Chapter Thirty Four

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"I did not think they would be so eager to die," Daemon admitted as he sat on the grassy fields in the mountains of the Riverlands. Willem Blackwood stood with him as he faced away from the Prince. They had come to make the Brackens, the Blackwoods' sworn enemies, bend the knee, yet they had chosen death by dragon over an oath of fealty. Yet, just because that is what they chose, it does not mean Daemon obliged them.

"They made their choice. You should have indulged them," Willem replied.

"I need them alive. I came here to raise swords, not corpses," he said, his armour protecting his body and Dark Sister on his hip.

"But now you see what my house has known for generations," Willem said as he came to face the prince. "They are pigheaded, intransigent..."

"They would rather burn than succumb," Daemon pointed out. "Exactly the kind of men I need. It may yet be possible, I think, for both of us to achieve our ends."

"We have fought them for an age and more," Willem reminded him.

"Then perhaps you could try less fighting and more...persuading," Daemon suggested as he stood, his hair blowing in the breeze despite it being hastily tied back. The only person he had ever let touch his hair was his wife. She had braided it back for him before he had journeyed into King's Landing, and now the braid was coming undone. He had tried to bind it, the last reminder he had of her, but it was moot.

"They are unyielding in battle. But every man has a weakness."

"You take my meaning then," Daemon grinned. He leaned closer. "There are things the crown itself must not be seen to do."

"I am your servant, My Prince," Willem answered dutifully, the man now grown compared to the child he had been when he'd presented himself as a contender for Rhaenyra's hand. He'd killed someone at that ceremony for insulting him and now so he would do it in the name of his Queen.

He walked back over to his men as Daemon tipped his head back. For a moment he simply tried to exist. He simply wanted to breathe and not feel the weight that weighed down on his shoulders, nor that was felt when he thought about the small scroll that was tucked into his boots.

My love,

I write to you in the hopes that you ache missing me as much as I do you. Our children want for you as well. My twin has sent off all but Baela and Vaelon. Rhaena raises Rhaenyra's heirs in the Vale whilst the twins are protected in the Iron Islands.

My heart aches, Daemon. Our family is forced apart as Rhaenyra bares down more responsibility on us. This war is trying, but we are Targaryens. We do not break. So I do hope that you are succeeding in your task. Rhaenyra is getting antsy at your lack of correspondence, but I have managed to placate her. For now.

My husband, your time runs short. I implore you to let your anger fade and complete your task before my sister thinks the worst and orders me to do something I cannot do. I do not know what I shall choose. I fear I cannot. So please, do not make me.

Make haste.

I long for the day we are reunited.

All my love,

Daenyra.

The missive had been written in High Valyrian so that only Daemon might read it. And he hadn't stopped reading it. His wife's longing and desperation leaked off the page, urging him to hurry, which is why he resorted to making the Blackwood heir do his dirty work in the hopes it united the Riverlands and built his army the fastest. The sooner he had an army, the sooner he could see his wife and family again.

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