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Chapter 87: To End the War
The fire in the solar burned low, casting flickers of gold across the stone walls. The heavy air of strategy and war hung over the room like a stormcloud, but for a moment, all was still as Ser Barristan Selmy, a new white cloak draped neatly over his shoulders, took a seat at the table.
Daeron Targaryen—king, dragonrider, and son of Rhaegar—studied the old knight with curiosity and respect. Barristan's arrival had been unexpected, but his timing impeccable. With Lyrax back at Castle Stokeworth and Renly Baratheon seated on the Iron Throne, time was running short, and the last thing Daeron needed was another bloody battle for a crown.
"We were discussing how to deal with Renly," Daeron began, his voice steady. "He refuses to answer any of my ravens. And with a host that size, there's no path left but battle and taking the city by force."
Ser Barristan nodded. "Your Grace, I may not be a master of whispers like Varys or a spy master like Littlefinger, but I spent most of my life in King's Landing. I still have a few men I trust there. I was able to speak with them before making my way here."
Daeron raised a brow. "Go on."
Ser Barristan leaned forward, his weathered hands clasped. "Tyrion Lannister, before he vanished, had the Alchemists' Guild working day and night. They were stockpiling wildfire—thousands of jars of it—stored beneath the city."
The solar went still.
"Wildfire?" Ser Brynden repeated, brows drawing together in disbelief.
Barristan nodded. "I doubt Renly knows. It was a contingency, meant to be used against either the King or Renly—whichever threatened the gates first. The problem is, it's volatile. Unstable. If a dragon breathes fire in the wrong place... half the city could go up in flames."
Ned muttered something to himself and turned toward Daeron. "We could've killed thousands without even knowing why. The Realm have blamed the fire on Lyrax."
Robb's face turned serious. "Even if we win in the field... if Renly retreats back behind the walls... we'll be forced into a siege. And now we know the city's a trap. One spark—one mistake—and everything burns."
Daeron clenched his fists at the edge of the table. "All because Renly wanted a crown that was never his to begin with. I gave him chances. A chance to meet on the field. A chance for single combat. But he's too craven to face me himself. And now his greed puts the lives of hundreds of thousands in danger."
Silence followed. The crackle of the fire was the only sound.
Then, Ser Barristan spoke again, carefully. "There might be another way, Your Grace. One that doesn't require Lyrax or a siege. But the path is narrow. Treacherous. But it leads straight to our victory.
Daeron's eyes snapped up as he moved closer. "Everyone here has heard stories of your valour and bravery. You say there is a way... then I trust you, no matter the danger."
Barristan nodded slowly. "My people in the city—men I've trusted since I first drew sword in service to your grandfather—can get a few people into the city. Maybe three or four. No more. From there... I know a passage. Littlefinger used it to send his whores straight into King Robert's bedchamber. And that bedchamber is now Renly's."
Robb blinked. "You mean to sneak into the Red Keep?"
Barristan nodded again. "I'll lead a small group. Through the tunnels. We get into the Keep, enter the bedchamber at night... and then I will only return with Renly Baratheon in chains..."
Even though he didn't say it, everyone in the room know that the other outcomes won't lead to Ser Barristan returning.
Daeron stared at him, weighing the words, feeling the possibilities swirl in his head. He then says "there is no need for men, Ser Barristan. Ser Arthur and I will join you on this endeavour"
Daeron then turned to Ser Arthur.
The Sword of the Morning spoke first. "Let me go with him alone, Your Grace. You should stay here. The realm needs you."
Uncle Ned nodded in agreement. "This is what kingsguard are for. Protecting the King from risks like this."
But Daeron stepped forward, his voice firm. "No. I won't sit on my ass while you risk your lives for my war. This is my throne. My family's legacy. My battle. And if it ends tonight, then it ends with me."
"You are the King," Ned began.
"I am also a Stark," Daeron interrupted, softer now. "And I will not send men into danger I won't face myself."
No one replied. It was clear nothing would sway him.
Ser Arthur met Daeron's eyes and gave a solemn nod. "Then we'll go together."
Ser Barristan inclined his head. "It will be my honor, Your Grace."
Daeron placed a hand on the table, then looked around the room—at the men who had followed him through fire and blood and crownless beginnings. "If this works, the war ends. No more marches, no more sieges, no more burning fields."
Ned exhaled. "And if it doesn't?"
Daeron smiled faintly. "Then Lyrax will know what to do."
The flames in the hearth cracked louder, as if echoing the king's words. Outside, the wind shifted, and in the distant courtyard, Lyrax let out a low, rumbling growl beneath the clouds.
The storm was coming. But Daeron would walk through it on his own two feet.