp, followed by a hundred voices crying out in shock, in horror, in disbelief.
Suspended above them, shackled in iron, hung the impossible.
Dead men.
Their flesh was withered, their skin the pallor of corpses long buried. Their eyes burned with an unnatural blue fire—hollow and lifeless yet filled with malice. They writhed against their bonds, their jaws snapping, releasing inhuman shrieks that echoed through the vast chamber.
A woman screamed, shrill and terrified, the sound cutting through the stunned silence like a knife.
Lord Blackwood, who stood in front of Ronnel, staggered back, his face turning deathly pale. Sweat beaded on his brow as he clutched the nearest support, eyes wide with horror.
"Gods above," someone near Ronnel whispered, their voice shaking with disbelief.
Then came the chaos.
The hall erupted into a cacophony of shouts, cries, and frantic prayers. Lords—hardened warriors who had seen battlefields soaked in blood—recoiled like frightened children.
"This is a trick!" one bellowed, his voice cracking as he tried to convince himself as much as anyone else.
"Mother, save us!" another lord cried, his hands clasping the seven-pointed star around his neck, knuckles white with the force of his grip.
"It is an abomination!" roared a Stormlander, his voice thick with fear. "Burn them! Burn them now!"
"Daemon's black soul, what sorcery is this?!" cursed an older lord, his trembling fingers failing to draw his sword.
Beside Ronnel, Aeron had gone stiff, his mouth opening and closing as if trying to form words, but only breathless horror emerged.
A man behind them collapsed to his knees, his hands pressed together in desperate prayer. "The Father, the Warrior, the Stranger… protect us!" he whispered, his plea nearly lost beneath the din.
Others had no words, only raw, primal sounds of terror. Some stumbled backward, knocking over benches and goblets, the crash of silver and wood adding to the madness.
Above them, the dead things continued to thrash and screech, the rattling of their chains mingling with the clamor of the hall, their blue eyes flickering like unnatural flames.
And through it all, the King stood unmoving, watching. Waiting. Letting them all see.
"This… this cannot be," Aeron stammered, his face drained of color.
For the first time in a long while, Ronnel felt true fear.
===
Ronnel barely registered what happened after the King's speech; he only caught fragments of it. The Great Hall was still filled with chaos—lords murmuring in frantic clusters, others making their way to the exits. Some were pale as ghosts, others red-faced with disbelief or fury.
His heartbeat pounded in his ears, faster and faster, drowning out everything except bits and pieces of the King's words.
"Our chance to become heroes."
"Our chance to become legends."
"It is the Second Age of Heroes."
Ronnel moved as if in a daze, walking with the flow of departing lords—his body numb, his mind refusing to make sense of what had just unfolded. The dead—the dead had moved. Just like in the old tales of the Long Night, the very ones his mother would tell him when he was a child.
He barely noticed when Aeron called his name.
"Lord Ronnel. Ronnel!"
Aeron's voice cut through the haze, and Ronnel blinked, his focus snapping back to the present. Aeron stood in front of him, looking as shaken as he felt.
"What the fuck was that?" Aeron demanded, his voice low but sharp, his face pale beneath his dark beard.
Ronnel swallowed, his mouth dry. "I… I don't know."
Aeron let out a long breath, rubbing his face. "I need a drink."
"Yes." Ronnel nodded dumbly. "A drink."
They turned, stepping away from the dispersing crowd, intent on finding solace at the bottom of a cup. But suddenly, three figures blocked their path.
Three Kingsguard.
The white cloaks stood like a wall in front of them, barring their way.
Ronnel's breath hitched as his eyes landed on the foremost of them:
Ser Jaime Lannister.
"Lord Cafferen. Ser Vance," Jaime said, his voice steady. "His Grace would like to see you."
Ronnel felt his stomach drop.
The King knew.
He knew of their plans.
His fate was sealed.
He exchanged a brief glance with Aeron, who looked equally grim, but neither had a choice. Wordlessly, they followed the Kingsguard through the winding halls of the Red Keep. Ronnel's mind raced, but there was no way out of this. Not now.
Finally, they arrived at one of the chambers deep within the keep. The doors swung open, and there, waiting inside, stood King Maekar Targaryen.
"Lord Cafferen," the King called out, his voice calm and measured. "And you, Ser Vance."
Ronnel and Aeron knelt before him, the cold stone biting into their knees. The room felt suffocating, the air heavy with an unseen weight.
"So, you are the leader of the plot to kill me." Maekar's mouth twisted into a wry smile. "This is the sixth one this month."
Ronnel almost lost control of his bowels right then and there.
"Considering what you just saw, my lord," Maekar continued, "do you plan on going forward with your plot?"
Ronnel was frozen, unable to move, unable to breathe.
Then Aeron broke.
With a strangled cry, he threw himself forward, hands clutching at the King's boots, his entire body shaking as he groveled at Maekar's feet.
"Mercy, Your Grace! Mercy!" Aeron sobbed. "It was all Cafferen's plan! I was roped into it! I had no choice! I swear it on my life!"
He pleaded again and again, his voice cracking with desperation, tears spilling down his face.
Maekar regarded him with mild disappointment. "Shame, shame, Ser Aeron. I had plans for you. I was going to make you governor of your cousin's lands. But now, it seems I must find another man for it."
Aeron's cries only grew more frantic, but Ronnel barely heard him. His mind was spinning, his heart hammering in his chest.
What had revenge truly gained him?
His son. His daughter. His wife.
He had doomed them—twice over.
He thought of his son, still so young. His daughter, his pride, who would now suffer the shame of her father's disgrace. His wife, who had stood by him, never doubting him, even in their darkest hour.
Now they would be without him. When the dead came, who would protect them?
Ronnel's voice cracked as he spoke. "Your Grace."
Maekar looked at him, expectant.
Ronnel bowed his head low, pressing his forehead to the cold stone. "I… I wish to take the black," he said, hoping the King would spare him from execution. High treason was the crime, after all.
Beside him, Aeron froze, his sobs hiccupping to a stop.
Ronnel lifted his head just enough to look at the King. "Mercy," he repeated, voice raw, desperate. "Spare my family from your wrath. Let them live in peace. Let me go to the Wall and fight for the realm of men. Let me protect them from those… those monsters."
He shuddered, the memory of the dead fresh in his mind.
Silence stretched between them.
Then the King smiled.
"Well," Maekar mused, "I am glad the leader of this conspiracy wishes the same fate as his fellow traitors. The others have already taken the black."
Aeron swallowed hard, sweat beading on his brow. "I—I will as well, Your Grace," he choked out.
Maekar nodded, satisfied. "Lord Ronnel Cafferen. Ser Aeron Vance. I sentence you both to take the black—to be the shields that guard the realms of men. You will leave for the Wall soon. I will even allow you to tell your families that you did so willingly, to fight the war against the dead—not as traitors."
Ronnel exhaled sharply, a shuddering breath of relief. And in that moment, all hatred, all resentment, all anger toward the King vanished.
Tears pricked at the corners of his eyes as he whispered, "Thank you, Your Grace. Thank you."